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The Chain Library

Wimborne Minster

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That weight of wood, with leathern coat o'erlaid,
Those ample clasps, of solid metal made;
The close-prest leaves, unclosed for many an age,
The dull red edging of the well-filled page;
On the broad back the stubborn ridges rolled,
Where yet the title stands, in tarnished gold:-
These all a sage and labored work proclaim,
A painful candidate for lasting fame;
No idle wit, no trifling verse can lurk
In the deep bosom of that weighty work;
No playful thoughts degrade the solemn style,
Nor one light sentence claims a transient smile.

Hence, in these times, untouched the pages lie,
And slumber out their Immortality; -
They had their day, when, after all his toil,
His morning study and his midnight oil,
At length an author's ONE great work appeared,
By patient hope and length of days endeared;
Expecting nations hailed it from the press,
Poetic friends prefixed each kind address;
Princes and Kings received the pond'rous gift,
And ladies read the work they could not lift.

Fashion, though Folly's child, and guide of fools, Rules e'en the wisest, and in learning rules;

From crowds and courts to Wisdom's Seat she goes,
And reigns triumphant o'er her Mother's foes.
For lo! these favorites of the ancient mode

Lie all neglected like the Birthday Ode;
Ah! needless now this weight of massy chain:
Safe in themselves the once-loved works remain;
No readers now invade their still retreat;
None try to steal them from their parent seat;
Like ancient beauties, they may now discard
Chains, Bolts, and Locks, and live without a guard.
Our patient Fathers, trifling themes laid by,
And rolled o'er labored works th' attentive eye;

Page after page the much-enduring Men
Explored the deeps and shallows of the pen;
Till, every former note and comment known,
They marked the spacious margin with their own;
Minute corrections proved their studious care;
The little index pointing, told us where;
And, many an emendation proved, the age
Looked far beyond the Rubric Title-page.

BURLESQUES FROM THE ANTIJACOBIN.

[THE Antijacobin, or Weekly Examiner, was a Tory periodical skit issued from November 20, 1797, to July 9, 1798, by George Canning, aided by John Hookham Frere, William Gifford, and others, to counteract the Whig Rolliad and ridicule the republican principles coming in from France. It contained the "Loves of the Triangles," burlesquing Erasmus Darwin's "Loves of the Plants," and other fair wit, of which the travesties given below, mainly by Canning and Frere, are alone remembered.

GEORGE CANNING was born 1770; graduated from Christ Church, Oxford; entered Parliament 1793; was secretary for foreign affairs 1807-1809 and 18221827, president of the Board of Control 1816-1820, and prime minister 1827, when he died.

JOHN HOOKHAM FRERE was born 1769; graduated from Caius College, Cambridge; entered Parliament 1796; was under-secretary in the foreign office 1799, envoy and plenipotentiary at Lisbon 1800, at Madrid 1802-1804, 1808-1809, when he retired from public life on account of unjust blame. He died at Malta in 1846. His chief works are "King Arthur's Round Table" (see Vol. 8), and the matchless translations of Aristophanes (see Vols. 3 and 4).]

ROGERO IN THE DUNGEON.

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[From "The Rovers, or the Double Arrangement" - the name and one or two items suggested by Schiller's "Robbers," but most of it a travesty on Kotzebue and the other German dramatists of the time.] Scene changes to a subterranean vault in the Abbey of Quedlinburg, with coffins, 'scutcheons, death's-heads and crossbones. Toads and other loathsome reptiles are seen traversing the obscurer parts of the stage. ROGERO appears in chains, in a suit of rusty armor, with his beard grown, and a cap of a grotesque form upon his head; beside him a crock, or pitcher, supposed to contain his daily allowance of sustenance. A long silence, during which the wind is heard to whistle through the caverns. — ROGERO rises, and comes slowly forward, with his arms folded.

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Rogero-Eleven years! it is now eleven years since I was first immured in this living sepulchre - the cruelty of a minister -the perfidy of a monk-yes, Matilda! for thy sake — alive amidst the dead — chained-coffined confined—cut off from the converse of my fellow-men. Soft! what have we here! [Stumbles over a bundle of sticks.] This cavern is so dark that I can scarcely distinguish the objects under my feet. Oh, the register of my captivity. Let me see; how stands the account? [Takes up the sticks, and turns them over with a melancholy air; then stands silent for a few minutes, as if absorbed in calculation.] -Eleven years and fifteen days! Hah! the twenty-eighth of August! How does the recollection of it vibrate on my heart!

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