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Round him, with lightning haste, the Serpent wound,
Then, in the forest, save the Panther, none
Durst walk, or cower'd before his steps of beauty; For beast and bird he ruled o'er every one,.
Conducting them, or forcing to their duty;
Many in love were to his empire won,
And those who question'd his proud strength were mute; ye Who yet at distance hide your heads, and bay,
Death is your doom, and on no distant day.
This is an allegory; if we chose,
We could decipher it with perfect ease;
We'll hold them, and explain it-if they please;
Imprimis then, the wily Serpent strong,
Means nothing but the Edinburgh Review,
Praising the rabble herd, and scoffing crew;
Now for the Panther ;-what was it, you say?
For nobly hath the victory been won,
And proudly hath our country's blood been shed;
The tale of those, who triumph'd, or who bled:-
Wherein, ye Sophists, can stability,
Can fixedness of power on earth be found,
Save in the land with true Religion crown'd;
Then rant ye on, ye restless demagogues,
Cobbetts, and Cartwrights, Woolers, Hunts, and Hones, In concert chaunt, ye music-marring frogs,
With your compatriots, Preston and Gale Jones;
Throw right and law like physic to the dogs,
Worship Tom Paine, and hawk about his bones;
England! indeed it is a fearful time,
And dark unhallow'd spirits are abroad; Thee to engulph in misery and crime,
With shackles of deep guilt thy hands to load!— Say, art not thou the land, where the sublime
Milton did live, the land which Shakespeare trod ? And, so incurable is thy disease,
That thou must yield to miscreants such as these?
That thou must yield to miscreants, void of all
With such as these thy spirit can combine ;-
For thou wert form'd to soar, and not to sink;
To picture all of wonderful and rare ;
Quaff purest crystal at Castalia's brink;
Gaze on creation's charms, and paint them fair. But strong and untamed passion bade thee shrink From summer suns, and to the dark repair, Where Night sits dismal on her throne of storms, And spectres flit around, and beckoning forms.
For fiery, fearless, passionate wert thou,
Giving thy heart and soul to pleasant dreaming; And musing on the sunlight, when heaven's brow
Was dark with thunder clouds, and torrents streaming;
Then did'st thou turn disgusted, and avow
That thou wert fall'n-wert lost beyond redeeming,
And, that thy star, by clouds so dark to view,
Was compass'd, that no ray could twinkle through.
Thy mind was form'd to seek the beau-ideal;
Thy youthful prospects end in deep vexation ;
Enough-enough-we will change at once our theme.-
For either man or horse. We do esteem
If 'tis severer, lose a little blood;
(Vide the axiom of Hippocrates.)
'Tis curious, that the men before the Flood, (Antediluvians,) little knew disease;
If they were form'd of clay, we are surely mud,
For through death's pop-gun we are shot like pease;
In spite of ready nostrums vended daily,
Men are shut up in death-or the Old Bailey.
Readers! in other words, Society!
Time passeth on, and never cometh back; Know then, if clouds o'erhang the mental sky, Or if the natural sky with clouds be black, Your remedy doth at your elbow lie,
Open the page of Maga, be not slack, And, in a jiffy, Care's low clouds will run, Like morning mists before the rising sun.
We are not too much given to partiality,
And yet we say, (yes! all the world may hear us,)
We think our Magazine, in grave reality,
The best the world e'er witness'd, none come near us;
Whether in wisdom, wit, conviviality,
Learning, or humour, Britain cannot peer us;
So says America, and Hindostan
Reads none but North-he is their only man.
Oh! for a draught of genuine inspiration,
That I, in fitting strains, might chaunt thy praise, Thou peerless Magazine, and bid the nation
A monumental pillar to thee raise,
(Something resembling Melville's in elevation, Which now gigantic o'er the New Town sways Where is the man refuse to build that stack would? (Subscriptions may be left with Mr Blackwood.)
Look but to any other periodical,
What are the most of them but spoonies shallow,
There is the Monthly frothing o'er, and swelling,
The knight who thinks his cabbage leaves excelling
Then the New Monthly in its pomp appears,
But weak, weak, weak-the thing will never do ;— Essay on Hats," and " Chapter on Long Ears,” "Sonnets, ," "The State of Learning in Peru," "Verses on Seeing a Lady Bathed in Tears;"
Oh, gentle Campbell ! what a thick-skull'd crew Art thou combined with !-it must surely grieve, To have such ninnies pinn'd upon your sleeve.
For thine is noble verse, and purest thought,
And taste that seldom errs; thy glowing muse From the bright rainbow has her colours caught; And into life's recesses can infuse
A soft romantic tinge, with beauty fraught;
And Nature, on thy page, is bright with dews Of earliest morning, while the hills and streams Seem what bewitch'd us in our youthful dreams.
Enough of this: then, monthly hobbling out,
Hobbing and nobbing much, do yet remain us ;-
For thou art sound and healthy at the core,
And faith and loyalty with thee remains;
Though not profound, thou hast good sense, and more Than such as bring forth mice from mountain pains ;Keep yourself warm,-for sure you can't be reckon'd Young, who wert born in reign of George the Second.
Then there's thy jumbled stew of goodish, baddish,
Like an old spinster o'er her seventh cup ;-
Join with John Clare, and Janus, apt to stutter,
Well, let them fume away, and let them pass
Precise, and pinion'd, like a Knave of Spades-
Go to the deuce all others !-but the day
Shall come not forget thee, Maggie Scott, Although in anger thou hast thrown away Thy blue, and ta'en a grass-green petticoat; Decent old woman!-lovely in decay
Art thou;-though toothless, we forget thee not; We loved thee in our youth, and ne'er another Shall steal our hearts from thee, good grandmother.
Yet we must own (sub rosa) that a nap
We sometimes take amid thy prosing stories; With palsied head, that shakes beneath its cap, Thou tell'st us of thy youth, and youthful glories,— How many gallant hearts thou did'st entrap, And how they all did rant and write in chorus Forbid it, goodness, that we stain our page With hits against the infirmities of age!
Who would find fault with garrulous old age?-
Who gabb'd, and gazed, and clatter'd without end,
Making of words interminable slaughter:
Oh! Maggie, do not so our ear-drums rend,
You'll deave us all, each mother's son and daughter;
The boon is vain, she vows to table down
More stuff, if folks would proffer half-a-crown.