For "VG-,* that soporific stuff,

How raged the quack'ry of the rascal puff!—

Some household slanders, cull'd from kitchen spies, A rich collection of malicious lies,

Gentility's soft slang, pretension's fine

To Fashion's creed-from mustard-pot to wineWith thund'ring names of big-nosed German asses, Roaring and ramping round their monstrous glasses— What then?-audacious puffery made it pay,

And misses squeak'd out, "charming V▬▬▬▬ G▬▬ !”

Noticula Quædum.

* Another of the running works. However, it certainly did show gleams of mind far beyond “A—'s,” notwithstanding a certain "monthly" prostituted its applause to serve the latter.

But, must I rummage, from our rank book-pile,

All that is dull or dirty, vain or vile?

Expose the offspring of each muddled brain,

And bid the stifled lumber breathe again?

To name it all would tire the muse to death,
And force poor Pegasus to gasp for breath!
A few more books,-and let their brothers lie
In the fond arms of safe obscurity.

First, low "H-h L-e,” a prurient owlish lot, Doom'd on the dusty shelves to waste and rot,— “The G——s,” a still more vulgar vapid thing, Although the wet leaves went to charm the king! "The A-rs" next, a mean, calumnious store, More pert and puppyish than the dregs before,

And tales so national, that none would sell,

While wights o'er unbought copies raised a yell.
With's lustful heap of green-room lies,

-'s and -'s, and all the play-hound spies

Who haunt society to do and dare,

And publish every filthy folly there.

And thou, lamented bard! whose boundless mind.

Soar'd in its eagle strength above mankind,

Whose genius rais'd thee to that glorious seat,

Where Wonder crouch'd admiring at thy feet,
Who did not sorrow o'er that mournful doom
That wreath'd thy laurels round an early tomb?
Oh! all who could forget-forgive—admire—

All who e'er listen'd to that matchless lyre,

Upon whose strings Enchantment trembling stood,

In meek obedience to the poet's mood,

With unaffected sorrow mark'd thy bier,

And blotted Passion's fault with Pity's tear.

Yet one there was, of Treason's rebel crew,
Coxcombic, vain, and avaricious too,

Who froth'd his reptile poison on thy name,
To fill his pocket, and to puff his fame!—
Yes! he who by thy bounty daily fed,
Betray'd thee living, and befoul'd thee dead!

O! worthy sample of the marching mind,

Doom'd to delight and elevate mankind ;

Though damn'd before, now damn'd with double rage,

At once the hate and humbug of the age!

E 5

Of puff-raised poets, who shall count the swarms

In bowers of love, or war's sublime alarms?

One-one alone, of the Parnassian throng,

Like a poor pedlar plods his way along;

Pleas'd when he fly-blows every envied rhyme,
The paragraphic scarecrow of the time!

What, though his linsey-woolsey, wire-drawn line,
Like a stuck pig, pours forth tremendous whine,—

His plaintive drivel but relieves a heart,

Made up of every cold and jealous art;
Beloved by none, he crawls his reptile way,
Stabs where he can, and slanders for his pay,-
Without one gen'rous thought his soul to fire,

The meanest cur that ever struck the lyre.