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Lady Blueb. Come, a truce with all tartness; -the joy of my heart

Ink. Why I thought-that's to say-there Is to see Nature's triumph o'er all that is art. had pass'd Wild Nature !-Grand Shakspeare ! A few green-room whispers, which hinted,-you Both. That the taste of the actors at best is so-so. Both. Sir, the green-room's in rapture, and so's the Committee.

['pity Ink. Ay-yours are the plays for exciting our And fear,' as the Greek says: for 'purging the mind,'

I doubt if you'll leave us an equal behind. Both. I have written the prologue, and meant to have pray'd

For a spice of your wit in an epilogue's aid. Ink. Well, time enough yet, when the play's to be play'd.

Is it cast yet?

Both.

The actors are fighting for parts, As is usual in that most litigious of arts. Lady Blueb. We'll all make a party, and go the first night.

Tra. And you promised the epilogue, Inkel. Ink. Not quite. However, to save my friend Botherby trouble, I'll do what I can, though my pains must be double.

Tra. Why so?

Ink. To do justice to what goes before. Both. Sir, I'm happy to say, I've no fears on that score.

Your parts, Mr Inkel, are-

Ink. Never mind mine; Stick to those of your play, which is quite your own line.

Lady Bluem. You're a fugitive writer, I think, sir, of rhymes?

Ink. Yes, ma'am; and a fugitive reader sometimes.

On Wordswords, for instance, I seldom alight, Or on Mouthey, his friend, without taking to flight.

Lady Bluem. Sir, your taste is too common; but time and posterity

Will right these great men, and this age's severity Become its reproach.

Ink.

I've no sort of objection, So I'm not of the party to take the infection. Lady Blucb. Perhaps you have doubts that they ever will take?

[lake Ink. Not at all; on the contrary, those of the Have taken already, and still will continue To take-what they can, from a groat to a guinea,

Of pension or place;-but the subject's a bore.
Lady Bluem. Well, sir, the time's coming.
Ink.
Scamp! don't you feel sore?
What say you to this?
Scamp.
They have merit, I own;
Though their system's absurdity keeps it un-
known.
[lectures?

Ink. Then why not unearth it in one of your Scamp. It is only time past which comes under my strictures.

And down Aristotle !
Lady Bleum. Sir George* thinks exactly with
Lady Bluebottle:
[dear Bard,
And my Lord Seventy-four, + who protects our
And who gave him his place, has the greatest
regard

For the poet, who, singing of pedlars and asses,
Has found out the way to dispense with Parnas-
Tra. And you, Scamp!—
[sus.
Scamp. I needs must confess I'm embarrass'd.
Ink. Don't call upon Scamp, who's already

so harass'd

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This gentle emotion, so seldom our lot Upon earth. Give it way: 'tis an impulse which Our spirits from earth; the sublimest of gifts; For which poor Prometheus was chain'd to his mountain: [fountain;

'Tis the source of all sentiment-feeling's true 'Tis the Vision of Heaven upon Earth: 'tis the gas

[pass, Of the soul: 'tis the seizing of shades as they And making them substance; 'tis something divine![more wine?

Ink. Shall I help you, my friend, to a little Both. I thank you; not any more, sir, till I dine. [phrey § to-day? Ink. Apropos-Do you dine with Sir HumTra. I should think with Duke Humphrey was more in your way. [look Ink. It might be of yore; but we authors now To the Knight, as a landlord, much more than the Duke.

The truth is, each writer now quite at his ease is, And (except with his publisher) dines where he pleases.

But 'tis now nearly five, and I must to the Park. Tra. And I'll take a turn with you there till 'tis dark.

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CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE:

A ROMAUNT.

L'univers est une espèce de livre, dont on n'a lu que la première page quand on n'a vu que son pays. J'en ai feuilleté un assez grand nombre, que j'ai trouvé également mauvaises. Ĉet examen ne m'a point été infructueux. Je haïssais ma patrie. Toutes les impertinences des peuples divers, parmi lesquels j'ai vécu, m'ont réconcilié avec elle. Quand je n'aurais tiré d'autre bénéfice de mes voyages que celui-là, je n'en regretterais ni les frais ni les fatigues.'-LE COSMO

POLITE.

PREFACE TO THE FIRST AND SECOND CANTOS.

THE following poem was written, for the most part, amidst the scenes which it attempts to describe. It was begun in Albania; and the parts relative to Spain and Portugal were composed from the author's observations in those countries. Thus much it may be necessary to state for the correctness of the descriptions. The scenes attempted to be sketched are in Spain, Portugal, Epirus, Acarnania, and Greece. There, for the present, the poem stops: its reception will determine whether the author may venture to conduct his readers to the capital of the East, through Ionia and Phrygia: these two cantos are merely experimental.

A fictitious character is introduced for the sake of giving some connection to the piece; which, however, makes no pretensions to regularity. It has been suggested to me by friends, on whose opinions I set a high value, that in this fictitious character, Childe Harold,' I may incur the suspicion of having intended some real personage: this I beg leave, once for all, to disclaim— Harold is a child of imagination, for the purpose I have stated. In some very trivial particulars, and those merely local, there might be grounds for such a notion; but in the main points, I should hope, none whatever.

It is almost superfluous to mention that the appellation 'Childe,' as 'Childe Waters,' 'Childe Childers,' &c., is used as more consonant with the old structure of versification which I have adopted. The 'Good Night,' in the beginning of the first canto, was suggested by Lord Maxwell's Good Night,' in the Border Minstrelsy, edited by Mr Scott.

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With the different poems which have been published on Spanish subjects, there may be found some slight coincidence in the first part which treats of the Peninsula; but it can only be casual, as, with the exception of a few concluding stanzas, the whole of this poem was written in the Levant.

The stanza of Spenser, according to one of our most successful poets, admits of every variety. Dr Beattle makes the following observation :-'Not long ago, I began a poem in the style and stanza of Spenser, in which I propose to give full scope to my inclination, and be either droll or pathetic, descriptive or sentimental, tender or satirical, as the humour strikes me: for, if I mistake not, the measure which I have adopted admits equally of all these kinds of composition.' Strengthened in my opinion by such authority, and by the example of some in the highest order of Italian poets, I shall make no apology for attempts at similar variations in the following composition; satisfied that, if they are unsuccessful, their failure must be in the execution rather than in the design, sanctioned by the practice of Ariosto, Thomson, and Beattie. LONDON, February 1812.

ADDITION TO THE PREFACE.

I HAVE now waited till almost all our periodical journals have distributed their usual portion of criticism. To the justice of the generality of their criticisms I have nothing to object it would ill become me to quarrel with their very slight decree of censure, when, perhaps, if they had

Beattie's Letters.

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been less kind, they had been more candid. Returning, therefore, to all and each my best thanks for their liberality, on one point alone shall I venture an observation. Amongst the many objections justly urged to the very indifferent character of the 'vagrant Childe' (whom, notwithstanding many hints to the contrary, I still maintain to be a fictitious personage), it has been stated that, besides the anachronism, he is very unknightly, as the times of the Knights were times of Love, Honour, and so forth. Now, it so happens that the good old times, when 'l'amour du bon vieux tems, l'amour antique' flourished, were the most profligate of all possible centuries. Those who have any doubts on this subject may consult Sainte-Palaye, passim, and more particularly vol. ii. p. 69. The vows of chivalry were no better kept than any other vows whatsoever; and the songs of the Troubadours were not more decent, and certainly were much less refined, than those of Ovid. The 'Cours d'amour, parlemens d'amour, ou de courtésie et de gentilesse,' had much more of love than of courtesy or gentleness. See Roland on the same subject with Saint-Palaye. Whatever other objection may be urged to that most unamiable personage, Childe Harold, he was so far perfectly knightly in his attributes-' No waiter but a knight templar.' By the by, I fear that Sir Tristrem and Sir Lancelot were no better than they should be, although very poetical personages and true knights, 'sans peur,' though not 'sans reproche.' If the story of the institution of the 'Garter' be not a fable, the knights of that order have for several centuries borne the badge of a Countess of Salisbury, of indifferent memory. So much for chivalry. Burke need not have regretted that its days are over, though MarieAntoinette was quite as chaste as most of those in whose honour lances were shivered and knights unhorsed.

Before the days of Bayard, and down to those of Sir Joseph Banks (the most chaste and celebrated of ancient and modern times), few exceptions will be found to this statement: and I fear a little investigation will teach us not to regret these monstrous mummeries of the middle ages. I now leave Childe Harold' to live his day, such as he is. It had been more agreeable, and certainly more easy, to have drawn an amiable character. It had been easy to varnish over his faults, to make him do more and express less; but he never was intended as an example, further than to show that early perversion of mind and morals leads to satiety of past pleasures and disappointment in new ones, and that even the beauties of nature and the stimulus of travel (except ambition, the most powerful of all excitements) are lost on a soul so constituted, or rather misdirected. Had I proceeded with the poem, this character would have deepened as he drew to the close; for the outline which I once meant to fill up for him was, with some exceptions, the sketch of a modern Timon, perhaps a poetical Zeluco.

LONDON, 1813.

TO IANTHE.+

NOT in those climes where I have late been
straying,
[less deem'd,
Though Beauty long hath there been match-
Not in those visions to the heart displaying
Forms which it sighs but to have only dream'd,
Hath aught like thee in truth or fancy seem'd;
Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek
To paint those charms which varied as they
beam'd-

To such as see thee not my words were weak; To those who gaze on thee, what language] could they speak?

Ah! may'st thou ever be what now thou art,
Nor unbeseem the promise of thy spring,
As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart,
Love's image upon earth without his wing,
And guileless beyond Hope's imagining!
And surely she who now so fondly rears
Thy youth, in thee, thus hourly brightening,
Beholds the rainbow of her future years,
Before whose heavenly hues all sorrow dis-
appears.

Young Peri of the West !-'tis well for me
My years already doubly number thine;
My loveless eye unmoved may gaze on thee,
And safely view thy ripening beauties shine:
Happy, I ne'er shall see them in decline;
Happier, that while all younger hearts shall
bleed,

Mine shall escape the doom thine eyes assign
To those whose admiration shall succeed,
But mix'd with pangs to Love's even loveliest
hours decreed.

Oh! let that eye, which, wild as the gazelle's,
Now brightly bold or beautifully shy,
Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells,
Glance o'er this page, nor to my verse deny
That smile for which my breast might vainly
sigh,

Could I to thee be ever more than friend:
This much, dear maid, accord; nor question
why

To one so young my strain I would commend, But bid me with my wreath one matchless lily blend.

The Rovers, or the Double Arrangement.
↑ Lady Charlotte Harley, daughter of the Earl of Oxford, afterwards Lady C. Bacon

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The little village of Castri stands partly on the site of Delphi. Along the path of the mountain, from Chrysso, are the remains of sepulchres hewn in and from the rock; one,' said the guide, of a king who broke his neck hunting.' His Majesty had certainly chosen the fittest spot for such an achievement. A little above Castri is a cave, supposed the Pythian, of immense depth; the upper part of it is paved, and now a cow-house. On the other side of Castri stands a Greek monastery: some way above which is the cleft in the rock, with a range of caverns difficult of ascent, and apparently leading to the interior of the mountain, probably to the Corycian Cavern mentioned by Pausanias. From this part descend the fountain and the Dews of Castalie.'

IV.

Childe Harold bask'd him in the noontide sun,
Disporting there like any other fly,
Nor deem'd before his little day was done
One blast might chill him into misery.
But long ere scarce a third of his pass'd by,
Worse than adversity the Childe befell;
He felt the fulness of satiety :

Then loathed he in his native land to dwell, Which seem'd to him more lone than Eremite's sad cell.

V.

For he through Sin's long labyrinth had run, Nor made atonement when he did amiss, Had sigh'd to many, though he loved but one, And that loved one, alas, could ne'er be his. Ah, happy she! to 'scape from him whose kiss Had been pollution unto aught so chaste; Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss, And spoil'd her goodly lands to gild his waste, Nor calm domestic peace had ever deign'd to

taste.

VI.

And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart,
And from his fellow bacchanals would flee;
'Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start,
But Pride congeal'd the drop within his e'e:
Apart he stalk'd in joyless reverie,
And from his native land resolved to go,
And visit scorching climes beyond the sea;
With pleasure drugg'd, he almost long'd for

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