THE FEAST OF THE POETS.

To the names of the celebrated writers, whom the author, in a fit of youthful gaiety, here undertook to seat at Apollo's table, might have been added some which have arisen of late years, both male and female, and which would have done credit to the host.

The chronology of the poem, however, with two exceptions, is the same as in former editions, containing the names of those only who were in possession of poetical repute at the time it was written. The exceptions are his beloved friends, Mr. Shelley and Mr. Keats, who have amply obtained the repute since, and whom he has indulged himself with introducing, not because any thing he can do is necessary to their fame, but because they are dead, and their fame acknowledged.

It would have been a gratification to him to extend his list; but, to confess the truth, he was unwilling to open a new ground of hostility against him, for his sins of" omission."

Some further remarks on this subject, if the reader wishes to see them, may be found in the preface. They would be as much out of place here, as a solemn introduction to a dance.

THE FEAST OF THE POETS.

T'OTHER day, as Apollo sat pitching his darts Through the clouds of November, by fits and by starts, He began to consider how long it had been, Since the bards of Old England a session had seen. "I think," said the God, recollecting, (and then

He fell twiddling a sunbeam, as I may my pen,)

'I think-let me see—yes, it is, I declare,

As long ago now as that Buckingham there :*
And yet I can't see why I've been so remiss,
Unless it may be-and it certainly is,

* Sheffield, Duke of Buckingham, wrote the last Session of the Poets. The others were written by Suckling and Rochester.

That since Dryden's fine verses, and Milton's sublime,
I have fairly been sick of their sing-song and rhyme.
There was Collins, 'tis true, had a good deal to say;
But the dog had no industry,—neither had Gray :
And Thomson, though dear to my heart, was too florid
To make the world see that their own taste was horrid.
So ever since Pope, my pet bard of the town,
Set a tune with his verses, half up and half down,
There has been such a doling and sameness-by Jove,
I'd as soon have gone down to see Kemble in love.
However, of late as they've rous'd them anew,
I'll e'en go and give them a lesson or two,

And as nothing's done there now-a-days without

eating,

See what kind of set I can muster worth treating." So saying, the God bade his horses walk for'ard, And leaving them, took a long dive to the norʼard : For Gordon's he made; and as Gods who drop in do, Came smack on his legs through the drawing-room window.