570 Caution to Poets. 



He relish'd their flavour, o'erwhelm'd me with praise, 



He finally offer'd to father my lays, 



And begg'd to become the affectionate sire 



Of all the young odes to be born of my lyre. 



He said that, as I was a stranger to fame, 



If I 'd lend him my stanzas he 'd lend me his name. 



But now that he sits in their glory enthroned, 

 I may safely reclaim all the songs that he own'd: 

 And, unless with my fame he intends to elope, 

 I request he'll restore me my "Pleasures of Hope." 

 " Hohenlinden," " Lochiel," I lent him and these 

 I '11 thank him to send by return of the breeze. 

 My " Gertrude" the spirit yet hangs on her tone 

 I implored him to rear her like one of his own. 

 'Twill surely afflict him, for parting is hard ; 

 He must feel like the fossil remains of a bard ! 

 To forsake the " Last Man," by adoption his son, 

 And write a new ode to the last man but one ! 



The world for a season much agony felt 



To know where the author of " Waverley" dwelt ; 



Some said that the three- volumed mysteries flew 



From the moon's farthest corner some said that they grew. 



Scott own'd them at last but that proves not the sinner ; 



Ten thousand stout " noes" to one " yes" after dinner ! 



Then Coleridge mankind has been led to believe 



That he wrote the ballad about " Genevieve." 



There's Wordsworth again; I shall want the " White Doe" 



That I left in his library some years ago. 



And Southey before he drinks deep of his sack, 



I trust he will send me " Don Roderick" back. 



While Moore, as I 've left him his laurel so long, 



Will surely resign all pretensions to song. 



Those f< Melodies" once re-enshrined on my shelf, 



The " Loves of the Angels" I '11 leave to himself. 



You imagine that Milman can soar on a wing 

 That Hemans and Landon can sparkle and sing- 

 That Crabbe a satiric excursion can take, 

 And Rogers write smooth the thing 's all a mistake ! 

 Alas ! at Parnassus those names are unheard ; 

 They boast many beauties but wrote not a word. 

 The pilfer'd Promethean flame, that has burn'd 

 So brightly within them, must soon bereturn'd. 

 How many there are, now accounted divine, 

 Who, like poor Cinderella, will cease to be fine ! 

 How many, now passing for wonders and wizards, 

 Whose coaches are pumpkins, whose lacqueys are lizards ! 



