'd,
And Virtue, from her broad base shaken, fear'd
The scourge of Vice; when, impotent and vain,
Poor Freedom bow'd the neck to Slavery's chain?
Is this the land, where, in those worst of times,
The hardy poet raised his honest rhymes
To dread rebuke, and bade Controlment speak
In guilty blushes on the villain's cheek;
Bade Power turn pale, kept mighty rogues in awe,
And made hem fear the Muse, who fear'd not law?
"How do I laugh, when men of narrow souls,
Whom folly guides, and prejudice controls;
Who, one dull drowsy track of business trod,
Worship their Mammon, and neglect their God;
Who, breathing by one musty set of rules,
Dote from their birth, and are by system fools;
Who, form'd to dulness from their very youth,
Lies of the day prefer to Gospel-truth;
Pick up their little knowledge from Reviews,
And lay out all their stock of faith in news;
How do I laugh, when creatures form'd like these,
Whom Reason scorns, and I should blush to please,
Rail at all liberal arts, deem verse a crime,
And hold not truth as truth, if told in rhyme?"

These are commendable verses, but they are not the verses of a true poet.
For instance, when he will praise the greatest poets--

"Is this the land, where, on our Spenser's _tongue_,
Enamour'd of his _voice_, Description hung"--

the intention is good, and there is some love in the singling out of the
name; but Description is almost the lowest, not the highest praise of
Spenser. The language too is mean and trite, not that of one who is
"_inflammatus amore_" of the sacred poet whom he praises. How differently
does Lucretius praise Epicurus! The words blaze as he names him. How
differently does Pope or Gray praise Dryden! Even in Churchill's few words
there is the awkward and heavy tautology--tongue and voice. It is more
like the tribute of duty than sensibility. The well-known distich on
Shakspeare is rather good--it utters with a vigorous turn the general
sentiment, the nation's wonder of its own idol. But compare Gray, who also
brings Nature and Shakspeare together; or see him speaking of Dryden or
Milton, and you see how a poet speaks of a poet--thrilled with
recollections--reflecting, not merely commemorating, the power. Indeed, we
design to have a few (perhaps twenty) articles entitled Poets on Poets--in
which we shall collect chronologically the praises of the brotherhood by
the brotherhood. In the mean time we do beli