But Crusca still has merit, and may claim 'Tis just-for what three kindred souls have done, To many a sonnet call thy claims in doubt, A linsey-woolsey song, framed with such ease, mine!" Vaughan! well remember'd. complains No, meul thou still: and, while thy d-s join My righteous verse shall labour to restore That loves my mournful song to seize, Here we find that listening to the wind, and singing to it, "When in black obtrusive clouds The chilly moon her pale cheek shrouds, And proudly gleam their borrow'd light What an admirable observer of nature is this great poetess! 66 -The lightning's rays Leap through the night's scarce pervious gloom, Attracted by"(what! for a ducat?) "Attracted by the rose's bloom!" "Let but thy lyre impatient seize Departing twilight's filmy breeze, That winds th' enchanting chords among In lingering labyrinths of song." "See in the clouds its mast the proud bark laves, "From a young grove's shade, The force of folly can no farther go! Edwin's strains.-If the reader will turn to the con. clusion of the Baviad, he will find a delicious Extratov on a tame mouse, by this gentleman. As it seemed to give universal satisfaction, I embrace the opportunity of Drop from the gentle mouths of Vaughan and Co., Right! cry the brethren. When the heaven born muse Shames her descent, and, for low, earthly views, laying before the public another effusion of the same exquisite pen. It will be found, I flatter myself, not less beautiful than the former; and fully prove that the author, though ostensibly devoted to elegy, can, on a proper occasion, assume an air of gayety, and be "profound" with ease, and instructive with elegance. Εδουιν προλογίζει. "On the circumstance of a mastiff's running furiously (sad dog!) toward two young ladies, and, upon coming up to them, becoming instantly gentle (good dog!) and tractable." Tantum ad narrandum argumentum est benignitas! "When Orpheus took his lyre to hell, To fetch his rib away, On that same thing he pleased so well, That whilst he swept the lute, "But here we can with justice say, That nature rivals art; He sang a mastiff's rage away, *Cesario. In the Baviad are a few stanzas of a mest delectable ode to an owl. They were ascribed to Arno; nor was I conscious of any mistake, till I received a polite note from that gentleman, assuring me that he was not only not the author of them, but (horresco referens) that he thought them "execrable." Mr. Bell, on the other hand, affirms them to be "admirable." "Who shall decide when doctors disagree?" Be this as it may, I am happy to say that I have disco- "Slighted love the soul subduing, † See note †, Ist col. p. 178. See note ‡, ib. Lorenzo, Reuben, spare: far be the thought "Soothing those fond dreams of pleasure, Proudly rise, sweet bird of night, Gently wing thy aery flight."-Cesario. Though I flatter myself that I have good sense and taste enough to see and admire the peculiar beauties of this ode, yet a regard for truth obliges me to declare that they are not original. They are taken (with improvements, I confess) from a most beautiful "Song by a person of quality," in Pope's Miscellanies. This, though it detracts a little from Cesario's inventive powers, still leaves him the praise (no mean one) of having gone beyond that great poet, in what he probably considered as the ne plus ultra of ingenuity. Venimus ad summum fortunæ! Mr. Greathead equals Shakspeare, Mrs. Robinson surpasses Milton, and Cesario outdoes Pope in that very performance which he vainly imagined so complete as to take away all desire of imitating, all possibility of excelling it! "O favour'd clime! O happy age!" + Carlos. I have nothing of this gentleman (a most pertinacious scribbler in the Oracle) but the following "sonnet;" luckily, however, it is so ineffably stupid, that it will more than satisfy any readers but Mr. Bell's. "ON A LADY'S PORTRAIT. "Oft hath the poet hail'd the breath of morn, That wakens nature with the voice of spring, And oft, when purple summer feeds the lawn, Hath fancy touch'd him with her procreant wing; Full frequent has he bless'd the golden beam Which yellow autumn glowing spreads around, And though pale winter press'd a paly gleam, Fresh in his breast was young description found." I can copy no more-Job himself would lose all patience here. Instead, therefore, of the remainder of this incomprehensible trash, I will give the reader a string of judicious observations by Mr. T. Vaughan: "Bruyere says, he will allow that good writers are scarce enough, but adds, and justly, that good critics are equally so: which reminds our correspondent also of what the Abbé Trublet writes, speaking of professed critics, where he says, they were obliged to examine authors impartiallythere would be fewer writers in this way. Was this to be the liberal practice adopted by our modern critics, we should not see a Baviad-falling upon men and things if that are much above his capacity, and seemingly for no other reason than because they are so." They pour" from their big breast's prolific zone A proud, poetic fervour, only known age," who, from her flippant nonsense, appears to be Mrs. Piozzi, were it not for the sake of remarking, that, whatever be the merit of "drawing out the fine powers of Arno," (which, it seems, this ungrateful country has not yet rewarded with a statue,) she must be content to share it with Julia. Hear her invocation-but first hear Mr. Bell. "A most elegant compliment, which for generous esteem has been seldom equalled, any more than the muse which inspired it." "JULIA TO ARNO. "Arno! where steals thy dulcet lay, Or on the noontide breezes float?" Mrs. Robinson (for we may as well drop the name of Julia) has been guilty of a trifling larceny here; having taken from the Baviad, without any acknowledgment, have been seen out of that poem; but so it is, that, like a delicious couplet, which I flattered myself would never Pope, "Write whate'er I will, Some rising genius sins up to it still." This has nettled me a little, and possibly injured the great poetess in my opinion; for I have been robbed so often of late, that I begin to think with the old economist Ούτος αοιδων λωστος ός εξ εμεν οίσεται ουδεν. For the rest, this "elegant invocation" called forth a specimen of Arno's fine powers in the following dulcet lays. "ARNO TO JULIA. "Sure some dire star inimical to man, Guides to his heart the desolating fire, Fills with contention only his brief span, And rouses him to murderous desire. "There are who sagely scan the tortured world, And tell us war is but necessity, That millions by the Great Dispenser hurl'd, Must suffer by the scourge, and cease to be." Euge, Poeta! § Lorenzo. Και πως εγω Σθενελου φαγοιμ' αν ρήμα τι Εις οξος εμβαπτομένον, η λεύκους αλαςSays a hungry wight in an old comedy. But I know of no seasoning whatever, capable of making the insipid garbage of this modern Sthenelus palatable; I shall therefore spare myself the disgust of producing it. || Reuben, whom I take to be Mr. Greathead in disguise, (it being this gentleman's fate, like Hercules of old, to assume the merit of all unappropriated prodigies,) intro "ADDRESS TO ANNA MATILDA. A Daniel come to judgment, yea, a Daniel! This is induced himself to the World by the following truth the reason; and when Mr. Vaughan and his coadjutors condescend to humble themselves to my understanding, I will endeavour to profit by their eloquent strictures. Adelaide. And who is Adelaide ? O seri studiorum! "Not to know her, argues yourselves unknown." Hear Mr. Bell, the Longinus of newspaper writers. "ADELAIDE. "He who is here addressed by the first lyric writer in the kingdom, must himself endeavour to repay a debt so highly honourable, if it can be done by verse! This lady shall have the praise which ought to be given by the country, that of first discovering and drawing out the fine powers of Arno and Della Crusca." "O thou, whom late I watch'd, while o'er thee hung § See note §, next col. I See note, ib. "To thee a stranger dares address his theme, Chameleon like, anon of various hue, Such genius claim'd when she Idalia drew."- Breathe life upon her dying lays," like "the daisy which spreads her bloom to the moist evening!" and accordingly produced a matchless "adornment of love," to the great contentment of the gentle Reuben. "But, bard polite, how hard the task Which with such elegance you ask!" Who would have imagined that these lines, the simple See note T, 1st col. p. 179. To souls like theirs ;" as Anna's youth inspires, As Henriet-For heaven's sake, not so fast. And is thy active folly adding more To this most worthless, most superfluous store? And chased the oppressive doubts which round me clung, And fired my breast, and loosen'd all my tongue. How oft, O Dart! what time the faithful pair Walk'd forth, the fragrant hour of eve to share, On thy romantic banks have my wild strains,* Not yet forgot amid my native plains, * Mr. Parsons is extremely angry at my "ostentatious intrusion" of the "Otium Divos" into the notes on this poem. What could I do? I ever disliked publishing my little modicums on loose pages-but I shall grow wiser by Forbear, forbear:-What though thou canst not his example! and, indeed, am even now composing" one claim The sacred honours of a POET's name, Then shame ensued, and vain regret, t' have spent tribute of gratitude to genius, should nearly occasion "a perdition of souls?" Yet so it was. They unfortunately roused the jealousy of Della Crusca "on the sportive banks of the Rhone." One luckless evening "When twilight on the western edge Had twined his hoary hair with sabling sedge," as he was "weeping" (for, like Master Stephen, these good creatures think it necessary to be always melancholy) at the tomb of Laura, he started, as well he might, at the accursed name of Reuben. "Hark! (quoth he,) What cruel sounds are these Which float upon the languid breeze, It pains me to add, that the cold-blooded Bell has destroyed this beautiful fancy-scene with one stroke of his clownish pen. In a note on the above verses, Album, p. 134, he officiously informs us that Della Crusca knew "nothing of his rival, till he read"-detested word!-"his Sonnet in the Oracle." O Bell! Bell! is it thus thou humblest the strains of the sublime? Surely we may say of thee, what was not ill said of one of thy sisters, Sed tu insulsa male et molesta vives, Per quam non licet esse negligentem. ¶ They pour, &c. "I love so well Thy soul's deep tone, thy thought's high swell, Thy proud, poetic fervour, known But in thy breast's prolific zone."-Della Crusca. riddle, two rebusses, and one acrostic to a babe at nurse," which will be set forth with all convenient speed. Meanwhile I am tempted to offend once more, and subjoin the only three of my "wild strains" that now live in my recollection. I can assure Mr. Parsons that they were written on the occasions they profess to beand the last of them at a time when I had no idea of surviving to provoke his indignation: 66 -Sed Cynara breves Annos fata dederunt, me Servatura diu. TO A TUFT OF EARLY VIOLETS. Sweet flowers! that, from your humble beds, Are not the genial brood of May; And nips your root, and lays you low. But I will shield you; and supply Has drunk the dew that gems your crest, Her riches to the stores of art, And added to the vigorous mind The soft, the sympathizing heart. Has drunk the dew that gems your crest, By one short hour of transport there. 1 See "one epigram, two sonnets, and one ode to a boy at school, by W. Parsons, Esq." The "one ode" was expressly written to show the folly and absurdity of Gray's ode to Eton College, which the "boy at school" was very properly called to attest. What the "one epigrani" and the "two son. nets" were written for nobody knows. While THOU hast sweetly gurgled down the vale, Though clouds obscured the morning hour, On which we both,--and yet, who knows May dwell with pleasure unalloy'd And dread no thorn beneath the rose. We overhung that long-drawn dale, Which richer tables may not know.- Looks up to catch a parting smile, From truth, from innocence of soul: And O! how like a fairy dream, To gaze in silence on the tide, Since this, while Merry and his nurslings die, O, for thy spirit, Pope! Yet why, my lays, Which wake no envy, and invite no praise, So hours like moments wing'd their flight, Well, Anna,-many days like this The day we pass'd on Greenwich Hill. THE GRAVE OF ANNA. I wish I was where Anna lies, Go, and partake her humble bier. I wish I could! For when she died, A waste unlovely and unloved.- And weeds that have no business there? To scatter o'er her hallow'd mould? I did it: and, would fate allow, Should visit still, should still deplore- Thy voice, that might with music vie, Thy courage, by no ills dismay'd, Cold turf, which I no more must view, * Thrill'd, &c. "Bid the streamy lightnings fly In liquid peril from thy eye."-Della Crusca. "Ne'er shalt thou know to sigh, Or on a soft idea die, Ne'er on a recollection grasp Thy arms."-Ohe ! jam satis est.—Anna Matilda. Half creeping and half flying, yet suffice Burgoyne, perhaps, unchill'd by creeping age, And yet Elfrida's bard, though time has shed The snow of age too deeply round his head, Feels the kind warmth, the fervour which inspired His youthful breast, still glow uncheck'd, untired: And yet though, like the bird of eve, his song "Fit audience finds not" in the giddy throng, The notes, though artful, wild, though numerous, chaste, Fill with delight the sober ear of taste. But these, and more, I could with honour name, Too proud to stoop, like me, to vulgar game, Subjects more worthy of their daring choose, And leave at large th' abortions of the muse. Proud of their privilege, the innumerous spawn, From bogs and fens, the mire of Pindus, drawn, New vigour feel, new confidence assume, And swarm, like Pharaoh's frogs, in every room. Sick of th' eternal croaks, which, ever near, Beat like the death-watch on my tortured ear; And sure, too sure, that many a genuine child Of truth and nature check'd his wood-notes wild,t * Burgoyne. See note*, 2d col. p. 174. +And you, too, whole Menander, &c.-O spem fallacem ! Our Menander has since "stolen an hour" (it would be injustice to suppose it more) from public pursuits, and prostituted it to the reproduction of a German sooterkin. Check'd his wood-notes wild.-ΣWAηoαVTWY KOLOV, ACOUTAL KURVOL. But this is better illustrated in a most elegant fable of Lessing, to which I despair of doing justice in a translation. "Du zürnest, Liebling der Musen," &c. &c. Thou art troubled, darling of the Muses, thou art troubled at the clamorous swarms of insects which infest Parnassus. O hear from me what once the nightingale heard from the shepherd. (Dear to the feeling heart,) in doubt to win The vacant wanderer 'mid the unceasing din Of this hoarse rout; I seized at length the wand; Resolved, though small my skill, though weak my hand, The mischief, in its progress, to arrest, And exorcise the soil of such a pest. HENCE! IN THE NAME-I scarce had spoke, when lo! Reams of outrageous sonnets, thick as snow, indeed, replied the shepherd; but thy silence alone is the cause of it. "There's comfort yet!" * Reams of outrageous sonnets. Of these I have collected a very reasonable quantity, which I purpose to prefix to some future edition of the Mæviad, under the classic head of INSIGNIUM VIRORUM ALIQUOT TESTIMONIA QUI BAV: ET MEV: INCLYTISS: AUCTORIS MEMINERUNT. Meanwhile I shall present the reader with the first two which occur, as a specimen of the collection. SONNET I. "To the anonymous author of the Baviad, occasioned by his scurrilous and most unmerited attack on Mr. Weston. "Demon of darkness! whosoe'er thou art, That darest assume the brighter angel's form, Of imitators vile, intrude not!!! I appeal Tell me, though fair the forms his fancy drew, Shouldst thou the secrets of his heart reveal, Would fame his memory crown, or cover with disgrace J. M.-Gent. Mag. Aug. 1792. This poor driveller, who is stupid enough to be Weston's admirer, and malignant enough to be his friend, I take to be one Morley;1 whom I now and then observe, in the 1 I was right. Mr. Morley, who, I understand, is a clergyman, and who, like Mr. Parsons, exults in the idea of having first attacked me, has since published a "Tale," the wit, or rather dulness of which, if I recollect right, consists in my being disappointed of a living. Here follow a few of the introductory lines, which for poetry and pleasantry can only be exceeded by those of Mr. Parsons. "What if a little once I did abuse thee? Worse than thou hadst deserved I could not use thee: For when I spied thy satyr's cloven foot, 'Tis very true I took thee for a brute; And, marking more attentively thy manners, I since have wish'd thy hide were at the tanner's. But if a man thou art, as some suppose, O: how my fingers itch to pull thy nose! Till Parkinson had stuff'd thee for a snipe!!!" It is rather singular that this still-born lump of insipidity should be introduced to the bookseller under the auspices of Dr. Parr. If that respectable name was not abused on the occasion, I can only say that politics, like misery, "bring a man acquainted with strange bedfellows!" For the rest, I will present Mr. Morley with a couple of lines, which, if he will get them construed, and seriously reflect upon, before he next puts pen to paper, may be of more service to him than all the instruction, and all the encouragement the Doctor, apparently, ever gave him. Cur ego laborem notus esse tam prave, I find, from a letter which my publisher has received from Dr. Parr, that degree of uneasiness. Sing then, said he to the silent songstress, one lovely this note (which I have left in its original state) has given him some slight evening in the spring, sing then, sweet nightingale! Alas! said the nightingale, the frogs croak so loud, that I have lost all desire to sing: dost thou not hear them? I do, It is satisfactory to me to reflect that this uneasiness is founded on a misapprehension. When I remarked on the "singularity of Mr. Morley's 'Tale' |