And his Grace cry, "Hence with your sapient sneer! "Hence we desire no currish critic here.”

NOTES.

"For the ORACLE.

"SONNET to Mrs. ROBINSON,

"Upon reading her VANCENZA.

"WHAT never-ceasing Music! From the throne "Where sweetest SENSIBILITY enshrin'd "Pours out her tender triumphs, all alone "To every murmuring breeze of passing wind!

"

O, blest with all the lovely lapse of Song,

"That bathes with purest balm the soften'd breast,

"I see thee urge thy Fancy's course along

"The solemn glooms of GOTHIC piles unblest. "VANCENZA rises-o'er her time-touch'd spires "GUILT unreveal'd hovers with killing dew, "Frustrates the fondness of the VIRGIN's fires,

"And bares the murd'rous CASKET to her view.

"The thrilling pulse creeps back upon each Heart, "And HORROR lords it by thy fascinating Art." "ARNO."

Et vitula Tu dignus, et HEC! The Novel is worthy of the Poetry; the Poetry of the Novel.

P. Enough. (x) Thank heaven! my error now I

see,

And all shall be divine, henceforth, for me:

Yes, Andrews' doggrel, Greathead's idiot line,
And Morton's catch-word, all, forsooth, divine!

290

F. 'Tis well. Here let th' indignant stricture cease,

And LEEDS at length enjoy his fool in peace.

295

300

P. Come then, around their works a circle draw, And near it plant the dragons of the law; With labels writ, "Critics far hence remove, "Nor dare to censure what the great approve." I go. (y) Yet Hall could lash with noble rage The purblind patron of a former age, And laugh to scorn th' eternal sonnetteer, Who made goose-pinions and white rags so dear. Yet Oldham, in his rude, unpolish'd strain, Could hiss the clamorous, and deride the vain,

305

Litera. (x) Per me equidem sint omnia protinus alba. Nil moror: euge, omnes, omnes bene miræ eritis res. Hoc juvat: hîc inquis, veto, quisquam faxit oletum. Pinge duos angues: pueri, sacer est locus, extra Mejite; (y) discedo: secuit Lucilius urbem,

Te Lupe, te Muti, et genuinum fregit in illis.

Who bawl'd their rhymes incessant thro' the town, Or brib'd the hawkers for a day's renown.

Whate'er the theme, with honest warmth they wrote,
Nor car'd what Mutius of their freedom thought:
Yet prose was venial in that happy time,
And life had other business than to rhyme.

310

315

(z) And may not I-now this pernicious pest, This metromania, creeps thro' every breast; Now fools and children void their brains by loads, And itching grandams spawl lascivious odes; Now lords and dukes, curs'd with a sickly taste, While Burns' pure healthful nurture runs to waste, Lick up the spittle of the bed-rid muse,

And riot on the sweepings of the stews;

Say, may not I expose

F. No-'tis unsafe.

320

Prudence my friend.

P. What! not deride, not laugh?

Well! thought at least is free

(z) Men' mutire nefas, nec clam, nec cum scrobe? Nusquam.

Hîc tamen infodiam. Vidi, vidi ipse, libelle:

Auriculas asini Mida rex habet. Hoc ego opertum,

E

F. O yet forbear.

P. Nay, then, I'll dig a pit, and bury there The dreadful truth that so alarms thy fears:

THE TOWN, THE TOWN, GOOD PIT, HAS ASSES

EARS!

325 Thou think'st perhaps, this wayward fancy strange; So think thou still; yet would not I exchange

The secret humour of this simple hit

For all the Albums that were ever writ.

Of this no more. O THOU (if yet there be

330

One bosom from this vile infection free),

THOU who canst thrill with joy, or glow with ire,

As the great masters of the song inspire,

Canst bend enraptur'd o'er the magic page,

Where desperate ladies desperate lords engage,

335

Gnomes, Sylphs, and Gods, the fierce contention share, And heaven and earth hang trembling on a hair; Canst quake with horror while Emilia's charms

Against a brother point a brother's arms,

Hoc ridere meum tam nil, nulla tibi vendo
Iliade. Audaci quicunque afflate Cratino,
Iratum Eupolidem prægrandi cum sene palles,
Aspice et hæc, si forte aliquid decoctius audis.

And trace the fortune of the varying fray,

While hour on hour flits unperceiv'd away→→
Approach: 'twixt hope and fear I wait. O deign
To cast a glance on this incondite strain :

Here, if thou find one thought but well exprest,
One sentence higher finish'd than the rest,
Such as may win thee to proceed awhile,

And smooth thy forehead with a gracious smile,

I ask no more. (a) But far from me the throng,
Who fancy fire in Laura's vapid song,

340

345

Who Anna's bedlam-rant for sense can take, 350

And over * Edwin's mewlings keep awake;

Inde vaporata lector mihi ferveat aure.

(a)Non hic, qui in crepidas Graiorum ludere gestit, Sese aliquem credens, Italo quod honore supinus

NOTES.

* Edwin's Mewlings, &c.)-We come now to a character of high respect, the profound Mr. T. Vaughan, who, under the alluring signature of Edwin, favours us from time to time with a melancholy poem on the death of a bug, the flight of an earwig, the miscarriage of a cock-chaffer, or some other event of equal importance.