It is not enough that this nonsense, I fear, lo q
Has hurt the fine head of my friend Robert here,

But the very best promise bred up in the school,
Must shew himself proudest in playing the fools
What! think ye a bard's a mere gossip, who tells

Of the ev'ry-day feelings of every one else, the xif
And that poetry lies, not in something select,

But in gath'ring the refuse that others reject?,

Must a ballad doled out by a spectacled nurse [ view.
About Two-Shoes or Thumb, be your model of verse boot
And your writings, instead of sound fancy and style,
Look more like the morbid abstractions of bile?

&

There is one of you here,-'twas of him that I spoke, tri
Who, instead of becoming a byeword and joke,......
Should have brought back our fine old pre-eminent, way,
And been the first man at my table to day:

But resolv'd as I am to maintain the partitions ling ư à 'Twixt wit and mere wildness, he knows the conditions

And if he retains but a spark of my fire,

Will shew it this instant, and blush, and retire.' 20 67 He spoke; and poor Wordsworth, his cheeks in a glow.ne (For he felt the God in him) made symptoms to goru bah

When Apollo, in pity, to screen him from sight,
Threw round him a cloud that was purple and white,
The same that of old us'd to wrap his own shoulders,
When coming from heaven, he'd spare the beholders
The bard, like a second Æneas, went home in't,
And lives underneath it, it seems, at this moment.20
Apollo then turning and smoothing his frown,
Bade Southey take warning, and let him sit down;
But the rest of Bob's friends, too ambitious to flinch,
Stood fixing their faces, and stirred not an inch;
While Sam, looking soft and politely dejected,
Confess'd with a sigh, that 'twas what he expected,
Since Phoebus had fatally learnt to confide in
Such prosers as Johnson, and rhymers as Dryden.'
But wrath seiz'd Apollo; and turning again,
'Whatever,' he cried, were the faults of such men,
Ye shall try, wretched mortals, how well ye can bear
What Dryden has witness'd, unsmote with despair.'

21

He said; and the place all seem'd swelling with light, While his locks and his visage grew awfully bright; a And clouds, burning inward, roll'd round on each side,! To encircle his state, as he stood in his pride;

Till at last the full Deity put on his rays,

And burst on the sight in the pomp of his blaze!
Then a glory beam'd round, as of fiery rods,

With the sound of deep organs and chorister gods;
And the faces of bards, glowing fresh from their skies,......**
Came thronging about with intentness of eyes,—

And the Nine were all heard, as the harmony swell'd,——-
And the spheres, pealing in, the long rapture upheld, ⠀'
And all things, above, and beneath, and around,

Seem'd a world of bright vision, set floating in sound.

That sight and that music might not be sustain'd
But by those who a glory like Dryden's had gain'd;22
And even the four who had graciousness found,
After gazing awhile, bow'd them down to the ground.
What then could remain for that feeble-eyed crew?

Through the door in an instant they rush'd and they flew, They rush'd, and they dash'd, and they scrambled, and stumbled,

And down the hall staircase distractedly tumbled,

And never once thought which was head or was feet, And slid through the hall, and fell plump in the street.

So great was the panic they struck with their fright, That of all who had come to be feasted that night, Not one ventur'd up, or would stay near the place; Even Croker declin'd, notwithstanding his face; And old Peter Pindar turn'd pale, and suppress'd, With a death-bed sensation, a blasphemous jest.23

But Phœbus no sooner had gain'd his good ends, Than he put off his terrors, and rais'd up his friends, Who stood for a moment, entranc'd to behold The glories subside and the dim-rolling gold, And listen'd to sounds, that with ecstacy burning Seem'd dying far upward, like heaven returning. Then 'Come,' cried the God in his elegant mirth, 'Let us make us a heav'n of our own upon earth, And wake with the lips, that we dip in our bowls, That divinest of music,-congenial souls.' So saying, he led through the dining-room door, And seating the poets, cried Laurels for four!' No sooner demanded, than lo! they were there, And each of the bards had a wreath in his hair. Tom Campbell's with willow and poplar was twin'd, And Southey's with mountain-ash pluck'd in the wind,

And Scott's with a heath from his old garden stores,
And with vine-leaves and Jump-up-and-kiss-me, Tom

Then Apollo put his on, that sparkled with beams, and
And rich rose the feast as an epicure's dreams,
Not epicuré civic, or grossly inclin'd,

But such as a poet might dream ere he din'd;

For the God had no sooner determin'd the fare, d pese Than it turn'd to whatever was racy and rare:

The fish and the flesh, for example, were done,

On account of their fineness, in flame from the sun; A

The wines were all nectar of different smack,“

I

To which Muskat was nothing, nor Virginis Lac,
No, nor Lachryma Christi, though clearly divine. A
Nor Montepulciano, though King of all Wine.25 --

3

Then as for the fruits, you might garden for ages,
Before you could raise me such apples and gages;
And all on the table no sooner were spread,
Than their cheeks next the God blush'd a beautiful red. A

'Twas magic, in short, and deliciousness all The very men-servants grew handsome and tall, jac) mo l