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All are not moralists, like Southey, when

He prated to the world of « Pantisocrasy; » Or Wordsworth unexcised, unhired, who then

Season'd his pedlar poems with democracy; Or Coleridge, long before his flighty pen

Let to the Morning Post its aristocracy; When he and Southey, following the same path, Espoused two partners (milliners of Bath).


Such names at present cut a convict figure,

The very Botany Bay in moral geography; Their loyal treason, renegado rigour,

Are good manure for their more bare biography. Wordsworth's last quarto, by the way, is bigger

Than any since the birthday of typography; A drowsy frouzy poem, call'd the « Excursion,» Writ in a manner which is my aversion.


He there builds up a formidable dike

Between his own and others' intellect;
But Wordsworth's poem, and his followers, like

Joanna Southcote's Shiloh, and her sect,
Are things which in this century don't strike

The public mind, so few are the elect;
And the new births of both their stale virginities
Have proved but dropsies, taken for divinities.


But let me to my story: I must own,

If I have any fault, it is digression; Leaving my people to proceed alone,

While I soliloquize beyond expression;
But these are my addresses from the throne,

Which put off business to the ensuing session :
Forgetting each omission is a loss to
The world, not quite so great as Ariosto.


I know that what our neighbours call longueurs,

(We've not so good a word, but have the thing In that complete perfection which ensures

An epic from Bob Southey every spring-)
Form not the true temptation wbich allures

The reader; but 't would not be hard to bring
Some fine examples of the épopée,
To prove its grand ingredient is ennui.


We learn from Horace, Homer sometimes sleeps;

We feel without him: Wordsworth sometimes wakes, To show with what complacency he creeps,

With his dear Waggoners, around his lakes ;
He wishes for «a boat» to sail the deeps-

Of ocean?—No, of air; and then he makes
Another outcry for a little boat,»
And drivels seas to set it well afloat.


If he must fain sweep o'er the etherial plain,

And Pegasus runs restive in his « waggon,» Could ke not beg the loan of Charles's wain?

Or pray Medea for a single dragon? Or if, too classic for his vulgar brain,

He fear'd his neck to venture such a nag on, And he must needs mount nearer to the moon, Could not the blockhead ask for a balloon?


« Pedlars,» and « boats,» and a waggons ! » Oh! ye shades

Of Pope and Dryden, are we come to this? That trash of such sort not alone evades

Contempt, but from the bathos' vast abyss
Floats scumlike uppermost, and these Jack Cades

Of sense and song above your graves may hiss-
The « little boatman » and his « Peter Bell,
Can sneer at him who drew « Achitophel!»


T'our tale.—The feast was over, the slaves gone,

The dwarfs and dancing girls had all retired;
The Arab lore and poet's song were done,

And every sound of revelry expired;
The lady and her lover, left alone,

rosy flood of twilight sky admired;-
Ave Maria! o'er the earth and sea,
That heavenliest hour of heaven is worthiest thee!


Ave Maria ! blessed be the hour!

The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft Have felt that moment in its fullest power

Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft,
While swung the deep bell in the distant tower,

Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft,
And not a breath crept through the rosy air,

the forest leaves seem'd stirr'd with prayer.


Ave Maria ! 't is the hour of prayer!

Ave Maria! 't is the hour of love! Ave Maria! may our spirits dare

Look up to thine and to thy Son's above! Ave Maria! oh that face so fair!

Those downcast eyes beneath the Almighty doveWhat though 't is but a pictured image strikeThat painting is no idol, 't is too like.


Some kinder casuists are pleased to say,

In nameless print—that I have no devotion; But set those


down with me to pray, And you shall see who has the properest notion Of getting into heaven the shortest way;

My altars are the mountains and the ocean, Earth, air, stars,—all that springs from the great Whole, Who hath produced, and will receive the soul.


VOL. 11.

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Sweet hour of twilight!—in the solitude

Of the pine forest, and the silent shore Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood,

Rooted where once the Adrian wave flow'd o'er, To where the last Cæsarean fortress stood,

Evergreen forest! which Boccaccio's lore
And Dryden's lay made haunted ground to me,
How have I loved the twilight hour and thee!


The shrill cicalas, people of the pine,

Making their summer lives one ceaseless song, Were the sole echos, save my steed's and mine,

And vesper bell's that rose the boughs along; The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line,

His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair throng, Which learn'd from this example not to fly From a true lover, shadow'd my mind's eye.


Oh Hesperus! 5 thou bringest all good things

Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer,
To the young bird the parent's brooding wings,

The welcome stall to the o'erlabour'd steer;
Whate'er of peace about our hearthstone clings,

Whate’er our household gods protect of dear, Are gather'd round us by thy look of rest; Thou bring'st the child, too, to the mother's breast.

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