JOHN HOOKHAM FRERE.

A dingy donkey, formal and unchanged, Browsed in the lane and o'er the common ranged, Proud of his ancient asinine possessions, Free from the panniers of the grave professions, He lived at ease; and chancing once to find A lion's skin, the fancy took his mind To personate the monarch of the wood; And for a time the stratagem held good. He moved with so majestical a pace That bears and wolves and all the savage race Gazed in admiring awe, ranging aloof, Not over-anxious for a clearer proof— Longer he might have triumph'd—but alas! In an unguarded hour it came to pass He bray'd aloud; and show'd himself an ass! The moral of this tale I could not guess Till Mr. Landor sent his works to press.

Robert Pollok, A.M.! this work of yours Is meant, I do not doubt, extremely well, And the design I deem most laudable, But since I find the book laid on my table, I shall presume (with the fair owner's leave) To note a single slight deficiency: I mean, in short (since it is called a poem), That in the course of ten successive books If something in the shape of poetry Were to be met with, we should like it better; But nothing of the kind is to be found, Nothing, alas! but words of the olden time, Quaint and uncouth, contorted phrase and queer, With the familiar language that befits Tea-drinking parties most unmeetly matched.