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free with others, and who scarcely consi, ders himself as having finished his own studies in poetry; but as it is,-he has subjoined to the Feast of the Poets a few little pieces of a graver description, in or. der that those, who in return for being lightly regarded, are eager to make accusations of levity, may see that he has at least a taste for more serious enjoyment.

Should a state of health, not very accommodating, continue to allow him in his imprisonment the use of his pen, it is his intention, by the beginning of next year, to bring out a piece of some length, with which he is varying less agreeable studies, and in which he would attempt to reduce to practice his own ideas of what is natural in style, and of the various and legitimate harmony of the English heroic.

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T'OTHER day, as Apollo sat pitehing 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 had all been rung in.

I think,' said the God, recollecting, (and then
He fell twiddling a sunbeam as I may my pen),
I thinklet 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, That since Dryden's fine verses and Milton's sublime, I have fairly been sick of their sing-song and rhyme.

B

There was Collins, 'tis true, had a good deal to say;
But the rogue had no industry,-neither had Gray:
And Thomson, though best in his indolent fits,
Either slept himself weary, or bloated his wits.a
But ever since Pope spoil'd the ears of the town
With his cuckoo-song 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. 3
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 can muster worth treating,
So saying, the God bade his horses walk for'ard,
And leaving them, took a long dive to the nor'ard: ,

i For Gordon's he made; and as Gods, who drop in do, Came smack on his legs through the drawing-room window.

And here I could tell, if it was'nt for stopping, How all the town shook as the godhead went pop in, How bright look'd the poets, and brisk blew the airs, And the laurels took flow'r in the gardens and squares; But fancies like these, though I've stores to supply me, I'd better keep back for a poem I've by me

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