XIX. And now on that mountain I stood on that day, HEROD'S LAMENT FOR MARIAMNE. But I mark'd not the twilight-beam melting OH, Mariamne! now for thee The heart for which thou bled'st is bleeding; Revenge is lost in agony, And wild remorse to rage succeeding. Oh, Mariamne! where art thou? Thou canst not hear my bitter pleading: Ah, couldst thou-thou wouldst pardon now, Though Heaven were to my prayer unheeding. And is she dead?—and did they dare But thou art cold, my murder'd love! And leaves my soul unworthy saving. She's gone, who shared my diadem; She sunk, with her my joys entombing; I swept that flower from Judah's stem Whose leaves for me alone were blooming; And mine's the guilt, and mine the hell, This bosom's desolation dooming; And I have earn'd those tortures well, Which unconsumed are still consuming! XX. ON THE DAY OF THE DESTRUCTION OF JERUSALEM BY TITUS. FROM the last hill that looks on thy once holy dome I beheld thee, oh SION! when render'd to Rome: 'Twas thy last sun went down, and the flames of thy fall Flash'd back on the last glance I gave to thy wall. I look'd for thy temple, I look'd for my home, And forgot for a moment my bondage tocome; I beheld but the death-fire that fed on thy fane, And the fast-fetter'd hands that made vengeance in vain. On many an eve, the high spot whence I gazed Had reflected the last beam of day as it blazed; While I stood on the height, and beheld the decline from the mountain that shone on thy shrine. away; Oh! would that the lightning had glared in its stead, And the thunderbolt burst on the conqueror's head! But the Gods of the Pagan shall never profane The shrine where Jehovah disdain'd not to reign; And scatter'd and scorn'd as thy people may be, Our worship, oh Father! is only for thee. XXI. We sat down and wept by the waters Were scatter'd all weeping away. While sadly we gazed on the river Which roll'd on in freedom below, They demanded the song; but, oh never That triumph the stranger shall know! May this right hand be wither'd for ever, Ere it string our high harp for the foe! On the willow that harp is suspended, Oh Salem! its sound should be free; And the hour when thy glories were ended, But left me that token of thee: And ne'er shall its soft tones be blended With the voice of the spoiler by me! For the Angel of Death spread his wings | And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd; And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still! And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride: And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. And there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail; And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord! XXIII. FROM JOB. A SPIRIT pass'd before me: I beheld And there it stood,—all formless but divine: "Is man more just than God? Is man more pure Than he who deems even Seraphs insecure! Creatures of clay-vain dwellers in the dust The moth survives you,and are ye more just! Things of a day! you wither ere the night, Heedless and blind to Wisdom's wasted light!" The triumph, and the vanity, The rapture of the strife The earthquake-shout of Victory, The sword, the sceptre, and that sway All quell'd!— Dark Spirit! what must be The Desolator desolate! The Victor overthrown! The Arbiter of others' fate A Suppliant for his own! Is it some yet imperial hope That with such change can calmly scope? 1 Or dread of death alone? To die a prince-or live a slave- He who of old would rend the oak, And darker fate hast found: The Roman, when his burning heart The Spaniard, when the lust of sway A strict accountant of his beads, But thou-from thy reluctant hand The thunderbolt is wrung- To see thine own unstrung; And Earth hath spilt her blood for him, Fair Freedom! we may hold thee dear, In humblest guise have shown. If thou hadst died as honour dies, Weigh'd in the balance, hero-dust Nor deem'd contempt could thus make mirth And She, proud Austria's mournful flower, How bears her breast the torturing hour? Thou throneless Homicide? If still she loves thee, hoard that gem, Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle, What thoughts will there be thine, Life will not long confine Or like the thief of fire from heaven, | And, if a mortal, had as proudly died! PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. ALL my friends, learned and unlearned, have urged me not to publish this Satire with my name. If I were to be "turn'd from the career of my humour by quibbles quick, and paper-bullets of the brain," I should have complied with their counsel. But I am not to be terrified by abuse, or bullied by reviewers, with or without arms. I can safely say that I have attacked none personally who did not commence on the offensive. An author's works are public property: he who purchases may judge, and publish his opinion if he pleases; and the authors I have endeavoured to commemorate may do by me as I have done by them. I dare say they will succeed better in condemning my scribblings, than in mending their own. But my object is not to prove that I can write well, but, if possible, to make others write better. As the Poem has met with far more success than I expected, I have endeavoured in this edition to make some additions and alterations to render it more worthy of public perusal. In the first edition of this Satire, published anonymously, fourteen lines on the subject of Bowles's Pope were written and inserted at the request of an ingenious friend of mine, who has now in the press a volume of poetry. In the present edition they are erased, and some of my own substituted in their stead: my only reason for this being that which I conceive would operate with any other person in the same manner-a determination not to publish with my name any production which was not entirely and exclusively my own composition. With regard to the real talents of many of the poetical persons whose performances are mentioned or alluded to in the following pages, it is presumed by the author that there can be little difference of opinion in the public at large; though, like other sectaries, each has his separate tabernacle of proselytes, by whom his abilities are overrated, his faults overlooked, and his metrical canons received without scruple and without consideration. But the unquestionable possession of considerable ge nius by several of the writers here censured, renders their mental prostitution more to be regretted. Imbecility may be pitied, or, at worst, laughed at and forgotten; perverted powers demand the most decided reprehension. No one can wish more than the author, that some known and able wri ter had undertaken their exposure; but Mr. GIFFORD has devoted himself to Massinger, and, in the absence of the regular physician, a country-practitioner may, in cases of absolute necessity, be allowed to prescribe his nostrum, to prevent the extension of so deplorable an epidemic, provided there be no quackery in his treatment of the malady. A caustic is here offered, as it is to be feared nothing short of actual cautery can recover the numerons patients afflicted with the present prevalent and distressing rabies for rhyming. As to the Edinburgh Reviewers, it would, indeed, require a Hercules to crush the Hydra; but if the author succeeds in merely bruising one of the heads of the serpent," though his own hand should suffer in the encounter, he will be amply satisfied. STILL must I hear?-shall hoarse FITZ-|The cry is up, and Scribblers are my games GERALD bawl Speed, Pegasus!-ye strains of great and small, His creaking couplets in a tavern-hall, Prepare for rhyme-I'll publish, right or Fools are my theme, let Satire be my song. I too can scrawl, and once upon a time I printed—older children do the same. Oh! Nature's noblest gift-my gray goose-Not that a title's sounding charm can save quill! Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave: name Fail'd to preserve the spurious farce from shame. No matter, GEORGE continues still to write, Tho' now the name is veil'd from public sight. Moved by the great example, I pursue Not seek great JEFFREY's - yet, like him, A man must serve his time to every trade, With just enough of learning to misquote, And shall we own such judgment? no as soon Seek roses in December, ice in June; head. To these young tyrants, by themselves misplaced, Combined usurpers on the throne of Taste; To these, when authors bend in humble awe, And hail their voice as truth, their word as law; While these are censors, 'twould be sin to spare; Such is the force of Wit! but not belong To me the arrows of satiric song ; The royal vices of our age demand A keener weapon, and a mightier hand. Still there are follies e'en for me to chase, And yield at least amusement in the race: Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame-While such are critics, why should I forbear? |