The press, or literary chit-chat A Satire [by J. H. Reynolds] |
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 | The press, or literary chit-chat |  |
79
XII.
“With Erin's wit, and Grecian smiles,I come to charm the British Isles.
As, sybil-like, my leaves I cast,
Where'er they fall, their potence vast
Is sure t 'inform the docile mind,
And doubly make each breast refin'd.
Why should I fear a critic's scowl,—
'Tis envy makes the monster howl!
I'll write, I'll publish, and I'll puff—”
Gog with impatience says “Enough!”
But dauntless to the king she turns,
And cries, “My soul your anger spurns;
Ye gods! a satire I will write,
That well-puffed production yclept “The Mohawks” has been attributed to Lady Morgan and her husband. I am unwilling to conceive, however, that even Lady M. could write some parts of it of a most unladylike nature; and the frequent employment of similes culled from the “Pharmacopœia Londinensis,” &c. induces me to suppose it has originated from the pericranium of her spouse.
And kings shall crouch beneath my sight,
Rivals will tremble, foes expire
Beneath my cutting line and lyre—.”
As she thus raved, with eyes of flame,
Gold-Stick led off the angry dame.
| The press, or literary chit-chat | |