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Baotian Cottle, rich Bristowa's boast,

Imports old stories from the Cambrian coast,
And sends his goods to market-all alive!

Lines forty-thousand, Cantos twenty-five!
Fresh fish from Helicon! who'll buy? who'll buy?
The precious bargain's cheap-in faith, not I.
Too much in turtle Bristol's sons delight,
Too much o'er bowls of Rack prolong the night ;


If Commerce fills the purse she clogs the brain,

And Amos COTTLE strikes the Lyre in vain. 390
In him an author's luckless lot behold!
Condemned to make the books which once he sold.
Oh! Amos COTTLE!—Phæbus! what a name
To fill the speaking trump of future fame!-

Oh! Amos Cottle! for a moment think

What meagre profits spring from pen and ink!

When thus devoted to poetic dreams,

Who will peruse thy prostituted reams :

Oh! pen perverted ! paper misapplied !
Had *COTTLE still adorned the counter's side,


Bent o'er the desk, or, born to useful toils,
Been taught to make the paper which he soils,
Ploughed, delved, or 'plied the oar with lusty limb,
He had not sung of Wales, nor I of him.

As Sisyphus against the infernal steep Rolls the huge rock, whose motions ne'er may sleep,

So up thy hill, ambrosial Richmond! heaves

Dull MAURicet all his granite weight of leaves :

nce selle

* Mr. COTTLE, Amos, or Joseph, I don't know which, but one or both, once sellers of books, they did not write, and now writers of books that do not sell, have published a pair of Epics. “Alfred" (poor Alfred ! Pys has been at him too!) “ Alfred” and the “ fall of Cambria.”

+ Mr. MAURICE hath manufactured the component parts of a ponderous quarto, upon the beauties of “ Richmond Hill," and the like:it also takes in a charming view of Turnham Green, Hammersmith, Brentford, Old and New, and the parts adjacent.

Smooth, solid monuments of mental pain !
The petrifáctions of a plodding brain, 410
That ere they reach the top fall 'lumbering back



With broken lyrc and cheek serténely pale, Lo! sad ALCÆUs wanders down the vale ! Though fair they rose, and might have bloomed at


His hopes have perished by the northern blast :
Nipped in the bud by Caledonian gales,
His blossoms wither as the blast prevails !
O’er his lost works let classic Sheffield weep:
May no rude hand disturb their early sleep*!

* Poor MONTGOMERY! though praised by every English Review, baş been bitterly reviled by the EDINBURGH. After all, the Bard of Sheffield is a man of considerable genius : his “ Wanderer of Switzerland” is worth a thousand “ Lyrical Ballads,” and at least fifty “Degraded Epics."

Yet, say !why should the Bard, at once, resign 420

His claim to favour from the sacred Nine ?

For ever startled by the mingled howl
Of Northern wolves that still in darkness prowl;

A coward brood which mangle as they prey,

By hellish instinct, all that cross their way:
Aged or young, the living or the dead,
No mercy find,—these harpies must be fed.

Why do the injured unresisting yield

The calm possession of their native field ?
Why tamely thus before their fangs retreat, 430
Nor hunt the bloodhounds back to Arthur's scat* ?

Health to immortal Jeffrey ! once, in name,

England could boast a judge almost thc same :

In soul so like, so merciful, yet just,
Some think that Satan has resigned his trust,

* ARTHUR's seat; the hill which overhangs Edinburgh.

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With hand less mighty, but with heart as black,

With voice as willing to decree the rack;
Bred in the Courts betimes, though all that law 440

As yet hath taught him is to find a flaw.

Since well instructed in the patriot school

To rail at party, though a party tool,

Who knows? if chance his patrons should restore

Back to the sway they forfeited before,

His scribbling toils some recompencc may mect,

And raise this Daniel to the Judgment Seat.

Let Jeffries' shade indulge the pious hope, And grceting thus, present him with a rope; 66 Heir to my virtues! man of equal mind!


66 Skilled to condemn as to traduce mankind,

This cord receive! for thee resery'd with care,

“ To wield in judgment, and at length to wear.”

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