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To add at least my humble meed of praise,
To names rever'd in Britain's brighter days;
To strip the poet of his false sublime,

(Then, Bowles, the Lord have mercy on thy rhyme!)
And shew that critics may at times appear
In praise too cold, in censure too severe;
I take my pen-when Folly met his eye,
Democritus would laugh—and so must I.*

Now to begin-nor distant need we roam, Kind fate hath sent us Fools enough at home; Our modern Poets, bounteous in th' extreme, Rhyme on, and make waste paper by the ream. Five thousand Lines compos'd-a modest stint! Next Westall must design, and Bulmer print: Then bound with care, and hot-press'd ev'ry sheet, The wonder-working Quarto shines complete! Behold a gaping crowd that never tire! See Busby,† worthy Son of such a Sire, (For truth must own, when all is said and done,

The Queen of Midas slept, and so may I." Pope. + Mr. George Frederick Busby, son of the renowned Doctor, notorious for publickly reciting his father's translation of Lucretius to the nobility and gentry, and playing the mountebank on a well-known occasion at Drury Lane. It has been announced that Master George is about to inflict upon the public a translation of the "Thebaid of Statius."

The Father's pertness centres in the Son :)
Straining with all his might 'gainst mood and tense,
To make the Doctor's fustian sound like sense.

He views the audience with theatric stare,
His hands with equal motion saw the air;
His voice in dulcet cadence taught to float,
Seems the shrill pipings of an eunuch's throat:
Assembled thus, our sapient nobles sit
To hear how Busby, not Lucretius, writ.
If now and then a sentiment exprest
In language more indecent than the rest,
Strike the attentive ear;-with fond regard,
A hundred hands are rais'd to clap the Bard:
The Marchioness adores the charming man,
Fitzherbert leers, and Jersey flirts her fan;
While doting Headfort, tickled to the core,
Starts up entranc'd, and ambles at threescore.

Vain Scribbler! and is this, this all thy aim, Art thou content with transitory fame; Fame, that shall haunt thee living, d―n thee dead? Thus dost thou feed our ears, thus art thou fed?

But what avails, if faithless to my trust, I hide (you cry) my talent in the dust? Why am I learn'd? Why-Stop this vaunting tone! Is learning nothing then, till fairly known?

But still (you quick rejoin) how sweet the sound To hear the murmur of applause go round,—

"That's He," (the finger pointed all the while)— "Renown'd for wit and elegance of style; Whom Critic Mawman* puffs, whose senseless whine

Boeotian Buchan† quotes, and calls divine.”

Come, Phillips, come, for eloquence hath pow'r, Gale Jones his tub shall lend thee for an hour! Whether thou warble in inflated style, King Brian's glories in the "Emerald Isle ;"

Mr. Mawman (" His mind unletter'd, though he dealt in Books!") is suspected of dabbling in the "Critical Review."

+ The Earl of Buchan received Doctor Busby's proposals "with a refined frankness."

A certain King of Ireland, one Brian Borhoime, whom Counsellor Phillips describes as a very dove-like, choleric old gentleman:

"Look on Brian's verdant grave-
Brian-the glory and grace of his age;

Brian-the shield of the Emerald Isle ;
The Lion incens'd was a lamb to his rage!!
The Dove was an Eagle compar'd to his smile!!!
Tribute on enemies! hater of war!!

Wide-flaming sword of the warrior throng!!!

Liberty's beacon! religion's bright star!!
Soul of the Seneacha!! Light of the Song!!

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Or "Ireland's hope and England's glory"* praise
In fulsome prose, more fulsome than thy Lays,
With strong mercurial pow'r, which all must dread,
Thy touch turns gold and silver into lead.
Lo, at thy name what hosts of Dunces rise!
Dulness awakes, and rubs her drowsy eyes,
With sleepy haste the poppy wreath prepares,
To crown her fav'rite bard-while wisdom stares !
Next, to complete thy triumph, even now,
The cap of liberty shall grace thy brow;
It speaks thy prowess, and thy functions tells,
Almost as truly as the Cap and Bells!

Stark metre-mad, the lovesick Edwin sends Of jingling splay foot verse, some odds and ends To driv❜lling Asperne,† in whose magazine

In April, 1812, Counsellor Phillips dedicated (by permission) "The Emerald Isle," to the Prince Regent, whom he designates "Ireland's Hope and England's Ornament.” Mr. Phillips, in 1815, imputes to his royal patron enormities that "he cannot speak of without danger, because, thank God (?) he cannot think of them without indignation."

+ Doctor Johnson once remarked that an interesting book might be written on the fortunes of Physicians—And why not on that of Booksellers? In illustration, I subjoin the following" Ode," entitled

THOMAS TIBBS.

Thomas Tibbs demands my song,

Thomas lean, and Thomas long!

Th' invet'rate sons of dulness vent their spleen;
Proud of the gift so graciously bestow'd,

On a queer, eccentric plan,
Thomas Tibbs (facetious Man!)
Open'd once a shop of mirth,
Where laughter had its pennyworth.
Transplanted to the ward of Cheap,
Books, a miscellaneous heap,

Prose and verse of authors damn'd,
His window deck'd, his counter cramm'd;
Condemn'd a weary watch to keep,
Though letter'd, gilt, and bound in sheep!-
Hark! the weeping Muses cry-

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'Spare thy types, Tom, or we die

Keep, O keep thy distance from us,

Tibbs-whose christian name is Thomas!

Be our lines too long or short;
Thomas makes us suffer for't-
In a typographic whim,
Strains a joint, or lops a limb-
Not Procrustes' torturing bed
Fills our souls with deeper dread !”-

Next, mounted on his rostrum high,
With open mouth, and eager eye,
Uplifted hammer, treble clear,
See Tom transform'd to auctioneer!
Haranguing loud his motley flock
Of Prentice boys at seven o'clock.
To gallop on to fame the faster,
Tom dubs himself of Arts a Master!
And prints a volume smart and trim,
Instructing men and boys to swim.
Although 'tis pretty certain when

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