He said; and the place all seem'd swelling with light;
While his locks and his visage grew awfully bright;
And clouds, burning inward, roll'd round on each side
To encircle his state as he stood in his pride;
Till at last the full Deity put on his rays,

And burst on the sight in the pomp of his blaze!
Then a glory beam'd round as of fiery rods,
With the sound of deep organs and chorister gods;
And the faces of bards, glowing fresh from their skies,
Came thronging about with intentness of eyes;
And the Nine were all heard, as the harmony swell'd;
And the spheres pealing in, the long rapture upheld;
And all things, above, and beneath, and around,
Seem'd a world of bright vision, set floating in sound.

That sight and that music might not be sustain'd
But by those, who a glory like Dryden's had gain'd;
And even the four, who had graciousness found,
After gazing a while, bow'd them down to the ground.
What then could remain for that feeble-ey'd crew?
Through the door in an instant they rush'd and they flew,
They rush'd and they dash'd, and they scrambled and stumbled,
And down the round staircase like lunatics tumbled,
And never once thought which was head or was feet,
And slid through the hall, and fell plump in the street.
So great was the panic they struck with their fright,
That of all who had come to be feasted that night,
Not one ventur'd up, or would stay near the place;
Even Croker declin'd, notwithstanding his face;
And old Peter Pindar turn'd pale, and suppress'd,
With a death-bed sensation, a blasphemous jest.
But Wordsworth can scarcely yet manage to speak;
And Coleridge, they say, is excessively weak;
Indeed he has fits of the painfulest kind :

He stares at himself and his friends, till he's blind;
Then describes his own legs, and claps each a long stilt on
And this he calls lect'ring on "Shakspeare and Milton."

But Phoebus no sooner had gain'd his good ends,
Than he put off his terrors, and rais'd up his friends,
Who stood for a moment, entranc'd to behold
The glories subside, and the dim-rolling gold;
And listen'd to sounds, that with ecstacy burning
Seem'd dying far upward, like heaven returning,
Then Come,' cried the God in his elegant mirth,
Let us make us a heav'n of our own upon earth,

And

6

And wake with the lips that we dip in our bowls
That divinest of musie,-congenial,souls.'
So saying, he led through the dining-room door,
And, seating the poets, cried, Laurels for four!'
No sooner demanded, than lo! they were there;
And each of the bards had a wreath in his hair.
Tom Campbell's with willow and poplar was twin'd,
And Southey's with mountain-ash, pluck'd in the wind;
And Scott's with a heath from his old garden stores,

And with vine-leaves and Jump-up-and-kiss-me,* Tom Moore's
Then Apollo put his on, that sparkled with beams;
And rich rose the feast as an epicure's dreams;
Not epicure civic, or grossly inclin'd,

But such as a poet might dream ere he din'd:
For the God had no sooner determin'd the fare,
Than it turn'd to whatever was racy and rare.
The fish and the flesh, for example, were done,
On account of their fineness, in flame from the sun;
The wines were all nectar of different smack,
To which Muskat was nothing, nor Virginis Lac;
No, nor Lachryma Christi, though clearly divine,
Nor Montepulciano, though king of all wine.+
Then, as for the fruits, you might garden for ages,
Before you could raise me such apples and gages;
And all on the table no sooner were spread,

Than their cheeks next the God blush'd a beautiful red.

'Twas

The brilliant little tri-coloured violet, commonly known by the name of Heart's-ease.

+I do not profess to have tasted these foreign luxuries, except in the poetry of their admirers. Virgin's Milk and Christ's Tears are names given to two favourite wines by the pious Italians, whose familiarity with the objects of their worship is as well known as it is natural. The former appears to be a white wine; the latter is of a deep, blood-red colour.— Muskat or Moscadell is so called from the odour of it's grape; and is enthu siastically praised, among a number of other Tuscan wines, by Redi in his Bacco in Toscana. His favourite however seems to have been Montepul ciano, which at the conclusion and climax of the poem is pronounced by Bacchus himself, in his hour of transport, to be the sovereign liquor.

Onde ognun che di Lieo
Riverente il nome adora,
Ascolti questo altissimo decreto,

Che Bassareo pronunzia, e gli dia fe,—
Montepulciano d'ogni vino è il Re.

Then all who bow down to the nod

Of the care-killing vintager God,

Give ear and give faith to his edict divine,

That Montepulciano's the King of all Wine.

'Twas magic in short and deliciousness all :—
The very men-servants grew handsome and tall;
To velvet-hung iv'ry the furniture turn'd:
The service with opal and adamant buru'd;
Each candlestick chang'd to a pillar of gold,
While a bundle of beams took the place of the mould;
The decanters and glasses pure diamond became,
And the corkscrew ran solidly round into fiame.
In a word, so completely forestall'd were the wishes,
Ev'n harmony struck from the noise of the dishes.

It can't be suppos'd I should think of repeating
The fancies that flow'd at this laureat meeting;
I haven't the brains, and besides was not there;
But the wit may be easily guess'd, by the chair.
Suffice it to say that 'twas keen as could be ;
Though it soften'd to prettiness rather at tea.
I must mention, however, that during the wine,
The mem'ry of Shakspeare was toasted with nine;
To Chaucer were five, and to Spenser one more,
And Milton had seven, and Dryden had four ;
Then follow'd the names, in a cursory way,
Of Fletcher, of Otway, of Collins, and Gray,

Of Cowley, Pope, Thomson, and Cowper, and Prior,
And one or two more of a genuine fire.

Then says Bob, 6 If the chair will not think me a gander,
I'll give a great genius-one Mr. Landor;"

And

Mr. Walter Savage Landor, a very worthy person, I believe, and author of an epic piece of gossiping called Gebir, upon the strength of which Mr. Southey has dedicated to him his Curse of Kehama. There is one really good passage in Gebir about a sea-shell; and the author is one of those dealers in eccentric obscurity, who might excite reasonable expectations, if they were boys-but the school of vulgar simplicity no longer consists of children; they are now spoiled men, too old and too stubborn to alter; and the good reasoning that has been wasted upon them must be changed for that indignation and contempt, which their bad example and pertinacious childishness ought to excite in every sound lover of poetry.—Que word more to the better part of them, on a different subject. The best feature in their character, till of late years, has been their high spirit of integrity; and some of them who possess a reputation for it still, enjoy a proportionate degree of respect; but in others, the maudlin German cant which first infected their muse has at last infected their manners, and being a jargon adapted to every sort of extreme, has enabled them to change their free opinions for slavish ones without altering the cast of their language; while others again, whose manners are not so infected, have nevertheless quite lost the bloom of their political character, and to the great sorrow of those whose expectations yet lingered about them, have degenerated like the førmer into servile place-hunters and gross editorial puffers of themselves. Such

*

And Walter look'd up too, and begg'd to propose
A particular friend of his-one Mr. Rose;
But the God look'd at Southey, and clapping his shoulder,
Cried, When, my good friend, will you try to grow older?"
Then nodding to Scott, he said, Pray be as portly,

And rich as you please, but a little less courtly!?

6

So, changing the subject, he call'd upon Moore,
Who sung such a song, that they shouted, Encore!'
And the God was so pleas'd with his taste and his tone,
He obey'd the next call, and gave one of his own,

At which you'd have thought, 'twas so witching a warble,-
The guests had all turn'd into listening marble;
The wreaths on their temples grew brighter of bloom,

As the breath of the Deity circled the room,
And the wine in the glasses went rippling in rounds,
As if follow'd and fann'd by the soft-winged sounds.

Thus in wit and in singing they sat till eleven,
When Phoebus shook hands, and departed for heaven;
'For poets,' he said, who would cherish their powers,
And hop❜d to be deathless, must keep to good hours.'
So off he batook him the way that he came,

And shot up the north like an arrow of flame:
For the Bear was his inn; and the comet, they say,
Was his tandem in waiting to fetch him away.

The others then parted, all highly delighted;
And so shall I be, when you find me invited.

K

are the vices of extremes: the school set out with one extreme, and therefore had a natural tendency to the opposite, like all other complexional enthusiasts. Nothing remains the same, but their vanity.

Mr. William Stewart Rose, a son of the Right Honourable George Rose, and author of some common-place rhymings, which Mr. Scott has declared to be good English writing,-stories "well told in English verse Mr. Scott has a pleasant knack of differing with his Southern neighbours in many points, both poetical and political; and it is perhaps hard to speak ill of one who is so ready to flatter some of the worst parts about us,—who thinks our rhymers good poets, and our tyrants good kings.

VOL. II. NO. IV

ART.

ART. XI.-Classical Antiquity of the English Language,

MR. REFLECTor,

THE classical tone, which your Publication has assumed, will, I am sure, lead you to patronize an attempt, the object of which is to shew, that so far from our being indebted to the Greeks and Romans for the whole of our learning, it is not improba ble, that those ingenious people derived much of their phrase ology, and many of their customs, from us at any rate I have traced so close a resemblance between their and our own expres. sions, that it seems difficult to decide who were the inventors and who the borrowers. It is well known, that the Greeks derived most of their mythology and astronomy from Egypt and India: but by the same arts by which the modern French have gained to themselves the credit of all the new improvements in Chemistry and Natural Philosophy, that subtile nation so blended what they stole with their own original inventions, that it is almost impos. sible to draw the line between them, and say which part belongs to their ingenuity in inventing, and which to their judgment in selecting. I cannot pretend to say, that this attempt on my part is wholly original. The witty Dean of St. Patrick was the first who pointed out the close analogy which subsisted between the two languages; and few men of reading, I believe, are now igno rant, that the Greek appellative Bellerophon means nothing more than our English term "Billy Ruffian:" that a vow of perpetual virginity brought upon the son of Tydeus the name of Die-a-maid or Diomed; and that the monarch of Macedon is indebted for his more sonorous title to an antipathy for eggs, which obliged all his servants, who did not share in their master's aversion, to throw those glutinary eatables under the grate immediately upon his ap pearance, and the signal for such discharge was All eggs under the grate," which gradually melted into the name of Alexander the Great. The specimens, which I shall produce as indicative of a close alliance between our own language and that of the classics (and from which I would deduce one of these conclu. sions, either that we may safely contest the claim of antiquity with any nation now subsisting, or claim a superiority in classical attainment over all nations, the substantiation of either of which claims will be no small honour to my native country, and no trifling compliment to my own patriotic affections) will be drawn principally from the same standard as that from which Dean Swift has derived his conclusions; viz. from those, who are generally called the low and vulgar. The terms of fashionable life are fluc

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tuating