那时，在这些堕落的日子里，当理智、机智和诗歌结合在一起时，卑劣的题材却得到了错误的赞美;他们的灵感都来自同一泉源，在品味的熏陶下，越长越美丽。于是，在这个幸福的小岛上，一位教皇的纯朴的精神在寻找着使全神贯注的灵魂着迷的魅力，而不是徒劳无功;一个波兰民族渴望得到赞美，也渴望提高人民的赞美，就像诗人的名声一样。像他一样，伟大的德莱登倾注了歌曲的浪潮，虽然水流不那么平缓，但却加倍强劲。那么康格里夫的场景就可以欢呼，或者奥特韦的融化——然后英国观众就会感到自然。但是，为什么这些名字，或者更伟大的名字，在所有较弱的吟游诗人都辞职的时候，又重新出现了呢?然而，当品味和理智随着时代的流逝，我们的目光却投向了这样的时代。现在环顾四周，翻翻每一页琐碎的书页，看看那些令这个时代高兴的珍贵作品;这一真理至少可以让讽刺作品自己承认，现在吟游诗人可不少。 The loaded press beneath her labour groans, And printers' devils shake their weary bones; While Southey's epics cram the creaking shelves, And Little's lyrics shine in hot-press'd twelves. Thus saith the Preacher: "Nought beneath the sun Is new"; yet still from change to change we run: What varied wonders tempt us as they pass! The cow-pox, tractors, galvanism and gas, In turns appear, to make the vulgar stare, Till the swoln bubble bursts--and all is air! Nor less new schools of Poetry arise, Where dull pretenders grapple for the prize: O'er taste awhile these pseudo-bards prevail; Each country book-club bows the knee to Baal, And, hurling lawful genius from the throne, Erects a shrine and idol of its own; Some leaden calf--but whom it matters not, From soaring Southey down to grovelling Stott. Behold! in various throngs the scribbling crew, For notice eager, pass in long review: Each spurs his jaded Pegasus apace, And rhyme and blank maintain an equal race; Sonnets on sonnets crowd, and ode on ode; And tales of terror jostle on the road; Immeasurable measures move along; For simpering folly loves a varied song, To strange mysterious dulness still the friend, Admires the strain she cannot comprehend. Thus Lays of Minstrels--may they be the last!-- On half-strung harps whine mournful to the blast. While mountain spirits prate to river sprites, That dames may listen to the sound at nights; And goblin brats, of Gilpin Horner's brood, Decoy young border-nobles through the wood, And skip at every step, Lord knows how high, And frighten foolish babes, the Lord knows why; While high-born ladies in their magic cell, Forbidding knights to read who cannot spell, Despatch a courier to a wizard's grave, And fight with honest men to shield a knave. Next view in state, proud prancing on his roan, The golden-crested haughty Marmion, Now forging scrolls, now foremost in the fight, Not quite a felon, yet but half a knight, The gibbet or the field prepar'd to grace; A mighty mixture of the great and base. And think'st thou, Scott! by vain conceit perchance, On public taste to foist thy stale romance, Though Murray with his Miller may combine To yield thy muse just half-a-crown per line? No! when the sons of song descend to trade, Their bays are sear, their former laurels fade. Let such forego the poet's sacred name, Who rack their brains for lucre, not for fame: Still for stern Mammon may they toil in vain! And sadly gaze on gold they cannot gain! Such be their meed, such still the just reward Of prostituted muse and hireling bard! For this we spurn Apollo's venal son, And bid a long "good night to Marmion." These are the themes that claim our plaudits now; These are the bards to whom the muse must bow; While Milton, Dryden, Pope, alike forgot, Resign their hallow'd bays to Walter Scott. The time has been, when yet the muse was young, When Homer swept the lyre, and Maro sung, An epic scarce ten centuries could claim, While awe-struck nations hail'd the magic name; The work of each immortal bard appears The single wonder of a thousand years. Empires have moulder'd from the face of earth, Tongues have expir'd with those who gave them birth, Without the glory such a strain can give, As even in ruin bids the language live. Not so with us, though minor bards, content On one great work a life of labour spent: With eagle pinion soaring to the skies, Behold the ballad-monger Southey rise! To him let Camoëns, Milton, Tasso yield,