Rare Sydney! thrice honored the stall where he sits,
And be his every honor he deigneth to climb at!
Had England a hierarchy formed all of wits,
Who but Sydney would England proclaim as its primate?
And long may he flourish, frank, merry and brave--
A Horace to hear and a Paschal to read;
While he _laughs_, all is safe, but, when Sydney grows grave,
We shall then think the Church is in danger _indeed_.
Meanwhile it much glads us to find he's preparing
To teach _other_ bishops to "seek the right way;"[1]
And means shortly to treat the whole Bench to an airing,
Just such as he gave to Charles James t'other day.
For our parts, gravity's good for the soul,
Such a fancy have we for the side that there's fun on,
We'd rather with Sydney southwest take a "stroll,"
Than _coach_ it north-east with his Lordship of Lunnun.
[1] "This stroll in the metropolis is extremely well contrived for your
Lordship's speech; but suppose, my dear Lord, that instead of going E. and
N. E. you had turned about," etc.--SYDNEY SMITH'S _Last Letter to the
Bishop of London_.
THOUGHTS ON PATRONS, PUFFS, AND OTHER MATTERS.
IN AN EPISTLE FROM THOMAS MOORE TO SAMUEL ROGERS.
What, _thou_, my friend! a man of rhymes,
And, better still, a man of guineas,
To talk of "patrons," in these times,
When authors thrive like spinning-jennies,
And Arkwright's twist and Bulwer's page
Alike may laugh at patronage!
No, no--those times are past away,
When, doomed in upper floors to star it.
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