my own substituted in their stead; my only reason for this being that which I conceive would operate with any other person in the same manner a determination not to publish with my name any production which was not entirely and exclusively my own composition.

With regard to the real talents of many of the poetical persons whose performances are mentioned, or alluded to in the following pages, it is presumed by the Author that there can be little difference of opinion in the public at large; though, like other sectaries, each has his separate tabernacle of proselytes, by whom his abi lities are overrated, his faults overlooked, and his metrical canons received without scruple and without consideration. But the unquestionable possession of considerable genius by several of the writers here censured, renders their mental prostitution more to be regretted. Imbecility may be pitied, or, at worst, laughed at and forgotten; perverted powers demand the most decided reprehension. No one can wish more than the Author, that some known and able writer had undertaken their exposure, but Mr. GIFFORD has devoted himself to Massinger, and in the absence of the regular physician, a country practitioner may, in cases of absolute necessity, be allowed to prescribe his nostrum to prevent the extension of so deplorable an epidemic, provided there be no quackery in his treatment of the malady. A caustic is here offered, as it is to be feared nothing short of actual cautery can recover the nume

As to

rous patients afflicted with the present prevalent and distressing rabies for rhyming. the Edinburgh Reviewers, it would, indeed, require a Hercules to crush the Hydra; but if the Author succeeds in merely « bruising one of the heads of the serpent,» though his own. hand should suffer in the encounter, he will be amply satisfied.

AND

SCOTCH REVIEWERS.

STILL must I hear?-shall hoarse (1) FITZGerald bawi
His creaking couplets in a tavern hall,

And I not sing, lest, haply, Scotch Reviews
Should dub me Scribbler, and denounce my Muse?
Prepare for rhyme-I'll publish, right or wrong:
Fools are my theme, let Satire be my song.

Oh! Nature's noblest gift-my gray goose-quill!
Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will,
Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen,
That mighty instrument of little men!
The pen! foredoomed to aid the mental throes
Of brains that labour, big with Verse or Prose,
Though Nymphs forsake, and Critics may deride
The Lover's solace, and the Author's pride:
What Wits! what Poets dost thou daily raise!

(1) IMITATION.

Semper ego auditor tantum? nunquamne reponam «Vexatus toties rauci Theseide Codri? »

Juvenal, Sat. I.

Mr. FITZGERALD, facetiously termed by COBBETT the « SmallBeer Poet, » inflicts his annual tribute of verse on the « Literary Fund; » not content with writing, he spouts in person, after the company have imbibed a reasonable quantity of bad port, to enable them to sustain the operation.

How frequent is thy use, how small thy praise! Condemned at length to be forgotten quite, With all the pages which 'twas thine to write. But thou, at least, mine own especial pen! 6 Once laid aside but now assumed again, Our task complete, like Hamet's (1) shall be free; Tho' spurned by others, yet beloved by me: Then let us soar to-day; no common theme, No Eastern vision, no distempered dream Inspires-our path, though full of thorns, is plain; Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain.

When Vice triumphant holds her sov'reign sway,
And men through life her willing slaves obey;
When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime,
Unfolds her motley store to suit the time;
When Knaves and Fools combined o'er all prevail,
When Justice halts, and Right begins to fail,
F'en then the boldest start from public sneers,
Afraid of Shame, unknown to other fears,

/ More darkly sin, by Satire kept in awe,
And shrink from Ridicule though not from Law.

Such is the force of Wit! but not belong
To me the arrows of satiric song;
The royal vices of our age demand
A keener weapon, and a mightier hand.
Still there are follies e'en for me to chase,
And yield at least amusement in the race:

(1) CID HAMET BENENGELI promises repose to his pen in the last chapter of DON QUIXOTE. Oh! that our voluminous gentry would follow the example of CID HAMET BENENGELL!