Miscellaneous writings of the late Dr. Maginn :: :: University of Virginia Library

Reading public! whose hunger,
Thou egregious bookmonger,
Gets monthly large parcels
Of fresh sheets, for thy morsels;
And though publishers race, yet
Thou never art satiate
Of new poems, new histories,

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New dramas, new Mysteries,
New romances, new novels,
New voyages, new travels,
New tourifications,
New post prandium orations;
New lives and new memoirs,
New guide-books, new grammars,
New systems of science,
(Some writ in defiance
Of the sense that's called common)
New endeavors to hum one,
Of old lies new editions,
Of old follies new visions,
New modes of abusing,
(Peep for these the Reviews in),
New revivals of scandal,
By some right or wrong handle;
In short, what is new, Sir,
Finds in thee a peruser.
Reader General! thou patron
Of many a squadron,
Who, with goose quills ink laden,
(Which their stands had best staid in,)
Lose available labour
In blurring white paper,—
To thee do I dedi-
cate, now this most edi-
fying sample of doggrel,
Which will sure catalogue well
The works now abundant,
Of an Author redundant:
And we do not disparage
The rolls of the Peerage
In saying, though they strive all
To discover a rival;
And be Horace Walpole
Stirr'd up with a tall pole,
And his book's last edition
Put in due requisition;
Let the Lords not be hindered
From including their kindred,—
Yet they will not environ
Such a Poet as Byron.
Him, thou, Reading Demus!
Hast been pleased to make famous;
So take to thy favour
This industrious endeavour
To make out a list of
The hanks, which his distaff
Has long time been untwining,
Of verses so genuine,
That renown they must e'en win.
Let some fame too o'erbubble
On his pate, who great trouble
(Behold it) hath taken
In this catalogue making.

THE ROSARY.

The first stretch of his powers
Was made in “The Hours”
'Clept “of Idlesse,” that syren,
“By George Gordon Lord Byron.”
No need of diviner,
To shew that “a Minor”
The book had compounded;
But to warn us, we found it
Printed under and over,
On the back on the cover,
On the title-page ominous,
And in prose prologomenous.
'Twas, in spite of the pother
Neither one thing nor t'other;

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And though it was poorish,
It deserved not the flourish
Of that tomahawk cruel
In the saffron and cerule,
Which notch'd it and nick'd it;
In short those wits wicked
Had their sport with the lordling,
Whom they thought a soft bardling,
Too meek to retort it;
But they were not so sorted,
For his next was a stinger;
Master Frank found his finger
Had been burnt in the venture
With one, not a flincher
When his Pegasus skittish
Gave a fling at “Bards British.”

If the “Hours” failed in merit,
There was talent and spirit
In this nettle stuff'd satire;
And the blows, like the platter
Of hail, fell by dozens
On our splenetic cousins
Dun-Edin's Reviewers,
Those paddlers in sewers,
Where their mud-ammunition
(Hooting, hissing, derision,)
Is mix'd up for griming
All those who won't chime in
With jacobin shoutings,
And infidel doubtings.

Then came doughty Childe Harold,
With whom the world quarrell'd,
Because this aspirant,
Though observant, enquirant,
Shrewd, keen, energetic,
Sublime, and pathetic—
Contriving to wedge in all,
In one word, original;
Yet betray'd the foot cloven,
Scepticism being inwoven
In his talk upon matters
Best left to his betters.

How plain folks roll'd their gogglers!
How the learned prov'd bogglers!
At the name of the “Giaour.”
For sure ne'er to that hour
Did four-fifths of the vowels
Congregate in the bowels
Of a syllable single;
Even yet how to mingle
Their sounds in one's muzzle,
Continues a puzzle.
But the fragments are clever,—
Surpassed has he never,
In his loftiest of stretches.
Two or three of the sketches.

“The Bride of Abydos”
Next sprang up beside us;
From the first time I met her,
The Giaour pleased me better;
Although I must own it,
With reluctance upon it,
Since my preference showing,
O'er a lady so glowing,
Of a wretch with a white face,
Argues not much politeness.

With a head rough as horse hair,
Heaves in sight now “The Corsair.
His Lordship here followed
The metre that's hallowed
By the poets, whose due, d'ye see,
Is no longer sub judice.
Ne'er could fail this fine story
To find fit auditory;
It holds one quite breathless
With interest; yet, nathless,
'Twould accord with my wishes,
If stops, 'stead of dashes,
Were put to the poem,
(How to do it I'd shew 'em;)
For, I'm sure, I was wearied,
Seeing comma and period
Smash'd,—as if punctuation
Were gone out of fashion.

“An Ode,” rather warty,
Came to Nap Buonaparte;
Wherein he was scolded
For not having folded
His cloak like a Roman;
And, indebted to no man,
Kick'd the bucket with glory,
And lived ever in story.

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Then appear'd Senor “Lara,”
Which, at sight, one could swear a
Reappearance of Conrad.
The attempt though did honour add
To our author, clear sighted;
And ne'er hath he indited
With more perspicacity,
And psychologic sagacity.

To each “Hebrew Melody,”
Alas! and Ah, well-a-day!
For most are but rudish,
And a scantling are goodish;
So let Messrs. Braham
And Nathan enjoy 'em.

“The Siege,” next, “of Corinth,”
Illustrates a war in th'
Morea;—but I dare say,
From perusal or hearsay,
Most now think on the munching
Of the dogs, and their “crunching,”
(On what, in his jargon,
Dr. Gall calls an organ,)
Stripping off the scalp, rot 'em!
“As ye peel figs in autumn.”

With Alp to the arena
Came the fair “Parisina.”
That he should not have written,
On this subject forbidden,
Still sticks in my gizzard,
'Spite of “gruff General Izzard.”
Who devoid of all mercy is
Tow'rds King Leigh and his verses;
And because without panic,
That monarch Cockannic,
Rhymed lightly on incest,
Z., with fury intensest,
Pour'd out a full bottle
Of wrath on his noddle;
But of Byron he's chary,
And lauds this same “Pari-
sine,” as if it were shapen,
All the perils escaping.

All we say of a “Monody”
Is, it issued forth on a day.

After this, the “Third Canto
Of Childe Harold” was sent to
Find its fate with the nation;
And it gained approbation.

“The Prisoner of Chillon”
Was sufficient to mill one;
So doleful,—so grievous,—
With nought to relieve us!

Enter “Manfred;” a serious
Sort of white witch mysterious;
Of our genuine erratic
The first effort dramatic,
And so well in that province
He has never come off since.

“Tasso's sad Lamentation”
Much requires condensation;
But 'tis plaintive and striking,
And suits with my liking.

Not so the sarcastic
“Sketch on topics Domestic;”
As the matter has ended,
Least said's soonest mended.

To Venice he hied him,
And that city supplied him
With the matter capricious
For his “Beppo” facetious;
A model, so please ye,
Of a style free and easy.
The story that's in it
Might be told in a minute;
But par parenthèse chatting,
On this thing and that thing,
Keeps the shuttlecock flying,
And attention from dying.
There are some I could mention,
Think the author's intention

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Was to sneer and disparage
The vow made in marriage;
But the sneer, as I take it,
Is 'gainst those folks who break it.

The lengthy “Fourth Canto
Of the Childe” makes us pant, oh!
It exceeds altogether
The three first in a tether;
But 'tis greatly applauded,
Yea, exceedingly lauded.
Now, though, without flattery,
It has powerful poetry,
Yet the world henceforth will know
Meo proprio periculo,
That, to my mind, the style of it
Is ambitiously elevate,
Too much in the fashion
Of a prize declamation;
Rather pompous and dullish,
Of falsetto, too, fullish;
As it don't wholly please me,
Of the subject I ease me.

Thunders in now on horseback
“Mazeppa” the Cossack;
Though he was not a Hettman
In performing that feat, man,
And a wag, for his trouble,
Call'd him John Gilpin's double.

With many an ill-omen,
'Neath no publisher's nomen,
(Proof that mischief was brewing)
Sneak'd forth, of “Don Juan”
Canto first, Canto second;
But here my Lord reckon'd,
His host unconsulted,—
Staunch admirers revolted,
And made a stern stricture
On the profligate picture;
E'en the wit could not save it
From being upbraided;
And, though read by the many,
No one champion'd Giovanni.

“The Great Doge of Venice”
Little joy stirred within us;
And the purse of Old Drury
Was not burst, I assure ye,
With the weight of the treasure,
When, in spite of displeasure,
And legal injunction,
Abjuring compunction,
This play they enlisted,
And to act it persisted
Till 'twas thoroughly hiss'd at.

The “Three Cantos” more recent
“Of Don Juan” are decent
Compared with the couple,
Of morals more supple,
Which first made us wonder.
But the three are much under
Their loose brethren in satire,
And in interesting matter;
Though they shew more decorum,
We could sooner snore o'er 'em.

Last came to assail us
Great “Sardanapalus,”
“The Two Foscari's History,”
And “Cain” in a “Mystery.”
Had they staid in his pinnace
On the waters of Venice,
His fame had not suffer'd,
For though they discover'd
Some power in the terrible,
They were not all agreeable.
Cain's murderous fury
He had best, I assure ye,
Have left where he found it,
Nor essay'd to expound it;
For, howe'er he conceit it,

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We are bold to repeat it,
He's by no means a fit one.
To play pranks Holy Writ on.
Milton's self, when he travell'd,
From the record was gravell'd,
In parts of his epic.
So abstain from the topic,
And with easy restriction
Seek the regions of fiction,
Extend thither your pinion,
For there lies your dominion.

L'Envoy.

Lo! in melody worthy
Of immortal Tom D'Urfey,
Have I chanted, my lyre on,
The doings of Byron.
And, as faithful recorder,
Chronological order
Have I kept. Now, as clincher,
I take heart, and will venture
To suggest to his Lordship
A proposal, (no hardship,)
Which he should not be sorry at—
Let him make me his Laureate.