Time was, ere yet in these degenerate days 
 Ignoble themes obtain'd mistaken praise, 
 When sense and wit with poesy allied, 
 No fabl'd graces, flourish'd side by side; 
 From the same fount their inspiration drew, 
 And, rear'd by taste, bloom'd fairer as they grew. 
 Then, in this happy isle, a Pope's pure strain 
 Sought the rapt soul to charm, nor sought in vain; 
 A polish'd nation's praise aspir'd to claim, 
 And rais'd the people's, as the poet's fame. 
 Like him great Dryden pour'd the tide of song, 
 In stream less smooth, indeed, yet doubly strong. 
 Then Congreve's scenes could cheer, or Otway's melt-- 
 For nature then an English audience felt. 
 But why these names, or greater still, retrace, 
 When all to feebler bards resign their place? 
 Yet to such times our lingering looks are cast, 
 When taste and reason with those times are past. 
 Now look around, and turn each trifling page, 
 Survey the precious works that please the age; 
 This truth at least let satire's self allow, 
 No dearth of bards can be complain'd of now. 
 The loaded press beneath her labour groans, 
 And printers' devils shake their weary bones; 
 While Southey's epics cram the creaking shelves, 
 And Little's lyrics shine in hot-press'd twelves. 
 Thus saith the Preacher: "Nought beneath the sun 
 Is new"; yet still from change to change we run: 
 What varied wonders tempt us as they pass! 
 The cow-pox, tractors, galvanism and gas, 
 In turns appear, to make the vulgar stare, 
 Till the swoln bubble bursts--and all is air! 
 Nor less new schools of Poetry arise, 
 Where dull pretenders grapple for the prize: 
 O'er taste awhile these pseudo-bards prevail; 
 Each country book-club bows the knee to Baal, 
 And, hurling lawful genius from the throne, 
 Erects a shrine and idol of its own; 
 Some leaden calf--but whom it matters not, 
 From soaring Southey down to grovelling Stott. 

 Behold! in various throngs the scribbling crew, 
 For notice eager, pass in long review: 
 Each spurs his jaded Pegasus apace, 
 And rhyme and blank maintain an equal race; 
 Sonnets on sonnets crowd, and ode on ode; 
 And tales of terror jostle on the road; 
 Immeasurable measures move along; 
 For simpering folly loves a varied song, 
 To strange mysterious dulness still the friend, 
 Admires the strain she cannot comprehend. 
 Thus Lays of Minstrels--may they be the last!-- 
 On half-strung harps whine mournful to the blast. 
 While mountain spirits prate to river sprites, 
 That dames may listen to the sound at nights; 
 And goblin brats, of Gilpin Horner's brood, 
 Decoy young border-nobles through the wood, 
 And skip at every step, Lord knows how high, 
 And frighten foolish babes, the Lord knows why; 
 While high-born ladies in their magic cell, 
 Forbidding knights to read who cannot spell, 
 Despatch a courier to a wizard's grave, 
 And fight with honest men to shield a knave. 

 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 prepar'd to grace; 
 A mighty mixture of the great and base. 
 And think'st thou, Scott! by vain conceit perchance, 
 On public taste to foist thy stale romance, 
 Though Murray with his Miller may combine 
 To yield thy muse just half-a-crown per line? 
 No! when the sons of song descend to trade, 
 Their bays are sear, their former laurels fade. 
 Let such forego the poet's sacred name, 
 Who rack their brains for lucre, not for fame: 
 Still for stern Mammon may they toil in vain! 
 And sadly gaze on gold they cannot gain! 
 Such be their meed, such still the just reward 
 Of prostituted muse and hireling bard! 
 For this we spurn Apollo's venal son, 
 And bid a long "good night to Marmion." 

 These are the themes that claim our plaudits now; 
 These are the bards to whom the muse must bow; 
 While Milton, Dryden, Pope, alike forgot, 
 Resign their hallow'd bays to Walter Scott. 

 The time has been, when yet the muse was young, 
 When Homer swept the lyre, and Maro sung, 
 An epic scarce ten centuries could claim, 
 While awe-struck nations hail'd the magic name; 
 The work of each immortal bard appears 
 The single wonder of a thousand years. 
 Empires have moulder'd from the face of earth, 
 Tongues have expir'd with those who gave them birth, 
 Without the glory such a strain can give, 
 As even in ruin bids the language live. 
 Not so with us, though minor bards, content 
 On one great work a life of labour spent: 
 With eagle pinion soaring to the skies, 
 Behold the ballad-monger Southey rise! 
 To him let Camoëns, Milton, Tasso yield,