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XIX.

And now on that mountain I stood on that day,

HEROD'S LAMENT FOR MARIAMNE. But I mark'd not the twilight-beam melting

OH, Mariamne! now for thee

The heart for which thou bled'st is bleeding;

Revenge is lost in agony,

And wild remorse to rage succeeding. Oh, Mariamne! where art thou?

Thou canst not hear my bitter pleading: Ah, couldst thou-thou wouldst pardon now, Though Heaven were to my prayer unheeding.

And is she dead?—and did they dare
Obey my phrensy's jealous raving?
My wrath but doom'd my own despair:
The sword that smote her 's o'er me
waving.-

But thou art cold, my murder'd love!
And this dark heart is vainly craving
For her who soars alone above,

And leaves my soul unworthy saving.

She's gone, who shared my diadem;

She sunk, with her my joys entombing; I swept that flower from Judah's stem Whose leaves for me alone were blooming; And mine's the guilt, and mine the hell, This bosom's desolation dooming; And I have earn'd those tortures well, Which unconsumed are still consuming!

XX.

ON THE DAY OF THE DESTRUCTION

OF JERUSALEM BY TITUS.

FROM the last hill that looks on thy once holy dome

I beheld thee, oh SION! when render'd to Rome: 'Twas thy last sun went down, and the flames of thy fall Flash'd back on the last glance I gave to thy wall.

I look'd for thy temple, I look'd for my home, And forgot for a moment my bondage tocome; I beheld but the death-fire that fed on thy fane, And the fast-fetter'd hands that made vengeance in vain.

On many an eve, the high spot whence I

gazed Had reflected the last beam of day as it blazed;

While I stood on the height, and beheld

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the decline from the mountain that shone on thy shrine.

away; Oh! would that the lightning had glared in its stead,

And the thunderbolt burst on the conqueror's head!

But the Gods of the Pagan shall never profane

The shrine where Jehovah disdain'd not to reign; And scatter'd and scorn'd as thy people may be,

Our worship, oh Father! is only for thee.

XXI.

We sat down and wept by the waters
Of Babel, and thought of the day
When our foe, in the hue of his slaughters,
Made Salem's high places his prey;
And ye, oh her desolate Daughters!

Were scatter'd all weeping away.

While sadly we gazed on the river

Which roll'd on in freedom below, They demanded the song; but, oh never That triumph the stranger shall know! May this right hand be wither'd for ever, Ere it string our high harp for the foe! On the willow that harp is suspended,

Oh Salem! its sound should be free; And the hour when thy glories were ended,

But left me that token of thee: And ne'er shall its soft tones be blended With the voice of the spoiler by me!

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For the Angel of Death spread his wings | And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,

on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he

pass'd;

And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill,

And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,

But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride:

And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,

And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail;

And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,

The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,

Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

XXIII.

FROM JOB.

A SPIRIT pass'd before me: I beheld
The face of Immortality unveil'd-
Deep sleep came down on every eye sare
mine-

And there it stood,—all formless but divine:
Along my bones the creeping flesh did quake;
And as my damp hair stiffen'd, thus it spake:

"Is man more just than God? Is man more pure Than he who deems even Seraphs insecure! Creatures of clay-vain dwellers in the dust The moth survives you,and are ye more just! Things of a day! you wither ere the night, Heedless and blind to Wisdom's wasted light!"

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The triumph, and the vanity,

The rapture of the strife

The earthquake-shout of Victory,
To thee the breath of life;

The sword, the sceptre, and that sway
Which man seem'd made but to obey,
Wherewith renown was rife-

All quell'd!— Dark Spirit! what must be
The madness of thy memory!

The Desolator desolate!

The Victor overthrown! The Arbiter of others' fate A Suppliant for his own! Is it some yet imperial hope

That with such change can calmly scope? 1 Or dread of death alone?

To die a prince-or live a slave-
Thy choice is most ignobly brave!

He who of old would rend the oak,
Dream'd not of the rebound;
Chain'd by the trunk he vainly broke,
Alone-how look'd he round?—
Thon, in the sternness of thy strength
An equal deed hast done at length,

And darker fate hast found:
He fell, the forest-prowlers' prey;
But thou must eat thy heart away!

The Roman, when his burning heart
Was slaked with blood of Rome,
Threw down the dagger-dared depart,
In savage grandeur, home.
He dared depart, in utter scorn
Of men that such a yoke had borne,
Yet left him such a doom!
His only glory was that hour
Of self-upheld abandon'd power.

The Spaniard, when the lust of sway
Had lost its quickening spell,
Cast crowns for rosaries away,
An empire for a cell;

A strict accountant of his beads,
A subtle disputant on creeds,
His dotage trifled well:
Yet better had he neither known
A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne.

But thou-from thy reluctant hand

The thunderbolt is wrung-
Too late thou leav'st the high command
To which thy weakness clung;
All Evil Spirit as thou art,
It is enough to grieve the heart,

To see thine own unstrung;
To think that God's fair world hath been
The footstool of a thing so mean;

And Earth hath spilt her blood for him,
Who thus can hoard his own!
And Monarchs bow'd the trembling limb,
And thank'd him for a throne!

Fair Freedom! we may hold thee dear,
When thus thy mightiest foes their fear

In humblest guise have shown.
Oh! ne'er may tyrant leave behind
A brighter name to lure mankind!
Thine evil deeds are writ in gore,
Nor written thus in vain-
Thy triumphs tell of fame no more,
Ör deepen every stain.

If thou hadst died as honour dies,
Some new Napoleon might arise,
To shame the world again-
But who would soar the solar height,
To set in such a starless night?

Weigh'd in the balance, hero-dust
Is vile as vulgar clay;
Thy scales, Mortality! are just
To all that pass away;
But yet methought the living great
Some higher sparks should animate,
To dazzle and dismay;

Nor deem'd contempt could thus make mirth
Of these, the Conquerors of the earth!

And She, proud Austria's mournful flower,
Thy still imperial bride;

How bears her breast the torturing hour?
Still clings she to thy side?
Must she too bend, must she too share
Thy late repentance, long despair,

Thou throneless Homicide?

If still she loves thee, hoard that gem,
'Tis worth thy vanish'd diadem!

Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle,
And gaze upon the sea;
That element may meet thy smile,
It ne'er was ruled by thee!
Or trace with thine all idle hand,
In loitering mood, upon the sand,
That Earth is now as free!
That Corinth's pedagogue hath now
Transferr'd his by-word to thy brow.
Thou Timour! in his captive's cage

What thoughts will there be thine,
While brooding in thy prison'd rage?
But one-"The world was mine:"
Unless, like he of Babylon,
All sense is with thy sceptre gone,

Life will not long confine
That spirit pour'd so widely forth-
So long obey'd-so little worth!

Or like the thief of fire from heaven,
Wilt thou withstand the shock?
And share with him, the unforgiven,
His vulture and his rock!
Foredoom'd by God-by man accurst,
And that last act, though not thy worst,
The very Fiend's arch mock;
He in his fall preserved his pride,

| And, if a mortal, had as proudly died!

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PREFACE

TO THE SECOND EDITION.

ALL my friends, learned and unlearned, have urged me not to publish this Satire with my name. If I were to be "turn'd from the career of my humour by quibbles quick, and paper-bullets of the brain," I should have complied with their counsel. But I am not to be terrified by abuse, or bullied by reviewers, with or without arms. I can safely say that I have attacked none personally who did not commence on the offensive. An author's works are public property: he who purchases may judge, and publish his opinion if he pleases; and the authors I have endeavoured to commemorate may do by me as I have done by them. I dare say they will succeed better in condemning my scribblings, than in mending their own. But my object is not to prove that I can write well, but, if possible, to make others write better.

As the Poem has met with far more success than I expected, I have endeavoured in this edition to make some additions and alterations to render it more worthy of public perusal.

In the first edition of this Satire, published anonymously, fourteen lines on the subject of Bowles's Pope were written and inserted at the request of an ingenious friend of mine, who has now in the press a volume of poetry. In the present edition they are erased, and some of 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 abilities are overrated, his faults overlooked, and his metrical canons received without scruple and without consideration. But the unquestionable possession of considerable ge nius 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 wri ter 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 numerons patients afflicted with the present prevalent and distressing rabies for rhyming. As to 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.

STILL must I hear?-shall hoarse FITZ-|The cry is up, and Scribblers are my games GERALD bawl Speed, Pegasus!-ye strains of great and small,

His creaking couplets in a tavern-hall,
And I not sing, lest, haply, Scotch Reviews | Ode, Epic, Elegy, have at you all!
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.

I too can scrawl, and once upon a time
I pour'd along the town a flood of rhyme-
A schoolboy - freak, unworthy praise or
blame:

I printed—older children do the same.
'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print;
A book's a book, altho' there's nothing in't.

Oh! Nature's noblest gift-my gray goose-Not that a title's sounding charm can save

quill!

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Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave:
This LAMB must own, since his patrician

name

Fail'd to preserve the spurious farce from shame.

No matter, GEORGE continues still to write, Tho' now the name is veil'd from public sight.

Moved by the great example, I pursue
The self-same road, but make my own
review:

Not seek great JEFFREY's - yet, like him,
will be
Self-constituted judge of poesy.

A man must serve his time to every trade,
Save censure-critics all are ready made.
Take hackney'd jokes from MILLER, got by
rote,

With just enough of learning to misquote,
A mind well skill'd to find or forge a fault;
A turn for punning, call it Attic salt;
TO JEFFREY go, be silent and discreet,
His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet:
Fear not to lie, 'twill seem a lucky hit;
Shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill pass for
wit;
Care not for feeling-pass your proper jest,
And stand a critic, hated yet caress'd.

And shall we own such judgment? no

as soon

Seek roses in December, ice in June;
Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff;
Believe a woman, or an epitaph;
Or any other thing that's false, before
You trust in critics who themselves are sore;
Or yield one single thought to be misled
By JEFFREY's heart, or LAMB's Baotian

head.

To these young tyrants, by themselves misplaced, Combined usurpers on the throne of Taste; To these, when authors bend in humble awe, And hail their voice as truth, their word as law; While these are censors, 'twould be sin to spare;

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: Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame-While such are critics, why should I forbear?

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