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Farewell to Autumn, and her yellow bowers,
Her waning skies, and fields of sallow hue;
Ye shall revive, when vernal skies are blue.
Frosts are severe, and snow-flakes not a few;
Joy has forsaken quite the realms of earth;
Trim jovial band of curlers shout in mirth ;
Thousand fine attitudes, in which the dearth
That of the olden days we lack the heart;
As it hath been; why let old saws depart
Although we are call’d to play another part,
The table groan'd, the wine-cup circled free;
With the bright glow of love and chivalry;
Hath fallen on men--for such are scarcely we;
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,
And triumph o'er all grovelling desires ;
But high heroic daring such admires,
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,
Are in the land, they shall not be prophetical
Society was wrapt in chaos dark;
Who, erring, wander'd far beside the mark ;
While the strong shudder'd, borne in shallow bark,
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,
And there transform'd his heart, unnerved his hand;
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.
Before its enemy disdains to cower,
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,
We'll hold them, and explain it—if they please;
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;
Praising the rabble herd, and scoffing crew;
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
Where man is brave, and woman half divine.
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 :-
Shame to ye, then, base hearts, ignobly wed
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;
Are to these rights as to an anchor bound;
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 ;
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 !
Milton did live, the land which Shakespeare trod ?
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 !!
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,
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;
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 ;
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.)