FRANCIS JEFFREY, ESQUIRE,
LORD RECTOR OF THE UNIVERSITY OF GLASGOW,
LATE ONE OF THE PRESIDENTS OF THE SPECULATIVE,
AND EDITOR OF THE EDINBURGH REVIEW,
&c., &c., &c.,
YOUR days, Mr Jeffrey, how gaily they sped,
When the Prosers were with you, whatever you said,
Taunting Burke with your eloquence, Swift with your jest,
While the chorus was Constable's chink in your chest!
But opinions stride on, while things linger behind-
What of old pass'd for thunder, now weighs but as wind;
you, a great man as could possibly be,
Stand diminish'd to modest dimensions by ME.
I am sure, like one waked from a dream, you look back
To the days when you hoisted your flag of attack;
When against THE OLD FORTRESS you open'd your trenches,
With a jig, as the mode of your masters the French is;
While one PRIEST whistled on with the note of Voltaire,
And the smile of another recalled D'Alembert,
And you seemed A Great Man as could possibly be,
-Never dreaming of damnable dampers from ME.
You all seem'd so giddy, so gamesome, so gay,
Paine and Hell shouted" Go it, we're sure of the day."-
Such a confident crowing contemptuous air,
Fill'd the hearts of a thousand good fools with despair;
While there wanted not some of our old pluckless tories,
Who like spoonies would fawn and talk big of your glories,
Calling you a great Man as could possibly be ;-
-Lacking heart even to hope for a hero like ME.
How the fine yellow's dimm'd in its delicate hue!
a stain has been stamp'd on the beautiful blue!
How each frolicsome face that enliven'd Craig-Crook
Has been changed for a down-looking, dumpish, sour look!
O the heart that of old could like quick-silver bound,
How it sinks! I am sure it weighs more than a pound!
O the biggest small Man that could possibly be,
How he casts up his whites when he thinks