Such den of cannibals, unslaked and keen,
Such tigers fierce in Pisa's haunt were seen:

Junta of death! confederates foul and fell,
“LIBERAL" in "firebrands," and the shafts of Hell.
Say not, that we, at cruel Envy's call,

Like clamorous hounds upon a champion fall,
When friendless and o'erpow'r'd, he dies. But when
The human bloodhound leaves his shelter'd glen,
And in his course, deep-knelling, sweeps away
The dews of heaven, fast hast'ning to his prey,
We think no title can his name deprave.
No tear should consecrate his early grave.

Say not to Genius we deny her meed,

For whence doth Genius but from Heaven proceed? 'Tis GOD's behest; to man no praise belongs, Except it raise and consecrate his songs.

Your's be the blame, who on this favourite shrine, E'en for the sceptic and the libertine,

Your incense all with thoughtless rapture fling,

While to your GOD, your Country, and your King,

No homage due, no sacrifice ye pay;

Ye worship Genius, but Religion slay.

Ye gifted Scribes! who guide the general views,
Undaunted, crush each base apostate Muse!
Ye sapient Critics! never dare to praise,
What, in your heart, ye know deserves to blaze!
No, tho' the reckless, venal Bibliopole,

Holds to your view the too seductive dole!
Your's is the ship in which poor authors ride,
Your helm oft guides to some auspicious tide;
Oft, at your dictum, the supinely wise
Praise or condemn, encourage or despise.
See to your charge! be faithful! be sincere!
Nor scout the humble, nor indulge the Peer.

And thou, great LIVERPOOL! thy country's pride, In storms, her pilot, in distress, her guide! Whose gracious temper, and unrivall❜d skill, Bade the wild elements of strife be still,

And anarchy retire; may thy firm soul

Defend our altars from the dread control

Of deadlier foes; who, 'neath the shield of taste,
Our land, with shameless blasphemies, lay waste!
Suppress those impious, tho' enchanting, lines,
That curse our children, and our peaceful shrines!
Albion shall vibrate to thine honour'd name,
Nor deem one virtue could enhance thy fame.

'Twere well, if, even like great Edward's bard, The baneful poet, dreading his award,

*

Should view with grief his doleful calendar,

And drench his verse with tears. Yet, better far,
Need no repentance; like the Bard of Rome,
Who said, when sinking to his honour'd tomb,
He wish'd no sentiment should be forgot,
Nor wrote what, dying, he desired to blot.
So, far in eld, melodious WALLER sings:
Cancel whate'er no strength to virtue brings."

See Chalmer's British Poets. "Life of Chaucer."

K

So, record tells, immortal PETRARCH found,

When Death's relentless legates hover'd round,—
(Tho' listening Europe had adored his lyre,
And woke to Love, as by some spell of fire,)
The beauteous wreath, that such sweet Bard adorns,
Is dearly bought, and pillows Death with thorns.

Thy cause, thus meanly sung, sweet Poesy! May find some abler advocate, than he

Who now defends thee-sings but for thy praise, Nor seeks protection for his fervent lays.

While VIRTUE triumphs, and while MERCY reigns, The worthiest, loftiest, of poetic strains

Will aim to rise, as but archangels can,

"And justify the ways of GOD to man.”*

Far o'er the past extend the watchful eye! Few are the works that ruthless Time defy. As on some night the spangled arch we view, When o'er the welkin spreads a palish blue,

* Milton's "Paradise Lost," Book I. line 26.

No stars with brilliance on the sight obtrude,
But those which shine of largest magnitude.

Fame, so capricious in her high behest, But seldom makes her living Poets blest; Midst tombs and epitaphs her banners wave,

Her dome reflects the meteors of the

grave: In Death, may genius that eulogium gain, Which living greatness labour'd for, in vain

Of Books, of Poems, would there be no end, If all that's written did as quickly vend;

But most are doom'd an early death to die,
Thrown to the rubbish of the days gone by.
Fine paper-type-and friends who write reviews,
May sometimes raise a but indifferent Muse;
Such fame, albe, awaits a sad reverse,
And serves no end, except to fill the purse;
Time, cruel Time, will tear the vellum cheat,
The chaff will dissipate, but leave the wheat.