The Age Reviewed A Satire: In two parts: Second edition, revised and corrected [by Robert Montgomery] |
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Bemuse, in fourteen lines, the bogs and streams,—
Lugubrious D--- dissolved in mulish whine,
Unnerve his heart-strings with a blubbering line,—
Iole, Mona, and the Initial set,
Fine fustian effervesce in the Gazette;
Let bungling J---'s limping couplets tire,
And jarring doggerel for each line conspire,—
Lord P--- still rave out thundering dash,
And load his verses with patrician trash;
And Fayole split her fusty French in rhyme;
Moonstruck F--- gabble yearly lies,
Till belching gluttons wink their drowsy eyes,—
H--- press the bashful reader to his pun,
And learn the luxury of insipid fun, —
“To all their rosy dreams and slumbers light!”
Δ—id est, Delta, i. e. Mr. ------, is rhymer-general to Blackwood's Magazine;—the first of the day, without taking Delta's sonnets into consideration.
The Rev. T. D--- is a very pleasing writer of plaintive reflections, eminently calculated to inspire with the blue devils.
Lord P--- is the author of “The Moor,” a very thick volume, containing one page of good poetry, relative to a magician. Doubtless his lordship is perfectly satisfied with his fame, for—
S--- has lately rose again, after a long trance, occasioned by the well-applied medicine of Byron. His motto is “Resurgam.”
Who is Fayole, that sticks her miserable daubs of be-rhymed French in the Morning Post? I hardly know how it is that her name has jumped in here;—no matter, she is a good accompaniment for S---.
Mr. H--- is the author of “Whims and Oddities”—a volume, whose novelty obtained considerable applause. But poetical puns are rather mean and fragile materials for—I was going to say, fame—but Mr. H---, no doubt, clenched them for something more substantial. Speaking of rhyming punsters, Butler remarks, he “is a poet of small wares, whose muse is short of wind, and quickly out of breath. He is a kind of vagabond writer, that is never out of his way, for nothing is beside the purpose with him, that purposes nothing at all. His works are like a running banquet, that have much variety, but little of a sort; for he deals in nothing but scraps and parcels, like a tailor's broker.”
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