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Ye tuneful cobblers! still your notes prolong,
Compose at once a slipper and a song;
So shall the fair your handy work peruse
Your sonnets sure shall please-perhaps your shoes.

May Moorland* weavers boast Pindaric skill,

And taylors' lays be longer than their bill!
While punctual beaux reward the grateful notes,
And pay for poems—when they pay for coats.

To the famed throng now paid the tribute due, Neglected Genius! let me turn to you. .: 780 Come forth, oh CAMPBELL!+ give thy talents scope; Who dares aspire if thou must cease to hope?

* Vide“ Recollections of a Weaver in the Moorlands of Staffordshire.”

+ It would be superfluous to recal to the mind of the reader the au. thor of “ The Pleasures of Memory” and the Pleasures of Hope," the most beautiful Didactic poems in our language, if we except Pope's Essay on Man: but so many poetasters have started up, that even the names of CAMPBELL and Rogers are become strange.

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And thou, melodious Rogers! rise at last,
Recal the pleasing memory of the past;
Arise!' let blest remembrance still inspire,
And strike to wonted tones thy hallowed lyre;
Restore Apollo to his vacant throne,

Assert thy country's honour and thine own.

What! must deserted Poesy still weep

Where her last hopes with pious Cowper sleep? 790

Unless perchance, from his cold bier she turns,

To deck the turf that wraps her minstrel, BURNS!

No! 1ho' contempt hath marked the spurious brood,
The race who rhyme from folly, or for food;
Yet still some genuine sons 'tis her's to boast,
Who least affecting, still affect the most;

Feel as they write, and write but as they feel-

* GIFFORD, author of the Baviad and Mæviad, the first satires of the day, and translator of Juvenal.

" Why slumbers Gifford?” once was asked in

vain :* Why slumbers Gifford ? let us ask again. 800

Are there no follies for his pen to purge?

Are there no fools whose backs demand the scourge?

Are there no sins for Satire's Bard to greet ?
Stalks not gigantic Vice in every street ?
Shall Peers or Princes tread pollution's path,
And ’scape alike the Law's and Muse's wrath ?
Nor blazc with guilty glare through future time,
Eternal beacons of cousummate crime?

SOTHEBY, translator of WIELAND's Oberon, and Virgil's Georgics, and author of Saul, an epic poem.

MacNeil, whose poems are deservedly popular: particularly “ScotLAND's Scaith, or the Waes of War," of which ten thousand copies were sold in one month.

* Mr. GIFFORD promised publicly that the Baviad and Mæviad should pot be his last original works: let him remember; “Mox in reluctantes


Arouse thee, Gifford! be thy promise claimed,

Make bad men better, or at least ashamed.


Unhappy White*! while life was in its spring, And thy young Muse just waved her joyous wing, The spoiler came; and all thy promise fair Has sought the grave, to sleep for ever there. Oh! what a noble heart was here undone,

When Science 'self destroyed her favourite son!

Yes! she too much indulged thy fond pursuit,

She sowed the seeds, but death has reaped the fruit.

'Twas thine own Genius gave the final blow. And helped to plant the wound that laid thee low: 820

* Henry KIRKE White died at Cambridge in October 1806, in consequence of too much exertion in the pursuit of studies that would have matured a mind which disease and poverty could not impair, and which Death itself destroyed rather than subdued. His poems abound in such beauties as must impress the reader with the liveliest regret that'so short a period was allotted to talents, which would have dignified even the sacred functions he was destined to assume.

So the struck Eagle stretched upon the plain,

No more through rolling clouds to soar again,
Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart,
And winged the shaft that quivered in his heart:
Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel
He nursed the pinion which impelled the steel,
While the same plumage that had warmed his nest
Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast.

There be, who say in these enlightened days That splendid lies are all the poets praise; 830 That strained invention, ever on the wing, Alone impels the modern Bard to sing : 'Tis true, that all who rhyme, nay, all who write, Shrink from that fatal word to Genius–Trite;

Yet Truth sometimes will lend her noblest fires,.

And decorate the verse herself inspires :

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