are great favourities with Lord Byron. We have them of all kinds,
from Anacreon to Ossian; and, viewing them as school-exercises, they
may pass. Only, why print them after they have had their day and
served their turn? And why call the thing in p. 79 a translation,
where TWO words ([Greek]) of the original are expanded into four
lines, and the other thing in p. 81, where [Greek] is rendered by
means of six hobbling verses. As to his Ossian poesy, we are not
very good judges; being, in truth, so moderately skilled in that
species of composition, that we should, in all probability, be
criticising some bit of genuine Macpherson itself, were we to express
our opinion of Lord Byron's rhapsodies. If, then, the following
beginning of a Song of Bards is by his Lordship, we venture to object
to it, as far as we can comprehend it; 'What form rises on the roar
of clouds, whose dark ghost gleams on the red stream of tempests?
His voice rolls on the thunder; 'tis Oila, the brown chief of
Otchona. He was,' etc. After detaining this 'brown chief' some
time, the bards conclude by giving him their advice to 'raise his
fair locks'; then to 'spread them on the arch of the rainbow'; and to
'smile through the tears of the storm.' Of this kind of thing there
are no less than nine pages: and we can so far venture an opinion in
their favour, that they look very like Macpherson; and we are
positive they are pretty nearly as stupid and tiresome.

"It is some sort of privilege of poets to be egotists; but they
should 'use it as not abusing it'; and particularly one who piques
himself (though, indeed, at the ripe age of nineteen) on being an
infant bard--


The artless Helicon I boast is youth--