English bards, and Scotch reviewers; a satire

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Seite 65 - So the struck eagle, stretched upon the plain, No more through rolling clouds to soar again, Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart, And winged the shaft that quivered in his heart ; Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel He nursed the pinion which impelled the steel ; While the same plumage that had warmed his nest Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast.
Seite 65 - Tis true that all who rhyme — nay, all who write — Shrink from that fatal word to genius — trite ; Yet Truth sometimes will lend her noblest fires, And decorate the verse herself inspires : This fact in Virtue's name let Crabbe attest ; Though nature's sternest painter, yet the best.
Seite 21 - And each adventure so sublimely tells, That all who view the 'idiot in his glory' Conceive the Bard the hero of the story. Shall gentle COLERIDGE pass unnoticed here, To turgid ode and tumid stanza dear? Though themes of innocence amuse him best, Yet still Obscurity's a welcome guest. If Inspiration should her aid refuse To him who takes a Pixy for a muse...
Seite 64 - White ! f while life was in its spring, And thy young Muse just waved her joyous wing, The spoiler came, and all thy promise fair Has sought the grave, to sleep for ever there. Oh ! what a noble heart was here undone, When Science self destroy'd her favourite son.
Seite 13 - Next view in state, proud prancing on his roan, The golden-crested haughty Marmion, Now forging scrolls, now foremost in the fight, Not quite a felon, yet but half a knight, The gibbet or the field prepared to grace ; A mighty mixture of the great and base.
Seite 20 - ... shows That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose ; Convincing all, by demonstration plain, Poetic souls delight in prose insane ; And Christmas stories tortured into rhyme Contain the essence of the true sublime. Thus, when he tells the tale of Betty Foy, The idiot mother of
Seite 6 - twill pass for wit; Care not for feeling — pass your proper jest, And stand a Critic hated yet caressed. And shall we own such .judgment? no— as soon Seek roses in December — ice in June; Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff, Believe a woman, or an epitaph, Or any other thing that's false before You trust in Critics...
Seite 6 - Take hackney'd jokes from MILLER, got by rote, With just enough of learning to misquote , A mind well skill'd to find or forge a fault ; A turn for punning, call it Attic salt ; To JEFFREY go, be silent and discreet, His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet : 70 Fear not to lie, 'twill seem a lucky hit; Shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill pass for wit ; Care not for feeling — pass your proper jest, And stand a critic, hated yet caress'd.
Seite 19 - Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books; Or surely you'll grow double: Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks. Why all this toil and trouble?
Seite 17 - Domdaniel's dread destroyer, who o'erthrew More mad magicians than the world e'er knew. Immortal hero! all thy foes o'ercome. For ever reign— the rival of Tom Thumb!

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