Neither one thing nor t'other;
And though it was poorish,
It deserved not the flourish
Of that tomahawk cruel
In the saffron and cerule,
Which notch'd it and nick'd it;
In short those wits wicked
Had their sport with the lordling,
Whom they thought a soft bardling,
Too meek to retort it;
But they were not so sorted,
For his next was a stinger;
Master Frank found his finger
Had been burnt in the venture
With one, not a flincher
When his Pegasus skittish
Gave a fling at "Bards British."
If the "Hours" failed in merit,
There was talent and spirit
In this nettle stuff'd satire;
And the blows, like the platter
Of hail, fell by dozens
On our splenetic cousins
Dun-Edin's Reviewers,
Those paddlers in sewers,
Where their mud-ammunition
(Hooting, hissing, derision,)
Is mix'd up for griming
All those who won't chime in
With jacobin shoutings,
And infidel doubtings.

Then came doughty Childe Harold,
With whom the world quarrel'd,
Because this aspirant,
Though observant, enquirant,
Shrewd, keen, energetic,
Sublime, and pathetic-
Contriving to wedge in all,
In one word, original;
Yet betray'd the foot cloven,
Scepticism being inwoven
In his talk upon matters
Best left to his betters.

How plain folks roll'd their gog-
glers!

How the learned prov'd bogglers!
At the name of the "Giaour."
For sure ne'er to that hour

Did four-fifths of the vowels
Congregate in the bowels
Of a syllable single;
Even yet how to mingle
Their sounds in one's muzzle,
Continues a puzzle.

But the fragments are clever,-
Surpass'd has he never,
In his loftiest of stretches,
Two or three of the sketches.
"The Bride of Abydos"
Next sprang up beside us;
From the first time I met her,
The Giaour pleased me better;

Although I must own it, With reluctance upon it, Since my preference showing, O'er a lady so glowing,

Of a wretch with a white face, Argues not much politeness.

With a head rough as horse hair,
Heaves in sight now "The Corsair."
His Lordship here followed
The metre that's hallowed
By the poets, whose due, d'ye see,
Is no longer sub judice.
Ne'er could fail this fine story
To find fit auditory;

It holds one quite breathless
With interest; yet, nathless,
"Twould accord with my wishes,
If stops, 'stead of dashes,
Were put to the poem,
(How to do it I'd shew 'em ;)
For, I'm sure, I was wearied,
Seeing comma and period
Smash'd, as if punctuation
Were gone out of fashion.
"An Ode," rather warty,
Came to Nap Buonaparte;
Wherein he was scolded
For not having folded
His cloak like a Roman;
And, indebted to no man,
Kick'd the bucket with glory,
And lived ever in story.

Then appear'd Senor "Lara,"
Which, at sight, one could swear a
Reappearance of Conrad.

The attempt though did honour add
To our author, clear-sighted;
And ne'er hath he indited
With more perspicacity,
And psychologic sagacity.

To each "Hebrew Melody,"
Alas! and Ah, well-a-day!
For most are but rudish,
And a scantling are goodish;
So let Messrs Braham
And Nathan enjoy 'em.

"The Siege," next, " of Corinth,"
Illustrates a war in th'
Morea;-but I dare say,
From perusal or hearsay,

Most now think on the munching
Of the dogs, and their "crunching,"
(On what, in his jargon,
Dr Gall calls an organ,)
Stripping off the scalp, rot 'em!
"As ye peel figs in autumn."

With Alp to the arena
Came the fair "Parisina."
That he should not have written,
On this subject forbidden,
Still sticks in my gizzard,

'Spite of" gruff General Izzard,”

Who devoid of all mercy is
Tow'rds King Leigh and his verses;
And because without panic,
That monarch Cockannic,
Rhymed lightly on incest,
Z., with fury intensest,
Pour'd out a full bottle (6)
Of wrath on his noddle;
But of Byron he's chary,
And lauds this same "Pari-
sine," as if it were shapen,
All the perils escaping.
All we say of a "Monody"
Is, it issued forth on a day.
After this, the "Third Canto
Of Childe Harold" was sent to
Find its fate with the nation;
And it gained approbation.

"The Prisoner of Chillon"
Was sufficient to mill one;
So doleful,-so grievous,-
With nought to relieve us!

Enter Manfred;" a serious
Sort of white witch mysterious;
Of our genius erratic
The first effort dramatic,
And so well in that province
He has never come off since.
"Tasso's sad Lamentation"
Much requires condensation;
But 'tis plaintive and striking,
And suits with my liking.

Not so the sarcastic
"Sketch on topics Domestic;"
As the matter has ended,
Least said's soonest mended.

To Venice he hied him,
And that city supplied him
With the matter capricious
For his "Beppo" facetious;
A model, so please ye,
Of a style free and easy.
The story that's in it
Might be told in a minute;
But par parenthèse chatting,
On this thing and that thing,
Keeps the shuttlecock flying,
And attention from dying.
There are some I could mention,
Think the author's intention
Was to sneer and disparage
The vow made in marriage;
But the sneer, as I take it,

Is 'gainst those folks who break it.

The lengthy "Fourth Canto
Of the Childe" makes us pant, oh!
It exceeds altogether

The three first in a tether;
But 'tis greatly applauded,
Yea, exceedingly lauded.
Now, though, without flattery,
It has powerful poetry,

Yet the world henceforth will know
Meo proprio periculo,

That, to my mind, the style of it
Is ambitiously elevate,
Too much in the fashion
Of a prize declamation;
Rather pompous and dullish,
Of falsetto, too, fullish ;
As it don't wholly please me,
Of the subject I ease me.

Thunders in now on horseback
"Mazeppa" the Cossack;
Though he was not a Hettman
In performing that feat, man,
And a wag, for his trouble,
Call'd him John Gilpin's double.
With many an ill omen,
'Neath no publisher's nomen, (7)
(Proof that mischief was brewing):
Sneak'd forth, of "Don Juan"
Canto first, Canto second;
But here my Lord reckon❜d,
His host unconsulted,—
Staunch admirers revolted,
And made a stern stricture
On the profligate picture ;
E'en the wit could not save it
From being upbraided;
And, though read by the many,
No one champion'd Giovanni.

"The Great Doge of Venice"
Little joy stirred within us;
And the purse of Old Drury
Was not burst, I assure ye,
With the weight of the treasure,
When, in spite of displeasure,
And legal injunction,
Abjuring compunction,
This play they enlisted,
And to act it persisted

Till 'twas thoroughly hiss'd at.

The "Three Cantos" more recent "Of Don Juan" are decent

Compared with the couple,
Of morals more supple,

Which first made us wonder.

But the three are much under Their loose brethren in satire, And in interesting matter; Though they shew more decorum, We could sooner snore o'er 'em. (8) Last came to assail us Great "Sardanapalus," "The Two Foscari's History," And "Cain" in a "Mystery.' Had they staid in his pinnace On the waters of Venice, His fame had not suffer'd, For though they discover'd Some power in the terrible, They were not all agreeable. Cain's murderous fury He had best, I assure ye, Have left where he found it, Nor essay'd to expound it; For, howe'er he conceit it, We are bold to repeat it, He's by no means a fit one To play pranks Holy Writ on.

Milton's self, when he travell'd,
From the record was gravell'd,
In parts of his epic.
So abstain from the topic,
And with easy restriction
Seek the regions of fiction,
Extend thither your pinion,
For there lies your dominion.

L'Envoy.

Lo! in melody worthy
Of immortal Tom D'Urfey,
Have I chanted, my lyre on,
The doings of Byron.
And, as faithful recorder,
Chronological order

Have I kept. Now, as clincher,
I take heart, and will venture

To suggest to his Lordship
A proposal, (no hardship,)

Which he should not be sorry at-
Let him make me his Laureate.

MORELLET'S

FRANCE has at length ceased to present a revolting object of contemplation to the philanthropist; that hour, so long and so vainly sought through anarchy and blood, and so vainly through the splendour of military renown, has stolen upon the country in peace and apparent degradation. The great principles of constitutional freedom lately acquired, commence to be brought into action; and to the confusion of the partizans of vulgar tyranny, those principles have found their warmest advocates in the most aristocratic party of the state. All are compelled at length to acknowledge the irrevertible tendency to monarchy, of a great, a chivalrous, and a territorial people. Fatal experience has established this truth, and has reanimated in the minds of Frenchmen, the old feelings of the nation towards their ancient kings. Loyalty is no longer the blind unstable sentiment that it has been-the enthusiasm of its regard is henceforward founded upon wisdom and experience.

From this station of tranquillity, from this terra firma, which the French government has at length at

MEMOIRES."

tained, there is a redeeming pleasure, which was impossible to experience before, in surveying the vast and stormy ocean, which the political vessel traversed for the last century. We may say century, without stretching our retroactive foresight to any extraordinary degree: although we willingly join with Clarendon and Necker in ridiculing the all-sufficiency of those who descry the germes of revolution in ages far removed, yet we cannot be blind to the chain of causes and effects which is strongly manifested in the history of France. All these causes centre in the great one-public opinion: and it is a strange paradox that would exclude letters from having had an influence on public opinion. If there has been too much effect attributed by some to the literary spirit and productions of the eighteenth century, there has also been too little allowed by others; a revolution in France might have taken place without them, but it certainly would not have taken place so soon. The course of events was by no means adequate to overturn the old and sacred prejudices of the people: the quarrels be