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John Wilson,

Farewell to Autumn, and her yellow bowers,

Her waning skies, and fields of sallow hue;
Farewell, ye perishing and perish'd flowers ;

Ye shall revive, when vernal skies are blue.
But now the tempest-cloud of Winter lowers,

Frosts are severe, and snow-flakes not a few;
Lifting their leafless boughs against the breeze,
appear the melancholy trees.

But deem not thou, that, like the shy Astræa,

Joy has forsaken quite the realms of earth;
Upon the smooth swept ice, in bright array, a

Trim jovial band of curlers shout in mirth ;
And skaiters, in fur-bonnets, can display a

Thousand fine attitudes, in which the dearth
Of sunshine is by exercise supplied,
Wheeling in splendid curve from side to side.

Yet, we opine with Wordsworth and with Scott,

That of the olden days we lack the heart;
The merry time of Christmas now is not

As it hath been; why let old saws depart
For modern instances ? For not a jot,

Although we are call’d to play another part,
Superior to our sires are we their sons ;
We think so, and we speak the truth at once.

The ancient times were jovial times—at dine

The table groan'd, the wine-cup circled free;
The ancient times were warlike times, divine

With the bright glow of love and chivalry;
The ancient times were loyal times, decline

Hath fallen on men--for such are scarcely we;
Heartless and grumbling, paltry plodders on,

With heads of adamant, and hearts of stone


5. All are not such-but such the mass-a few

Wear in their soul the spirit of their sires,
Keep honour, like their Polar star, in view,

And triumph o'er all grovelling desires ;
Not narrow minds, that griping paths pursue,

But high heroic daring such admires,
The bright expansive soul, the generous mind,
That spurns at self, to dignify mankind.

6. · Come this will never do-we are fearing much

Our muse is getting too severe and critical; But one can't help being querulous, when such

Dull notions, and such maxims Jacobitical,
(We want a rhynie, and therefore use a crutch,)

Are in the land, they shall not be prophetical
Of Britain's downfall ; for, as seasons suit,
We are quite prepared to grub them by the root.

Before our work came forth to cheer mankind,

Society was wrapt in chaos dark;
Truth was to man like sunshine to the blind,

Who, erring, wander'd far beside the mark ;
The weak were toss'd like chaff before the wind,

While the strong shudder'd, borne in shallow bark,
Through Time's tumultuous and troubled sea,
On to the whirlpools of eternity !

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8. Know ye the cause of this strange miracle ?

A Serpent had the power to charm the land ; In dark unnoticed cavern did it dwell,

Yet with weird might, and fascination bland,
It drew the pilgrim to its inner cell,

And there transform'd his heart, unnerved his hand;
The crested back was azure, and its bead
Yellow as saffron, flowering in the mead.

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10. A moment on each other did they gaze,

Measuring, belike, the quantum of their power : The Serpent, fold on fold, itself did raise,

Lancing its tongue, and threatening to devour.
But the bold Panther nought of fear betrays,

Before its enemy disdains to cower,
And forward strode, with white fangs grinning wide,
Lashing, with supple tail, its speckled side.

11. Round him, with lightning haste, the Serpent wound,

Coil after coil its length, with strangling might; But, unsubdued, the Panther, turning round,

The yielding texture of his throat did bite; And, slowly disentangling, to the ground

Fold after fold he fell, exhausted quite ; Living, but lingering ever near Death's portal, For men have seen-will see the bite is mortal.

12. Then, in the forest, save the Panther, none

Durst walk, or cower'd before his steps of beauty ; For beast and bird he ruled o’er every one,

Conducting them, or forcing to their duty; Many in love were to his empire won,

And those who question'd his proud strength were mute; ye Who yet at distance hide your heads, and bay, Death is your doom, and on no distant day.

13. This is an allegory; if we chose,

We could decipher it with perfect ease; Some will see through it clearly ; but to those,

Who stupidly suppose the moon green cheese,
For half a minute, by the ear or nose

We'll hold them, and explain it—if they please;
For, as a bard, we think the practice eligible,
Even on minutest points to be intelligible.

14. Imprimis then, the wily Serpent strong,

Means nothing but the Edinburgh Review, Which scatter'd venom through the nation long,

Striving Religion's gold links to undo;
Doing to Liberty and Reason wrong,

Praising the rabble herd, and scoffing crew;
And, in the days of danger, doubt, and death,
Darkening, with borrow'd shade, our nation's path.

Now for the Panther ;-what was it, you say?

Why nought but this, the peerless Magazine, Which scatter'd, like a wind, these doubts away,

And cloudless left old Britain's sun to shine
O'er realms where Freedom holds perennial sway,

Where man is brave, and woman half divine.
Back to your dens, ye prowlers of the night,
Salve o'er your festering sores, and shun the light!

16. For nobly hath the victory been won,

And proudly hath our country's blood been shed; And History will tell, from sire to son,

The tale of those, who triumph'd, or who bled :-
Where now on earth its match or rival ? -None!

Shame to ye, then, base hearts, ignobly wed
To the low thought of noble Britain thrust
From her high throne, and trampled in the dust.

17. Wherein, ye Sophists, can stability,

Can fixedness of power on earth be found, Save in the land of moral Liberty,

Save in the land with true Religion crown'd;
Where heart and hand, with an eternal tie,

Are to these rights as to an anchor bound;
Yea! who esteem it no debasing thing
To worship God, aud venerate their King.

18. Then rant ye on, ye restless demagogues,

Cobbetts, and Cartwrights, Woolers, Hunts, and Hones, In concert chaunt, ye music-marring frogs, With

your compatriots, Preston and Gale Jones; Throw right and law like physic to the dogs,

Worship Tom Paine, and hawk about his bones ;
To gain your purpose every sinew strain,
And bring us jovial Chaos back again !

19. England ! indeed it is a fearful time,

And dark unhallow'd spirits are abroad; Thee to engulph in misery and crime,

With shackles of deep guilt thy hands to load !
Say, art not thou the land, where the sublime

Milton did live, the land which Shakespeare trod ?
And, so incurable is thy disease,
That thou must yield to miscreants such as these ?

20. That thou must yield to miscreants, void of all

Honour, and moral faith, and hope divine ! Stoop but to these, and dread no farther fall;

The unfathom'd gulph of guilt will then be thine. Shame to thee, Byron, that, in mental thrall,

With such as these thy spirit can combine ;Oh woeful plight! that thy resplendent name, Born for thy country's boast, should prove her shame !!

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22. For fiery, fearless, passionate wert thou,

Giving thy heart and soul to pleasant dreaming ; And musing on the sunlight, when heaven's brow

Was dark with thunder clouds, and torrents strcaming ; Then did'st thou turn disgusted, and avow

That thou wert fall’nwert lost beyond redeeming,
And, that thy star, by clouds so dark to view,
Was compass'd, that no ray could twinkle through.

23. Thy mind was form’d to seek the beau-ideal ;

Was form'd for beauty, love, and admiration ; Hoped earth was paradise, and found the real,

Grief, anguish, pain, and baffled expectation ; 'Twas thine the miserable fate, to see all

Thy youthful prospects end in deep vexation;
Doubt then within thy bosom found receptacle ;
A downright Whig, upon all subjects sceptical.

24. Enough-enough-we will change at once our theme.

Reader, we give you fatherly monition ;The weather now is raw; and we don't deem

That being colded is a safe condition For either man or horse.-We do esteem

(List to our words, we hate all repetition,) For coughs and colds, that bathing of the feet, And water-gruel, is prescription meet.

25. If’tis severer, lose a little blood;

(Vide the axiom of Hippocrates.) 'Tis curious, that the men before the Flood,

(Antediluvians,) little knew disease; If they were form'd of clay, we are surely mud,

For through death's pop-gun we are shot like pease ; In spite of ready nostrums vended daily, Men are shut up in death-or the Old Bailey.

26. Readers! in other words, Society !

Time passeth on, and never cometh back ; Know then, if clouds o’erhang the mental sky,

Or if the natural sky with clouds be black, Your remedy doth at your elbow lie,

Open the page of Maga, be not slack, And, in a jiffy, Care's low clouds will run, Like morning mists before the rising sun.

27. We are not too much given to partiality,

And yet we say, (yes! all the world may hear us,) We think our Magazine, in grave reality,

The best the world e'er witness'd, none come near us ; Whether in wisdom, wit, conviviality,

Learning, or humour, Britain cannot peer us ;
So says America, and Hindostan
Reads none but North—he is their only man.

28. Oh! for a draught of genuine inspiration,

That I, in fitting strains, might chaunt thy praise, Thou peerless Magazine, and bid the nation

A monumental pillar to thee raise, (Something resembling Melville's in elevation,

Which now gigantic o'er the New Town sways ;) Where is the man refuse to build that stack would? (Subscriptions may be left with Mr Blackwood.)

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