AN ENTOMOLOGICAL DREAM. 



135 



Had it been made by myself, and did I know, 

 Tbat I had captured each beautiful row! 

 The skill and the labour here may be seen 

 Of Bouchard, Weaver, and Foxcroft, I ween ; 

 A collection thus made, I must confess, 

 Would appear to me almost valueless. 

 But if it be said 'chacun a son gout," 

 "There's my collection, and what's it to 



you," 

 "How, or by whom it was made?" I would 



say ¥&*?: 1 



Nothing more than this — that surely I may 

 My opinion give, that in a dispute, 

 Those only with confidence should refute, 

 Whose assertions are based on facts they 



know, 

 And not on the hearsay of high or low. 



Mr. S d excuse this slight reproof, 



As "rustic," perhaps I should keep aloof; 

 Yet I can't but say to me it seems plain 

 That we "rustics" more experience can gain 

 In the wood, the field, and the breezy down, 

 Than you in the fog and smoke of a town. 

 Scarce had this shade vanished into thin 



air, 

 Scarce had I recovered his angry stare, 

 Than one, with a free jaunty look skipp'd by 

 So fast, that he well nigh escaped my eye. 

 Though so quickly lost in the distant haze, 

 I saw quite enough to attract my gaze; 

 I saw it was one who stands very high 

 In "Microlepidopterology !" 

 I'm an "incipient", in poetic fire, 

 I've never before struck the Muses' lyre; 

 So pardon this word of syllables nine, 

 Which makes such a very convenient line. 

 And now, reader, lend an attentive ear, 

 ('Tis but a shade — you may gaze without 



fear,) 

 While I endeavour, though with powers faint, 



Great S n's characteristics to paint. 



He's author, critic, reviewer, — yet know 

 Still ambitious feelings within him glow. 

 Though in some respects he ranks very high, 

 Yet that rank he beholds with scornful eye; 

 With gait erect, with his head in the skies, 

 This line to himself he often applies, 

 (And, though charged with presumption, 



he'll brave it,) 

 ''Nihil tetegit, quod non ornavit." 

 So superior he feels to all around, 

 That in common justice he feels he 's bound 

 To say so: and should any luckless wight 

 Presume ,to confront so brilliant a light 



His irate pen composes a "leader" 

 To soothe himself, and amuse his reader. 

 Or seated high in the critical chair, 

 Abusive epithets darken the air; 

 "Demented," "absurd," and "nonsense," 



are terms 

 Which he freely bestows on such poor worms 

 As Guenee and Westwood: unhappy pair! 

 How did ye this critic tempt from his lair ? 

 "Unscrupulous" authors, who write but 



"trash," 

 To make an Entomological hash, 

 Who "from previous authors copy wholesale:" 

 Such charges indeed make a mournful tale ! 

 But review him, expose Mi great mistakes, 

 And an ominous growl the silence breaks. 

 Oh! be wise, be still, or you'll surely rue 

 (See "Substitute" second — pages one, two,) 

 The hour, in which you the liberty took 

 To hint 'that there might be faults in his 



book. 

 And yet, at times he can pleasantly write; 

 When "up in his subject," he throws much 



light 

 On knotty details, reveals hidden things 

 Touching Microlepidopterous wings. 

 With a fluent pen he can tell us how 

 He took his journey from Ghent to Glogau; 

 But in sober truth we owe him real thanks 

 For having filled up so many sad blanks, 

 Which, up to his time had stifled the zeal 

 Of many a tyro, and made him feel 

 That while on ignoronce' wave he was tost, 

 His time and his toil were "love's labour 



lost." 

 But now, thanks to him, we can boast I'm 



sure, 

 An Entomological literature. 

 The "Intelligencer," and "Annual," 

 The "Substitute," also the "Manual," 

 Are the goodly fruits of his teeming brain, 

 And may plead his excuse for being vain. 

 Then take a sincere admirer's advice; 

 Bemove from your writings that bitter spice 

 Of taunt and sarcasm, and rest assured 

 More readers will to your works be allur'd. 

 Next followed a crowd, whose well-deserv'd 



fame, 

 A more gifted pen than mine must proclaim. 

 One name more and my pleasant task is done, 

 An undying garland I shall have won. 

 'T would ill become me to say very much 

 Of the man who grasped with delighted 



clutch, 



