NEWSTEAD! fast falling, once resplendent dome!
Religion's shrine! repentant HENRY'S pride!

of Warriors, Monks, and Dames the cloister'd tomb, Whose pensive shades around thy ruins glide:

Hail to thy pile! more honour'd in thy fall,
Than modern mansions in their pillar'd state;
Proudly majestic frowns thy vaulted hall,

Scowling defiance on the blasts of fate.

Ne mail-clad Serfs, 3 obedient to their Lord,
In grim array, the crimson cross 4 demand;
Or gay assemble round the festive board,
Their chiefs retainers, an immortal band.

De might inspiring Fancy's magic eye
Retrace their progress, through the lapse of time;
Marking each ardent youth, ordain'd to die
A votive pilgrim, in Judea's clime.

But not from thee, dark pile! departs the Chief,
His feudal realm in other regions lay;
In thee, the wounded conscience courts relief,
Retiring, fom the garish blaze of day.

Yes, in thy gloomy cells and shades profound,
The Monk abjured a world he ne'er could view;
Or blood-stain d Guilt repenting solace found,
Or Innocence from stern Oppression flew.

A Monarch bride thee from that wild arise,
Where Sherwoods outlaws once were wont to prowl;
And Superstition's crimes, of various.dyes,

Sought shelter in the Priest's protecting cowl.
Where now the grass exhales a murky dew,
The humid pail of life-extinguish'd clay,
In sainted fame the sacred Fathers grew,

Sor raised their pious voices, but to pray.
Where now the bats their wavering wings extend,
Soon as the gloaming spreads her waning shade,
The choir did oft their mingling vespers blend,
Or matin orisons to Mary paid.

* As one poem on this subject is printed in the beginning, the aurace back ongically no intention of inserting the following: it is aded as he particular request of some friends.

• Henry II founded Newstead, soon after the murder of Thomas . Bein

The ad used by Walter Scott, in his poem, The Wild Mostemon • .***anymous with Vassal.

• The Bel Cross was the badge of the Crusaders.

* As • Gil among the Scottish word for Twilight, is far more marwal, and has been recommended by many eminent literary men, katy De Mare, in his Letters to Burns, I bave ventured to trast of us barmony

The Emary was de ficated to the Virgin.

Years roll on years-to ages, ages yield-
Abbots to abbots in a line succeed,
Religion's charter their protecting shield,

Till royal sacrilege their doom decreed.
One holy HENRY rear'd the Gothic walls,

And bade the pious inmates rest in peace;
Another HENRY' the kind gift recals,

And bids devotion's hallow'd echoes cease.
Vain is each threat, or supplicating prayer,
He drives them exiles from their blest abode,
To roam a dreary world, in deep despair,

No friend, no home, no refuge but their God.
Ilark! how the hall, resounding to the strain,
Shakes with the martial music's novel din!
The heralds of a warrior's haughty reign,

High crested banners, wave thy walls within.

Of changing sentinels the distant hum,
The mirth of feasts, the clang of burnish'd arms,
The braying trumpet, and the hoarser drum,

Unite in concert with increased alarms.

An abbey once, a regal fortress now,
Encircled by insulting rebel powers;

War's dread machines o'erhang thy threatening brow,
And dart destruction in sulphurcous showers.

Ah! vain defence! the hostile traitor's siege,
Though oft repulsed, by guile o'ercomes the brave;
His thronging foes oppress the faithful Liege,
Rebellion's reeking standards o'er him wave.
Not unavenged, the raging Baron yields,
The blood of traitors smears the purple plain;
Unconquer'd still his faulchion there he wields,
And days of glory yet for him remain.

Still, in that hour the warrior wish'd to strew
Self-gather'd laurels on a self-sought grave;
But Charles' protecting genius hither flew,

The monarch's friend, the monarch's hope, to save. Trembling she snatch'd him 3 from the unequal strife, In other fields the torrent to repel,

For nobler combats here reserved his life,

To lead the band where god-like FALKLAND 4 fell. From thee, poor pile! to lawless plunder given, While dying groans their painful requiem sound, Far different incense now ascends to heavenSuch victims wallow on the gory ground. There, many a pale and ruthless robber's corse, Noisome and ghast, defiles thy sacred sød ; O'er mingling man, and horse commix'd with horse, Corruption's heap, the savage spoilers trod. Graves, long with rank and sighing weeds o'erspread, Ransack'd, resign perforce their mortal mould; From ruffian fangs escape not e'en the dead, Raked from repose, in search of buried gold.

At the dissolution of the Monasteries, Henry VIII. bestowed Newstead Abbey on Sir John Byron.

1 Newstead sustained a considerable siege in the war between Charles I. and bis Parliament,

3 Lord Byron and his brother Sir William held high commands in the royal army: the form r was General in Chief in Ireland, Licutenant of the Tower, and Governor to James Duke of York, afterwards the unhappy James II. The latter had a principal share in many actions. Vide Clarendon, Hume, etc.

4 Lucius Cary, Lord Viscount Falkland, the most accomplished man of his age, was killed at the battle of Newberry, charging in the tanks of Lord Byron's regiment of cavalry,

Hush'd is the harp, unstrung the warlike lyre,
The minstrel's palsied hand reclines in death;
No more he strikes the quivering chords with fire,
Or sings the glories of the martial wreath.
At length, the sated murderers, gorged with prey,
Retire the clamour of the fight is o'er;
Silence again resumes her awful sway,
And sable Horror guards the massy door.
Here Desolation holds her dreary court;

What satellites declare her dismal reign!
Shrieking their dirge, ill-omen'd birds resort
To fit their vigils in the hoary fane.
Soon a new morn's restoring beams dispel
The clouds of anarchy from Britain's skies;
The fierce usurper seeks his native hell,

And Nature triumphs as the tyrant dies.
With storms she welcomes his expiring groans,
Whirlwinds responsive greet his labouring breath;
Earth shudders as her cave receives his bones,
Loathing the offering of so dark a death.

The legal Ruler now resumes the helm,

He guides thro' gentle seas the prow of state:
Hope cheers with wonted smiles the peaceful realm,
And heals the bleeding wounds of wearied Hate.

The gloomy tenants, Newstead, of thy cells,
Howling resign their violated nest;
Again the master on his tenure dwells,

Enjoy'd, from absence, with enraptured zest.
Vassals within thy hospitable pale,

Loudly carousing, bless their Lord's return;
Culture again adorns the gladdening vale,
And matrons, once lamenting, cease to mourn.

A thousand songs on tuneful echo float,

Unwonted foliage mantles o'er the trees; And, hark! the horns proclaim a mellow note,

The hunter's cry hangs lengthening on the breeze. Beneath their coursers' hoofs the valleys shake: What fears, what anxious hopes attend the chase! The dying stag seeks refuge in the lake,

Exulting shouts announce the finish'd race. Ah! happy days! too happy to endure!

Such simple sports our plain forefathers knew: No splendid vices glitter'd to allure

Their joys were many, as their cares were few. From these descending, sons to sires succeed,

Time steals along, and Death uprears his dart; Another chief impels the foaming steed,

Another crowd pursue the panting hart. Newstead! what saddening change of scene is thine! Thy yawning arch betokens slow decay; The last and youngest of a noble line

Now holds thy mouldering turrets in his sway. Deserted now, he scans thy gray-worn towersThy vaults, where dead of feudal ages sleep

This is an historical fact. A violent tempest occurred immediately subsequent to the death, or interment, of Cromwell, which cccasioned many disputes between his partisans and the cavaliers, both interpreted the circumstance into disine interposition, but whether as approbation or condemnation, we leave to the casu sts of that age to decide. I have made such use of the occurrence waited the subject of my poem.

Charles II.

as

Thy cloisters, pervious to the wintry showers-
These, these he views, and views them but to weep
Yet are his tears no emblem of regret,

Cherish'd affection only bids them flow;
Pride, Hope, and Love forbid him to forget,
But warm his bosom with impassion'd glow.
Yet, he prefers thee to the gilded domes,

Or gew-gaw grottos of the vainly great;
Yet lingers 'mid thy damp and mossy tombs,
Nor breathes a murmur 'gainst the will of fate.
Haply thy sun emerging yet may shine,

Thee to eradiate with meridian ray;
Hours splendid as the past may still be thine,
And bless thy future as thy former day.

TO E. N. L. ESQ.

Nil ego contulerim jucundo sanus amico.

DEAR L——, in this sequester'd scene,

While all around in slumber lie,
The joyous days which ours have been
Come rolling fresh on Fancy's eye:
Thus, if amidst the gathering storm,
While clouds the darken'd noon deform,
Yon heaven assumes a varied glow,
I hail the sky's celestial bow,
Which spreads the sign of future peace,
And bids the war of tempests cease.
Ah! though the present brings but pain,
I think those days may come again;
Or if, in melancholy mood,
Some lurking envious fear intrude,
To check my bosom's fondest thought,
And interrupt the golden dream;

I crush the fiend with malice fraught,
And still indulge my wonted theme;
Although we ne'er again can trace,

In Granta's vale, the pedant's lore,
Nor through the groves of IDA chase
Our raptured visions as before;
Though Youth has flown on rosy pinion,
And Manhood claims his stern dominion,
Age will not every hope destroy,
But yield some hours of sober joy.

Yes, I will hope that Time's broad wing
Will shed around some dews of spring;
But, if his scythe must sweep the flowers
Which bloom among the fairy bowers,
Where smiling Youth delights to dwell,
And hearts with early rapture swell;
If frowning Age, with cold controul,
Confines the current of the soul,
Congeals the tear of Pity's eye,
Or checks the sympathetic sigh,
Or hears unmoved Misfortune's groan,
And bids me feel for self alone;
Oh! may my bosom never learn,

To soothe its wonted heedless flow,
Still, still, despise the censor stern,
But ne'er forget another's woe.
Yes, as you knew me in the days
O'er which Remembrance yet delays,

HOR. E..

Still may I rove untutor'd, wild, And even in age at heart a child.

Though now on airy visions borne,
To you my soul is still the same,
Oft has it been my fate to mourn,

And all my former joys are tame.
But, hence! ye hours of sable hue,
Your frowns are gone, my sorrows o'er;
By every bliss my childhood knew,

I think upon your shade no more. Thus, when the whiriwind's rage is past, And caves their sullen roar enclose, We heed no more the wintry blast,

When lull'd by zephyr to repose. Full often has my infant Muse,

Attuned to love her languid lyre; But now, without a theme to choose, The strains in stolen sighs expire; My youthful nymphs, alas! are flown; is a wife, and C

E

And Carolina sighs alone,

a mother,

And Mary's given to another;
And Cora's eye, which roll'd on me,
Can now no more my love recal;

In truth, dear L——, 't was time to flee,
For Cora's eye will shine on all.
And though the Sun, with genial rays,
His beams alike to all displays,
And every lady's eye's a sun,
These last should be confined to one.
The souls meridian don't become her
Whose sun displays a general summer.
Thus faint is every former flame,
And Passion's self is now a name:
As when the ebbing flames are low,

The aid which once improved their light, And hade them burn with fiercer glow, Now quenches all their sparks in night; Thus has it been with passion's fires,

As many a boy and girl remembers, Winle all the force of love expires,

Extinguish'd with the dying embers.

But now dear L, 't is midnight's noon,
And clouds obscure the watery moon,
Whose beauties I shall not rehearse,
Described in every stripling's verse;
For why should I the path go o'er,
Wlach every bard has trod before?
Yet, ere yon silver lamp of night

flas thrice perform'd her stated round, Has thrice retraced her path of light,

And chased away the gloom profound, I trust that we, my gentle friend, Shali see her rolling orbit wend Above the dear loved peaceful seat Which once contain'd our youth's retreat; And then, with those our childhood knew, We ll mingle with the festive crew; While many a tale of former day Shall wing the laughing hours away; And all the flow of soul shall pour

The sacred intellectual shower,

Nor cease, till Luna's waning horn

Scarce glimmers through the mist of Morn.

ΤΟ

On! had my fate been join'd with thine,
As once this pledge appear'd a token,
These follies had not then been mine,
For then my peace had not been broken.
To thee these early faults I owe,

To thee, the wise and old reproving;
They know my sins, but do not know

"T was thine to break the bonds of loving.
For once my soul, like thine, was pure,
And all its rising fires could smother;
But now thy vows no more endure,
Bestow'd by thee upon another.
Perhaps his peace I could destroy,

And spoil the blisses that await him ;
Yet, let my rival smile in joy,

For thy dear sake I cannot hate him. Ah! since thy angel form is gone,

My heart no more can rest with any;
But what it sought in thee alone,
Attempts, alas! to find in many.
Then fare thee well, deceitful maid,

'T were vain and fruitless to regret thee;
Nor hope nor memory yield their aid,
But pride may teach me to forget thee.
Yet all this giddy waste of years,

This tiresome round of palling pleasures,
These varied loves, these matron's fears,

These thoughtless strains to passion's measures,

If thou wert mine, had all been hush'd;
This cheek, now pale from early riot,
With Passion's hectic ne'er had flush'd,
But bloom'd in calm domestic quiet.
Yes, once the rural scene was sweet,

For nature seem'd to smile before thee;
And once my breast abhorr'd deceit,

For then it beat but to adore thee.

But now I seek for other joys;

To think would drive my soul to madness;
In thoughtless throngs and empty noise,
I conquer half my bosom's sadness.
Yet, even in these a thought will steal,
In spite of every vain endeavour;
And fiends might pity what I feel,
To know that thou art lost for ever.

STANZAS.

I WOULD I were a careless child,
Still dwelling in my Highland cave,
Or roaming through the dusky wild,

Or bounding o'er the dark blue wave.
The cumbrous pomp of Saxon' pride

Accords not with the free-born soul, Which loves the mountain's craggy side,

And seeks the rocks where billows roll. Fortune! take back these cultured lands, Take back this name of splendid sound!

I hate the touch of servile hands

I hate the slaves that cringe around:

Sassenagh, or Saxon, a Gaelic word signifying either Lowland or English.

I ask but this-again to rove

Through scenes my youth hath known before.

Few are my years, and yet I feel

The world was ne'er design'd for me; Ah! why do dark'ning shades conceal"

The hour when man must cease to be?
Once I beheld a splendid dream,

A visionary scene of bliss;
Truth! wherefore did thy hated beam
Awake me to a world like this?

I loved-but those I loved are gone;
Had friends-my early friends are fled;
How cheerless feels the heart alone,

When all its former hopes are dead!
Though gay companions o'er the bowl,
Dispel awhile the sense of ill,
Though Pleasure stirs the maddening soul,
The heart-the heart is lonely still.
How dull to hear the voice of those

Whom Rank or Chance, whom Wealth or Power, Have made, though neither Friends nor Foes, Associates of the festive hour.

Give me again a faithful few,

In years and feelings still the same, And I will fly the midnight crew,

Where boist'rous Joy is but a name.
And Woman! lovely Woman, thou,
My hope, my comforter, my all!
How cold must be my bosom now,
When c'en thy smiles begin to pall!
Without a sigh would I resign

This busy scene of splendid woe,
To make that calm contentment mine
Which Virtue knows, or seems to know.
Fain would I fly the haunts of men-
I seek to shun, not hate mankind;
My breast requires the sullen glen,

Whose gloom may suit a darken'd mind.
Oh! that to me the wings were given

Which bear the turtle to her nest! Then would I cleave the vault of Heaven, To flee away and be at rest.'

LINES

WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM IN THE CHURCHYARD OF HARROW ON THE HILL.

SEPT. 2, 1807.

SPOT of my youth! whose hoary branches sigh,
Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky;
Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod,
With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod;
With those who, scatter'd far, perchance deplore,
Like me, the happy scenes they knew before:
Oh! as I trace again thy winding hill,
Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still,
Thou drooping Elm! beneath whose boughs I lay,
And frequent mused the twilight hours away;
Where, as they once were wont, my limbs recline,
But ah! without the thoughts which then were mine:

↑ Psalm lv. v. 6. —. And I said, Oh! that I had wings like a dove. then would I fly away and be at rest. This verse also coustitutes a part of the most beautiful anthem in our language.

How do thy branches, moaning to the blast, Invite the bosom to recal the past;

And seem to whisper, as they gently swell,

Take, while thou can'st, a lingering last farewell!» When Fate shall chill at length this fever'd breast, And calm its cares and passions into rest, Oft have I thought 't would soothe my dying hour, If aught may soothe when life resigns her power, To know some humbler grave, some narrow cell, Would hide my bosom where it loved to dwell: With this fond dream methinks 't were sweet to dieAnd here it linger'd, here my heart might he; Here might I sleep, where all my hopes arose, Scene of my youth, and couch of my repose: For ever stretch'd beneath this mantling shade, Prest by the turf where once my childhood play'd, Wrapt by the soil that veils the spot I loved, Mix'd with the earth o'er which my footsteps moved; Blest by the tongues that charm'd iny youthful ear, Mourn'd by the few my soul acknowledged here, Deplored by those in early days allied, And unremember'd by the world beside.

THE DEATH OF CALMAR AND ORLA.

AN IMITATION OF
MACPHERSON'S OSSIAN.'

DEAR are the days of youth! Age dwells on their remembrance through the mist of time. In the twiligh he recals the sunny hours of morn. He lifts his spear with trembling hand. Not thus feebly did I raise the steel before my fathers!» Past is the race of heroes) but their fame rises on the harp; their souls ride on the wings of the wind! they hear the sound through the sighs of the storm, and rejoice in their hall of clouds! Such is Calmar. The gray stone marks his narrow house. He looks down from eddying tempests, he rolls his form in the whirlwind; and hovers on the blast of the mountain.

In Morven dwelt the chief; a beam of war to Fingal. His steps in the field were marked in blood; Lochlin s sons had fled before his angry spear: but mild was the eye of Calmar; soft was the flow of his yellow locks-they stream'd like the meteor of the night. No maid was the sigh of his soul; his thoughts were given to friendship, to dark-haired Orla, destroyer of heroes" Equal were their swords in battle; but fierce was the pride of Orla, gentle alone to Calmar. Together they dwelt in the cave of Oithona.

From Lochlin, Swaran bounded o'er the blue waves. Erin's sons fell beneath his might. Fingal roused his chiefs to combat. Their ships cover the ocean! Their hosts throng on the green hills. They come to the aid

of Erin.

Night rose in clouds. Darkness veils the armies. but the blazing oaks gleam through the valley. The sons of Lochlin slept: their dreams were of blood. They lift the spear in thought, and Fingal tlies. Not so the host of Morven. To watch was the post of Orla. Calmar stood by his side. Their spears were in their hands. Fingal called his chiefs. They stood around. The king was in the midst. Gray were his locks, but strong was the arm of the king. Age withered not his powers.

It may be necessary to observe, that the story, though C D&derably varied in the catastrophe, is taken from Nists and Eu.yalus, of which episode a translation has been already given.

>as of Morven, » said the hero, « to-morrow we meet be; but where is Cuthullin, the shield of Erin? sts in the halls of Tura; he knows not of our Who will speed through Lochlin to the hero, the chief to arms? The path is by the swords many are my heroes. They are thunderbolts Speak, ye chiefs! who will arise?»

a of Tremmor! mine be the deed,» said darkOra, and mine alone. What is death to me? -de skep of the mighty, but little is the danger. of Lochlin dream. I will seek car-borne If I fall, raise the song of bards, and lay the stream of Lubar.»-« And shalt thou fall ⚫said fair-haired Calmar, « Wilt thou leave thy far: Chief of Oithona! not feeble is my arm in Could I see thee die, and not lift the spear? No, ars has been the chase of the roebuck, and the of girls; ours be the path of danger: ours has de cave of Oithona; ours be the narrow dwelling mks of Lubar.»-« Calmar!» said the chief of why should thy yellow locks be darkened - of Erin? Let me fall alone. My father Lis hall of air: he will rejoice in his boy: but -eyed Mora spreads the feast for her son in She listens to the steps of the hunter on the and thinks it is the tread of Calmar. Let him "Calmar is fallen by the steel of Lochlin; he with gloomy Orla, the chief of the dark brow.' uld tears dim the azure eye of Mora? Why 4 Ler voice curse Orla, the destroyer of Calmar? mar! live to raise my stone of moss; live to me in the blood of Lochlin! Join the song of my grave. Sweet will be the song of death * from the voice of Calmar. My ghost shall smile s of praise,»-« Orla!» said the son of * could I raise the song of death to my friend? I give his fame to the winds? No; my heart alipak in sighis; faint and broken are the sounds Orla! our souls shall hear the song together. d shall be ours on high; the bards will mingle s of Orla and Calmar.»

2 spear

Try at the circle of the chiefs. Their steps are thest of Lochlin. The dying blaze of oak dim es through the night. The northern star points path to Tura. Swaran, the king, rests on his Here the troops are mixed: they frown in Iter shields beneath their heads. Their swords at distance, in heaps. The fires are faint; their ser til in smoke. All is hushed; but the gale the rocks above. Lightly wheel the heroes the slumbering band. Half the journey is Mathon, resting on his shield, meets the 3. It rolls in flame, and glistens through the is raised on high. Why dost thou ady brow, Chief of Oithona?» said fair-haired We are in the midst of foes. Is this a time It is a time for vengeance,» said Orla, y brow. «Mathon of Lochlin sleeps: seest spear? Its point is dim with the gore of my The blood of Mathon shall reek on mine; but y him sleeping, son of Mora? No! he shall Found: my fame shall not soar on the blood amber. Rise, Mathon! rise! the son of Connal calls; ife is his: rise to combat. Mathon starts from at did he rise alone? No: the gathering chiefs en the plain. Fly, Calmar fly!» said darkOrla Mathon is mine; I shall die in joy; but

Lochlin crowds around; fly through the shade of night.» Orla turns; the helm of Mathon is cleft; his shield falls from his arm: he shudders in his blood. He rolls by the side of the blazing oak. Strumon sees him fall. His wrath rises; his weapon glitters on the head of Orla; but a spear pierced his eye His brain gushes through the wound, and foams on the spear of Calmar. As roll the waves of Ocean on two mighty barks of the north, so pour the men of Lochlin on the chiefs. As, breaking the surge in foam, proudly steer the barks of the north, so rise the chiefs of Morven on the scattered crests of Lochlin. The din of arms came to the ear of Fingal. He strikes his shield: his sons throng around; the people pour along the heath. Ryno bounds in joy. Ossian stalks in his arms. Oscar shakes the spear. The eagle wing of Fillan floats on the wind. Dreadful is the clang of death! many are the widows of Lochlin. Morven prevails in its strength.

Moru glimmers on the hills: no living foe is seen; but the sleepers are many: grim they lie on Erin. The breeze of ocean lifts their locks: yet they do not awake. The hawks scream above their prey.

Whose yellow locks wave o'er the breast of a chief? bright as the gold of the stranger, they mingle with the dark hair of his friend. Tis Calmar-he lies on the bosom of Orla. Theirs is one stream of blood. Fierce is the look of the gloomy Orla. He breathes not; but his eye is still a flame: it glares in death unclosed. His hand is grasped in Calmar's; but Calmar lives: he lives, though low. « Rise,» said the king, «rise, son of Mora; 'tis mine to heal the wounds of heroes. Calmar may yet bound on the hills of Morven.»>

« Never more shall Calmar chase the deer of Morven with Orla;» said the hero, «what were the chase to me, alone? Who would share the spoils of battle with Calmar? Orla is at rest! Rough was thy soul, Orla! yet soft to me as the dew of morn. It glared on others in lightning; to me a silver beam of night. Bear my sword to blue-eyed Mora: let it hang in my empty hall. It is not pure from blood: but it could not save Orla. Lay me with my friend: raise the song when I am dark.»

They are laid by the stream of Lubar. Four gray stones mark the dwelling of Orla and Calmar.

When Swaran was bound, our sails rose on the blue waves. The winds gave our barks to Morven. The Bards raised the song.

« What form rises on the roar of clouds? whose dark ghost gleams on the red streams of tempests? his voice roils on the thunder. Tis Orla; the brown chief of Oithona. He was unmatched in war. Peace to thy soul, Orla! thy fame will not perish. Nor thine, Calmar! Lovely wast thou, son of blue-eyed Mora; but not harmless was thy sword. It hangs in thy cave. The ghosts of Lochlin shriek around its steel. Hear thy praise, Calmar! it dwells on the voice of the mighty. Thy name shakes on the echoes of Morven. Then raise thy fair locks, son of Mora. Spread them on the arch of the rainbow, and smile through the tears of the

storm.>>

1 I fear Laing's late edition has completely overthrown every hope that Macpherson's Ossian might prove the Translation of a series of Poems, complete in themselves; but, while the imposture is discovered, the merit of the work remains undisputed, though not without faults, particularly in some parts, turgid and bombastic diction.-The present humble imitation will be pardoned by the admirers of the original, as an attempt, however inferior, which evinces an attachment to their favourite author.