But still (you quick rejoin) how sweet the sound
To hear the murmur of applause go round,-
-"That's He," (the finger pointed all the while)-
"Renown'd for wit and elegance of style;

Whom Critic Mawman* puffs, whose senseless

whine

Boeotian Buchan† quotes, and calls divine."

Lord Buch an ичих

くん

Tóme,

o we thy ma

Come, Phillips, come, for eloquence hath pow'r,

Gale Jones his tub shall lend thee for an hour!

Whether thou warble in inflated style,

What had

that com

that coun

King Brian's glories in the "Emerald Isle;" King Brian's glories don rehman that ever lived has not

* Mr. Mawman (" His mind unletter'd, though he dealt in Books!") is suspected of dabbling in the "Critical Review."

+ The Earl of Buchan received Doctor Busby's proposals "with a refined frankness."

done, of

he could.

de gol a + A certain King of Ireland, one Brian Borhome, whom place at

Counsellor Phillips describes as a very dove-like, choleric

old gentleman:

"Look on Brian's verdant grave

Brian-the glory and grace of his age;

last, an.

forswore podry

Brian—the shield of the Emerald Isle and Insht

The Lion incens'd was a lamb to his rage!!

The Dove was an Eagle compar'd to his smile!!!

atory

Tribute on enemies! hater of war!! But who know

Wide-flaming sword of the warrior throng!!!

Liberty's beacon! religion's bright star!! any thing

as a

my

Soul of the Seneacha!! Light of the Song!!!"

C

about him

але

that Lord Brough an extinguit, ed him by an article in the ER and afterwards puff.

him in agai

THE MODERN DUNCIAD.

again. He died a Judge of the Court of Involvent Deblow 18 in the full possession hes brog Ireland's hope and England's glory'"* praisé and he eloquence but he warn fulsome prose, more fulsome than thy Lays, no dunce With strong mercurial pow'r, which all must dread,

in any

e

se

66

Thy touch turns gold and silver into lead. en, at thy name what hosts of Dunces rise!

of the ter in Dulness awakes, and rubs her drowsy eyes, dings that raki

With sleepy haste the poppy wreath prepares,

Jen ding

To crown her fav'rite bard-while wisdom stares !
Next, to complete thy triumph, even now,

cap of liberty shall grace thy brow;

ala descobeaks thy prowess, and thy functions tells,

he became

in dwus

Almost as truly as the Cap and Bells
a good

d conservative Stark metre-mad, the lovesick Edwin sends Of jingling splayfoot verse, some odds and ends

Rawurde To driv'lling Asperne,† in whose magazine converts are always rewarded

by

* In April, 1812, Counsellor Phillips dedicated (by a fur permission) "The Emerald Isle," to the Prince Regent, whom he designates "Ireland's Hope and England's Ornament." Mr. Phillips, in 1815, imputes to his royal patron ketter pla he enormities that "he cannot speak of without danger, betha cause, thank God (?) he cannot think of them without indigewnation."

an

would have ob lained

+ Doctor Johnson once remarked that an interesting book might be written on the fortunes of Physicians—And why not on that of Booksellers? In illustration, I subjoin the following" Ode," entitled

but for sportasy.

THOMAS TIBBS.

Thomas Tibbs demands my song,
Thomas lean, and Thomas long!

THE MODERN DUNCIAD.

Th' invet'rate sons of dulness vent their spleen;

Proud of the gift so graciously bestow'd,

On a queer, eccentric plan,
Thomas Tibbs (facetious Man!)
Open'd once a shop of mirth,
Where laughter had its pennyworth.
Transplanted to the ward of Cheap,
Books, a miscellaneous heap,
Prose and verse of authors damn'd,
His window deck'd, his counter cramm'
Condemn'd a weary watch to keep,
Though letter'd, gilt, and bound in sheep,
Hark! the weeping Muses cry-
"Spare thy types, Tom, or we die-
Keep, O keep thy distance from us,
Tibbs-whose christian name is Thomas

Be our lines too long or short;
Thomas makes us suffer for't-
In a typographic whim,
Strains a joint, or lops a limb—
Nat Procrustes' torturing bed
Fills our souls with deeper dread !”-

Next, mounted on his rostrum high,
With open mouth, and eager eye,
Uplifted hammer, treble clear,

See Tom transform'd to auctioneer!
Haranguing loud his motley flock
Of Prentice boys at seven o'clock.
To gallop on to fame the faster,
Tom dubs himself of Arts a Master!
And prints a volume smart and trim,
Instructing men and boys to swim.
Although 'tis pretty certain when

them.
object

for the literary satirist and no

eking

He prints the thing which Edwin calls anode.
How Laura smiles! What less can Laura do

It gives her beauties that she never knew
'Tis so pathetic! who unmov'd can read?
Melissa faintly whispers, "Sad, indeed
In ecstasies Lucretia dies away,
And Edwin grows immortal-for a day

And is not now the author truly blest,

To paper Thomas puts his pen,

He teaches best, to people's thinking,
His more congenial Art of Sinking!

By auctions, and by arts enrich'd,
Behold Tom newly cropp'd and breech'd—
He ambles, struts, and sports the dibs,
No longer Tom-but Mister Tibbs!-

longer

people have no interest in the & abject. huss account

Yet more to shake the town with laughter,
By the "All Hail! (Tom Tibbs) Hereafter
Dan Momus paints a vision fair,
Of scarlet gown and civic chair;

And bids him sit Lord Midas there!"

* The following sonnet is written in humble emulation of the modern school of Poetry:

Highgate! romantic spot! of old renown
(About a mile from Kentish Town),

Oft have I pac'd thee, pensive, pale, and lorn,
Pilgrim of every valley, hill, and grange;
What time the city coachman winds his horn

By critics flatter'd, by the fair caress'd?

Shall not his praise by future bards be sung, When envious death has stopp'd his tuneful tongue?

F. By trade a censor, and resolv'd to sneer, - You drive the jest too far; 'tis too severe To brand a blockhead in your angry strains, For what he cannot help-his want of brains! P. Be answer'd thus-his itching after fame, His bold obtrusive vanity I blame ;

(Music unmeet for solitude, and strange!) To rouse the sons of Mammon, moping souls, From tea and coffee, toast and butter'd rolls, To mount "The Royal Adelaide," that whirls (Cramm'd with puff'd cits, and roof'd with pretty girls!) To Lloyd's, the Bank, the Alley, Mart, Exchange.

And, Hampstead! fair twin sister! on whose heath

Health, gay enchantress, sports, and fancy dwells; Thou, too, hast crown'd thy bard with laurel wreath, Pluck'd from th' Arcadian bow'rs of Kilburn WellsWhere, box'd in woodbine arbour, nymph and swain, Escap'd awhile from turmoil, smoke, and gas, Pour forth th' impassion'd vow, the vocal strain, Warm with the inspiration of the glass! How short the date of human bliss, alas! For hark, with sound discordant, deep, and sad,

Harsh, and hoarse murm'ring to the whistling wind,

Rolls the huge rumbling Omnibus-the Cad

With liquor, dust, half drunk, half-chok'd, half-blind, Roars, with Stentorian voice, "Jump up, my lad! Room for the Lady-hip! hold fast behind!"