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Round him, with lightning haste, the Serpent wound,
Coil after coil its length, with strangling might;
But, unsubdued, the Panther, turning round,
The yielding texture of his throat did bite;
And, slowly disentangling, to the ground
Fold after fold he fell, exhausted quite;
Living, but lingering ever near Death's portal,
For men have seen-will see-the bite is mortal.


Then, in the forest, save the Panther, none

Durst walk, or cower'd before his steps of beauty; For beast and bird he ruled o'er every one,.

Conducting them, or forcing to their duty;

Many in love were to his empire won,

And those who question'd his proud strength were mute; ye Who yet at distance hide your heads, and bay,

Death is your doom, and on no distant day.


This is an allegory; if we chose,

We could decipher it with perfect ease;
Some will see through it clearly; but to those,
Who stupidly suppose the moon green cheese,
For half a minute, by the ear or nose

We'll hold them, and explain it-if they please;
For, as a bard, we think the practice eligible,
Even on minutest points to be intelligible.


Imprimis then, the wily Serpent strong,

Means nothing but the Edinburgh Review,
Which scatter'd venom through the nation long,
Striving Religion's gold links to undo;
Doing to Liberty and Reason wrong,

Praising the rabble herd, and scoffing crew;
And, in the days of danger, doubt, and death,
Darkening, with borrow'd shade, our nation's path.


Now for the Panther ;-what was it, you say?
Why nought but this, the peerless Magazine,
Which scatter'd, like a wind, these doubts away,
And cloudless left old Britain's sun to shine
O'er realms where Freedom holds perennial sway,
Where man is brave, and woman half divine.
Back to your dens, ye prowlers of the night,
Salve o'er your festering sores, and shun the light!


For nobly hath the victory been won,

And proudly hath our country's blood been shed;
And History will tell, from sire to son,

The tale of those, who triumph'd, or who bled:-
Where now on earth its match or rival ?-None!
Shame to ye, then, base hearts, ignobly wed
To the low thought of noble Britain thrust
From her high throne, and trampled in the dust.


Wherein, ye Sophists, can stability,

Can fixedness of power on earth be found,
Save in the land of moral Liberty,

Save in the land with true Religion crown'd;
Where heart and hand, with an eternal tie,
Are to these rights as to an anchor bound;
Yea! who esteem it no debasing thing
To worship God, aud venerate their King.


Then rant ye on, ye restless demagogues,

Cobbetts, and Cartwrights, Woolers, Hunts, and Hones, In concert chaunt, ye music-marring frogs,

With your compatriots, Preston and Gale Jones;

Throw right and law like physic to the dogs,

Worship Tom Paine, and hawk about his bones;
To gain your purpose every sinew strain,
And bring us jovial Chaos back again!


England! indeed it is a fearful time,

And dark unhallow'd spirits are abroad; Thee to engulph in misery and crime,

With shackles of deep guilt thy hands to load!— Say, art not thou the land, where the sublime

Milton did live, the land which Shakespeare trod ? And, so incurable is thy disease,

That thou must yield to miscreants such as these?


That thou must yield to miscreants, void of all
Honour, and moral faith, and hope divine!→→
Stoop but to these, and dread no farther fall;
The unfathom'd gulph of guilt will then be thine.
Shame to thee, Byron, that, in mental thrall,

With such as these thy spirit can combine ;-
Oh woeful plight! that thy resplendent name,
Born for thy country's boast, should prove her shame!!


For thou wert form'd to soar, and not to sink;

To picture all of wonderful and rare ;

Quaff purest crystal at Castalia's brink;

Gaze on creation's charms, and paint them fair. But strong and untamed passion bade thee shrink From summer suns, and to the dark repair, Where Night sits dismal on her throne of storms, And spectres flit around, and beckoning forms.


For fiery, fearless, passionate wert thou,

Giving thy heart and soul to pleasant dreaming; And musing on the sunlight, when heaven's brow

Was dark with thunder clouds, and torrents streaming;

Then did'st thou turn disgusted, and avow

That thou wert fall'n-wert lost beyond redeeming,

And, that thy star, by clouds so dark to view,

Was compass'd, that no ray could twinkle through.


Thy mind was form'd to seek the beau-ideal;
Was form'd for beauty, love, and admiration;
Hoped earth was paradise, and found the real,
Grief, anguish, pain, and baffled expectation;
'Twas thine the miserable fate, to see all

Thy youthful prospects end in deep vexation ;
Doubt then within thy bosom found receptacle;
A downright Whig, upon all subjects sceptical.


Enough-enough-we will change at once our theme.-
Reader, we give you fatherly monition ;-
The weather now is raw; and we don't deem
That being colded is a safe condition

For either man or horse. We do esteem
(List to our words, we hate all repetition,)
For coughs and colds, that bathing of the feet,
And water-gruel, is prescription meet.


If 'tis severer, lose a little blood;

(Vide the axiom of Hippocrates.)

'Tis curious, that the men before the Flood, (Antediluvians,) little knew disease;

If they were form'd of clay, we are surely mud,

For through death's pop-gun we are shot like pease;

In spite of ready nostrums vended daily,

Men are shut up in death-or the Old Bailey.


Readers! in other words, Society!

Time passeth on, and never cometh back; Know then, if clouds o'erhang the mental sky, Or if the natural sky with clouds be black, Your remedy doth at your elbow lie,

Open the page of Maga, be not slack, And, in a jiffy, Care's low clouds will run, Like morning mists before the rising sun.


We are not too much given to partiality,

And yet we say, (yes! all the world may hear us,)

We think our Magazine, in grave reality,

The best the world e'er witness'd, none come near us;

Whether in wisdom, wit, conviviality,

Learning, or humour, Britain cannot peer us;

So says America, and Hindostan

Reads none but North-he is their only man.


Oh! for a draught of genuine inspiration,

That I, in fitting strains, might chaunt thy praise, Thou peerless Magazine, and bid the nation

A monumental pillar to thee raise,

(Something resembling Melville's in elevation, Which now gigantic o'er the New Town sways Where is the man refuse to build that stack would? (Subscriptions may be left with Mr Blackwood.)


Look but to any other periodical,

What are the most of them but spoonies shallow,
Toiling for fame with pains the most methodical,
Still in the mire of impotence they wallow;
We have tried it oft, nor do we deem it odd at all,
That they our cast-off papers gladly swallow;
Without a change in verb, or noun, or particle,
We have seen such printed for a leading article.


There is the Monthly frothing o'er, and swelling,
With the bombast of Sir Pythagoras,

The knight who thinks his cabbage leaves excelling
Roast beef, and glorious Newton a mere ass ;
Within his leaves the eye is ever dwelling,
(We wonder that such stuff can ever pass !)
On notes from Constant Readers, ditties soft,
Stuff algebraical, and Capel Lofft.


Then the New Monthly in its pomp appears,


But weak, weak, weak-the thing will never do ;— Essay on Hats," and " Chapter on Long Ears,” "Sonnets, ," "The State of Learning in Peru," "Verses on Seeing a Lady Bathed in Tears;"

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Oh, gentle Campbell ! what a thick-skull'd crew Art thou combined with !-it must surely grieve, To have such ninnies pinn'd upon your sleeve.


For thine is noble verse, and purest thought,

And taste that seldom errs; thy glowing muse From the bright rainbow has her colours caught; And into life's recesses can infuse

A soft romantic tinge, with beauty fraught;

And Nature, on thy page, is bright with dews Of earliest morning, while the hills and streams Seem what bewitch'd us in our youthful dreams.


Enough of this: then, monthly hobbling out,
Comes, propt on staff, our ancient friend Sylvanus
Urban; we swear that only dread of gout,
Worthy old fellow, doth at home detain us
From paying thee a visit; though, no doubt,

Hobbing and nobbing much, do yet remain us ;-
Long may'st thou, rare one, meet the public view,
With ruffles starch'd, toupee, and powder'd queue ;


For thou art sound and healthy at the core,
And England's pure blood circles in thy veins;
Thou turn'st a deaf ear to the rabble roar,

And faith and loyalty with thee remains;

Though not profound, thou hast good sense, and more Than such as bring forth mice from mountain pains ;Keep yourself warm,-for sure you can't be reckon'd Young, who wert born in reign of George the Second.


Then there's thy jumbled stew of goodish, baddish,
Taylor and Hessy, monthly boiling up ;
The Lion's toothless; Elia looketh saddish,

Like an old spinster o'er her seventh cup ;-
Poor Leigh, whom Izzard physick'd with horse-radish,
And Bill, on lettuces who loves to sup,

Join with John Clare, and Janus, apt to stutter,
So Bentham says, his mouth's so full of butter.


Well, let them fume away, and let them pass
Onward, and downward, to oblivion's shades,
Quick as the phantom shapes of Banquo's glass,-
Of modern literature the true Jack Cades;
Though pert and beauish-like they be, alas!

Precise, and pinion'd, like a Knave of Spades-
With laughter horse-like, and with goose-quills nimble—
Each head is empty as a tinkling cymbal.


Go to the deuce all others !-but the day

Shall come not forget thee, Maggie Scott, Although in anger thou hast thrown away Thy blue, and ta'en a grass-green petticoat; Decent old woman!-lovely in decay

Art thou;-though toothless, we forget thee not; We loved thee in our youth, and ne'er another Shall steal our hearts from thee, good grandmother.


Yet we must own (sub rosa) that a nap

We sometimes take amid thy prosing stories; With palsied head, that shakes beneath its cap, Thou tell'st us of thy youth, and youthful glories,— How many gallant hearts thou did'st entrap, And how they all did rant and write in chorus Forbid it, goodness, that we stain our page With hits against the infirmities of age!


Who would find fault with garrulous old age?-
It is a thing to nature's failing common;
On thee let no harsh critic vent his rage,-
The action would be wanton and inhuman;
Although (we speak aside upon the stage)
We doubt you much resemble Duffle's woman-
The weak, weak woman, wearyful, who spoke
All night and day, as regular as a clock;


Who gabb'd, and gazed, and clatter'd without end,
Though in the intellects as weak as water;
Good-natured, but to common sense no friend,

Making of words interminable slaughter:

Oh! Maggie, do not so our ear-drums rend,

You'll deave us all, each mother's son and daughter;

The boon is vain, she vows to table down

More stuff, if folks would proffer half-a-crown.

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