Or baser SHELLEY, on the gates of hell,

With reckless vaunt impinge his sceptic shell.

The magic influence of thy potent spell, Sweet Poesy! what angel powers can tell? Like him of Syracuse,* (whose ardent mind Conceiv'd, could he some firm arena find, On which, in circumambient space, to stand, He'd cause the world to move at his command,-) The Poet, whom sublimest thoughts inspire,

Who breathes in regions of seraphic fire,

From some bright elevation, undefined,

Moves, by his sweet enchantment, all mankind.

Oh! tragic thought! shall they, whose strains,begun, Seem nurtured in the chariot of the sun, With gilded plumage of enchanting hues,

But hover round, contagion to diffuse?

Rise, but to carol of forbidden things?

Fly, but to drop such poison from their wings?

Archimedes, the celebrated Mathematician.

Thus, while their beauties dazzle and control,
The rankling virus poisons deep the soul.

Promethean sacrilege, of foulest dye! With fire descended from a spotless sky, To kindle hearts, too ready to ignite, And bid them blaze amid a cheerless night! Sure 'tis the pastime of some fiend misnamed, Like him whose torch imperial Rome inflam'd,* And while he watch'd the bursting volumes rise, Spreading a canopy of crimson'd skies, Danc'd, in his garden, to the rampant fire, And, pleas'd to see it, play'd his demon-lyre. What fate more suited to the miscreant bard, Than on some kindred rock, as cold as hard, To knaw, unheard, an adamantine chain, While Hell's keen vultures multiply the pain.

'Tis the deep guise we blame; the watchword vile Of that arch-infidel, who, dared to style

The Emperor Nero.

Our blessed Christ "a wretch;" and taught the foe The hellish art, "strike, but conceal the blow."

Less dangerous he who publishes his shame, Than he who masks his dark infernal aim; Who, the smooth sponge of fascination 'neath, With wary hand conceals the lance of death. So, while the waves of sullen ocean roll, Far from the cypress and the village-toll, From the cold deck the putrid carcase falls, When the blue grave of starless midnight calls.

Nor leave we thus without his censure just, The obnoxious Sculptor of the breathing bust; Who, from his marble, shapeless, mute, and cold, Swells the sweet form of too voluptuous mould, To please lascivious Lords; but, wounds the eye Of virtuous prudence, and meek modesty. Partners in guilt, we deem, those Artists too,

Whose shameless pencil, dipt in beauty's hue,

Gives to the canvass what demands the skreen,
Forms undisguis'd, and attitudes obscene.
Nor may sweet Music, nursling of the spheres,
Offend the meekness of an angel's ears;
Her tones, transporting-soothing, may avail
To touch the heart, where poet-efforts fail.
The air adapted, and the mocking sound,
The thought assists, and deeper probes the wound.
How great the enchantment of the sister-Three!
Yet yield their powers, sweet Poetry! to thee.
The sculptur'd bust, may have but few to admire;
The canvass, darken; and the music, tire;

But he that breathes the soul-enchanting rhyme,
Forms, paints and sings, for thousands at a time.

All-gracious Monarch of earth's brightest crown! With high discerning majesty look down And scatter, far beyond thy halcyon smile, The recreant bards that desecrate our isle ! Guardian of Faith! protector be of song! Be Truth's Mecanas, and avenge her wrong!

Great King! who dares thy Father's name defile,
Secures the curse of Virtue's favourite Isle.

TO HIM hath Heaven a happier place assign'd,
Than e'en could MARO for Augustus find,
Where, in the zone an orbless space we see,
Between bright Cancer and Erigone:

For him a Throne of purest crystal shines;
An emerald wreath his spotless brow entwines;

A sapphire Coronet, a realm sublime

Is his; beyond the ravages of time;

Yes, and beyond the slander of the Bard,
Who, wreckt upon some promontory hard
Of deadly hate, would vent his fruitless rage,
And curse the Glory of the Georgian age.

Oh! lethal taste of cold Misanthropy!
The wretch abandon'd that regales on thee,
Like the gaunt tiger that once tastes the blood
Of man, insatiate, loathes all other food;

As if no sanguine carnage could allay

That panting thirst, but reeking human prey.