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The press, or literary chit-chat

A Satire [by J. H. Reynolds]
Reynolds, John Hamilton (1794-1852)

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[section]
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THE PRESS.
 I. 
PART I.
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PART II.
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BAS-BLEUSIA.
 I. 
I.
 II. 
II.
 III. 
III.
 IV. 
IV.
 V. 
V.
 VI. 
VI.
 VII. 
VII.
 VIII. 
VIII.
 IX. 
IX.
 X. 
X.
 XI. 
XI.
 XII. 
XII.
 XIII. 
XIII.
 XIV. 
XIV.
 XV. 
XV.
 XVI. 
XVI.
 XVII. 
XVII.
 XVIII. 
XVIII.
 XIX. 
XIX.
 XX. 
XX.
 XXI. 
XXI.
 XXII. 
XXII.
 XXIII. 
XXIII.
 XXIV. 
XXIV.
 XXV. 
XXV.
 XXVI. 
XXVI.
 III. 
PART III.

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XVII.

Helm and pennon held on high
Told that Porden next drew nigh,

I never read Miss Porden's poem “The Veils,” nor do I think the title will allure me. Her late production “Cœur de Lion,” though in parts heavy, as all long poems are (Homer nods at times), is worthy to be called a national poem, and is laudably free from the clap-trap and quackery of our modern poets, from Byron downwards.


A cross her ensign shone;
A band of music sweet and strong
Resounded as she march'd along,
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And myriads on the echoes hung
As the fair lady-minstrel sung
With ardour to the tone;
Swords left their scabbards at the sound,
Great Gog more nobly look'd around
With valour in his eyes;
Then to a soft and tender air
She changed her song with magic rare,
And the assembled throng in vain
Strove tears of sorrow to restrain
And sympathizing sighs;
E'en from the eye of Gog stout-hearted
'Tis said two royal tears departed.
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