who was coming to devote himself to so glorious a cause. I was almost ashamed of myself for deserting it, and determined to wait his arrival; but at the end of a fortnight, I thought he had changed his intentions, and therefore proceeded to Zante, where, after my release from a quarantine of fifteen days, I learnt that Lord Byron was actually gone to Missolonghi. As I was unwilling to go back, I sailed for Corfu, intending to write home to know whether I might return to Rome. I arrived at Corfu at the time of the carnival: I entered into its gaieties, and forgot my past sufferings. I received letters from Rome, which brought me remittances, and encouraged my hopes of return.

I continued to amuse myself till the midst of Lent, when I received other letters, desiring me to go to Ancona. I therefore embarked in the first vessel bound to that port. On Maunday Thursday, after a quarantine of nineteen days, I waited upon Signor Masi, the director of the police, who said that I had permission to remain at Ancona, but that I was known. My intention was to reach Rome on Easter Sunday; but in this I was most unexpectedly disappointed. I staid some time at Ancona. One day I was sent for by the director of police, who said, with an air of authority, "I told you that I knew you. I have received an order from the governor of Rome to arrest you. As you are of a good family, I have procured you a comfortable prison." I remonstrated, but in vain. I immediately wrote to my mother, who, with great exertions, procured my release, after twenty days' imprisonment, but on condition that I should not go beyond the gates of Ancona. I was detained in that city two months longer; nor could I obtain a passport, either for Rome or any other place. Thus I was obliged to spend my money in Ancona. Indignant at this delay, I went to the director of police, who had been commander of a battalion in the army of the viceroy of Italy, and said to him: "I am surprised that you treat an officer who has been in the service of Napoleon in this way." He replied “When I was commander of a battalion, I obeyed the orders of Napoleon: now that I am the director of police to Leo XII. I must execute his orders." This director was one of those men who swim with the stream.

As the fair of Sinigaglia was approaching, I solicited permission at Rome to go there. This, with great difficulty, I obtained, but was closely watched by the police. The fair being over, the director of police received an order from Rome to grant me a passport for Paris. I therefore departed for the French capital, without the expectation of ever again seeing my country. At Paris I was informed that my friend, who had left Foligno after the defeat of Napolcon, was in London. I was anxious to see and embrace him. I have now been sixteen months in this capital. Here, unmolested, I breathe the air of liberty; and here, unless any unforeseen event should disappoint my expectation, I hope to end my days.

SIR,

THE GENERAL TRADER.

Seeing that you've lately got

Proposals from the Trade,
To furnish verses by the lot,
And poems ready made;

And that, 'midst other jobbing offers,
Of traders on the Line,

There's one who aims to fill his coffers,
And drink Pierian wine-

By charging at the old "compute,"
The general standant rate
Of ancient poets, ere the lute,
Or harp, were out of date:

Tho' owning that his mouldy shell
Great mustiness bespeaks,
We cannot bear that he should sell
His trash for true antiques.

In such an age, when every dreamer
Is mad with rhyming mania;

When every Muse is turn'd a schemer,
From Clio to Urania;

When, week by week, our markets fill,
Instead of corn, with stubbles;
We want a rhyme-restriction Bill,
And Acts against these bubbles.

Now, when a hundred songs scarce bring
"One penny all" per cento,

Is rhyming worth a sov'reign's ring,
Or felon's last memento?

What means your Correspondent, then,

By" general fair compute?"
Pay him for wear and tear of pen,
And let the Jew be mute.

If not, you proper Jewish sin'ger!
(Not thou, who wrot'st the Psalter,)
Your poems singe-'twill no one injure-
Upon your kitchen-altar!

Lo! I proclaim myself your rival,

In diction and in rhymes;

But humbler, ask not the revival
Of old Augustan times!

I'll sell my stanzas at first cost,

(As honest rhym'sters should,) To wit, the hours in writing lost, To all who'll make them good.

For then, I'd just consign my debtors,-
Those who lost hours to me,

To Time, who's held me oft in fetters,
And in his gaol ennui.

Aye! he's a creditor of mine,

A dd old black-leg, too!
The hours I've lost to him in wine
And play, I'll ever rue!
My dead forefathers, to the grave
He sent, like me, all fleeced-
For he is old-aye, born, the knave!
Before this globe was leased.

But still he races on, plays still,

And cheats, Lord! how he cheats!
And oh! what wine and blood he'll spill,
In ostentatious treats!

Alas! I dare not count my debts

To this perfidious host!

Who made books, goblets, cards, and bets,
My snares, but women most.

He well deserves to lose his years;
Th'usurious thief!

To charge such int'rest on arrears,
In retrospective grief!

Wer't not for this, the debt were light-
For twenty in the pound

Is nature's due-that paid, the sprite
May come upon my ground;

May seize, distrain my bones again,
Until they smell like puns.

Oh! that he would but wait till then,
And draw off now his duns!

No matter! He's your old subscriber,
And thrusts your Magazine

In his Museum, as a liber,

Which Freedom's Muses screen.

But be not flatter'd, though he gathers
You down to future ages-

He's done as much for all the Fathers,
And for most Heathen Sages.

There lie they, like his dusty mummies,
That may be smelt, not read;

'Mid pictures, parchments, coins and nummies,
Vain records of the dead.

But now my rhyme begins to halt,

I'll change my step, and take a vault,
Some twelve or twenty stanzas back,

To get upon my former track;

Digressing with a summersault,

To things which I should not forget,
The end and view with which I write ;
These, for a time, I'll keep in sight.

Know then, since Verse is now a drug,
And Poets galley slaves, who tug
To bring a cargo to the mart,
Of which they own but little part;
We quit th' inspired, elected many,
To earn elsewise an honest penny.
We give up all our hopes of fame,
And want a buyer for the same:
We've turn'd to business of a sort
That may be titled making-sport
Or way, for we have got to port
From Cape Madeir'—or making hay,
Upon a sunny quarter-day,
Gilt by Apollo's golden-pay.

Now as your Magazine is known
To be a sort of gen'ral storehouse,
Where writers send-not goods alone,
But brain-got babes, as to a poorhouse;
We beg you'll sweep out all such rubbish,
And condescend to take our treasures;
Instead of things and brats so scrubbish,
We'll furnish subjects grown, and measures.

For now We keep a wholesale shop,
And deal in slops-our own slip-slop.
Ex-poets, formerly bad jokers,

But now good sound factotum-brokers,
Allow'd to split up words in pieces,
To fold up letters well, in creases:
Then frank them forth, as if they were
The bearer of some State affair,
Tho' nothing but chit-chat and puns;
Like franks from Members to their sons,
Kept-misses, wives, and all-but duns.

Exclusive of this punning license,
To clip good English into wry sense,
And send it o'er the world postfree,
We've one for game, or game-to-be:
For we make game of what we please,
And shortly shall of eggs and cheese.
The Public shall not poach the former,
Nor eat stew'd cheese upon a warmer,
Unlicensed by us Lords of Corn,
Cheese-mites and chickens yet unborn.
For mites are not naturæ feræ,
But lawful product of the dairy;

They may be rear'd to maggots tame-
And who denies that these are game?
And then, for eggs, no man can tell
What eggs have game-cocks in their shell.
Hurrah! preserve your game and rights,
And all that springs from land, e'en mites!
Enlist in troops, ye great land-forces,
To seize all corn not brought by horses!
Be ye coast-guardians of the sea,
That vast emporium of the Free!

How I, poor quondam poetaster,
Became a corn and ven'son master,
With powers to pinch the people's paunches,
And eke monopolize deer-haunches,

Is thus explained-I had broad grounds.
To go upon, I knew no bounds ;--

All that the eye from Pindus caught,

Was erst mine own-bequeath'd, not bought. But, ah! I mortgaged all away,

To time for ever and a day.

He left me but a few head-rents;

More than he's left to other gents.!
Not quite enough my mouth to fill;

But then, I have my manners still,
And like a gentleman may kill,

With honour, both my friend and pheasant :
A liberty that 's truly pleasant!

I once had notions of Utopia,

But there they blew the cornucopia;
The horn of plenty, as they said,

Of beef and mutton, and cheap bread.
To me 'twas like the trumpet's blast
That is to wake the dead at last.
Yes, its regenerating breath,
Tho' life to them, to me was death:

I saw my province all invaded—

Six hares and seven pheasants lay dead-
Well mounted horsemen scour'd my covers-
And laughing school-boys shot my plovers-
And who were they? Tim, Hodge, and Jack,
My tenants and their chubby pack!
The rascals were too highly fed,
Paid up their rents, nor wanted bread;

Their house reform'd; enforced their rights;
Took to the field, and left cock-fights.
And what revenge had I, d' you think?
None, by my honour! May I sink,
If they would lock up or transport
A single poacher in that court!—
"Tis now the sole estate I've got,
But it, you see, is gone to pot.