THE

MODERN ORLANDO.

Give the world your
Make your pen a

Travel! travel! travel! The mind stagnates at home. The flower dies unless it is transplanted. Hear all things-see all things -write all things, and write them on the spot. thoughts, fresh, fast, and fair, as they come. pencil, your ink colours, your paper a canvas, and Nature your sitter. Say what you think; tell the truth,-and fear not. Cherish woman, and castigate man. Be bold of heart, quick of eye, and pleasant of tongue. Carlo mio-where then is the true poet to be found. By the Madonna, I know not. Let the world, which decides every thing, decide that too. I follow none,-I ask none to follow me. This is the only boast of your friend Ludovico.-Farewell! may all the Graces hover round your pillow, Carlo mio."

LETTERE SCELTE, V. 2.

A few notes of reference are given at the close of each Canto.

THE PROLOGUE.

LOVED ARIOSTO! May I follow thee?

What if the day is done, of steel-clad knights; If blight has fall'n on Fancy's blossomed tree;

If Queen Titania and her blue-winged sprites No longer sing on Midsummer sweet Nights; If minstrels ride no more on fiery dragons;

If Caliphs' daughters take no genie flights;

If now man's only flying things are waggons;

Yet will I take one draught from thy rich-jewelled

flagons.

Why do I write?-'Tis only as I breathe;

'Tis to obey an instinct, impulse, will!

"Tis not to catch the poet's fleeting wreath;

'Tis to discharge my heart of thoughts that thrill.

I write, as down the mountain rolls the rill; Down it must roll, however wild or tame—

Whether my verse the world's wide trumpet fill, Or die at once, to me 'tis all the same ;

I write not for the world, for lucre, love, or fame.

But "Poetry is dead; gone down, for ever!" all gentlemen in gouty shoes.

So

say

Is she? Such whimpering puts me in a fever;

"I'll buckler thee against a million," Muse. What care I for the chain-shot of reviews; 'Tis true, of Turks the world was rather tired; A leetle weary, too, of " tails and trews!"

Some Bards were in Australia, some were "hired;

In Judges some were swamped-in Bishops som

inspired!

Poets, awake! throw off your grandam's clothes;
Disdain to live upon the dead;-break ground:
Leave classic plunder to the men of prose;

There is a world beyond the "poet's Pound;"
Nature and soul alike exclaim "Look round!"
Genius is but ORIGINALITY!

Let babes and babblers in their swathes be bound; Give freedom to the heart, the hand, the eye:

Minds feeding on the dust, in dust shall live-and die.

So, let the

gone be gone; the past be past.

Must we go tottering on their stilts, for ever?

Does not our life-blood flow as free and fast?

Must we be chained to tombstones? Never, never!

Is not Ambition still Life's golden lever?

Is not the world one fiery-wheeled machine?

Poets, awake!—your rusty shackles sever:

The times are rich and ripe, to shift the scene,Then-welcome the New Age, Court, Cabinet, and

QUEEN.