The poem … is a Satire.” It was entitled ‘British Bards’, and finally numbered 520 lines. With a view to publication, or for his own convenience, it was put up in type and printed in quarto sheets. A single copy, which he kept for corrections and additions, was preserved by Dallas, and is now in the British Museum. After the review appeared, he enlarged and recast the ‘British Bards’, and in March, 1809, the Satire was published anonymously. Byron was at no pains to conceal the authorship of ‘English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers’, and, before starting on his Pilgrimage, he had prepared a second and enlarged edition, which came out in October, 1809, with his name prefixed. Two more editions were called for in his absence, and on his return he revised and printed a fifth, when he suddenly resolved to suppress the work. On his homeward voyage he expressed, in a letter to Dallas, June 28, 1811, his regret at having written the Satire. A year later he became intimate, among others, with Lord and Lady Holland, whom he had assailed on the supposition that they were the instigators of the article in the ‘Edinburgh Review’, and on being told by Rogers that they wished the Satire to be withdrawn, he gave orders to his publisher, Cawthorn, to burn the whole impression. A few copies escaped the flames. One of two copies retained by Dallas, which afterwards belonged to Murray, and is now in his grandson’s possession, was the foundation of the text of 1831, and of all subsequent issues. Another copy which belonged to Dallas is retained in the British Museum.

Towards the close of the last century there had been an outburst of satirical poems, written in the style of the ‘Dunciad’ and its offspring the ‘Rosciad’, Of these, Gifford’s ‘Baviad’ and ‘Maviad’ (1794-5), and T. J. Mathias’ ‘Pursuits of Literature’ (1794-7), were the direct progenitors of ‘English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers’, The ‘Rolliad’ (1794), the ‘Children of Apollo’ (circ. 1794), Canning’s ‘New Morality’ (1798), and Wolcot’s coarse but virile lampoons, must also be reckoned among Byron’s earlier models. The ministry of “All the Talents” gave rise to a fresh batch of political ‘jeux d’ésprits’, and in 1807, when Byron was still at Cambridge, the air was full of these ephemera. To name only a few, ‘All the Talents’, by Polypus (Eaton Stannard Barrett), was answered by ‘All the Blocks, an antidote to All the Talents’, by Flagellum (W. H. Ireland); ‘Elijah’s Mantle, a tribute to the memory of the R. H. William Pitt’, by James Sayer, the caricaturist, provoked ‘Melville’s Mantle, being a Parody on … Elijah’s Mantle’. ‘The Simpliciad, A Satirico-Didactic Poem’, and Lady Anne Hamilton’s ‘Epics of the Ton’, are also of the same period. One and all have perished, but Byron read them, and in a greater or less degree they supplied the impulse to write in the fashion of the day.

‘British Bards’ would have lived, but, unquestionably, the spur of the article, a year’s delay, and, above all, the advice and criticism of his friend Hodgson, who was at work on his ‘Gentle Alterative for the Reviewers’, 1809 (for further details, see vol. i., ‘Letters’, Letter 102, ‘note’ 1), produced the brilliant success of the enlarged satire. ‘English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers’ was recognized at once as a work of genius. It has intercepted the popularity of its great predecessors, who are often quoted, but seldom read. It is still a popular poem, and appeals with fresh delight to readers who know the names of many of the “bards” only because Byron mentions them, and count others whom he ridicules among the greatest poets of the century.

ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS.

  Still  must I hear? — shall hoarse  FITZGERALD bawl
  His creaking couplets in a tavern hall,
  And I not sing, lest, haply, Scotch Reviews
  Should dub me scribbler, and denounce my Muse?
  Prepare for rhyme — I’ll publish, right or wrong:
  Fools are my theme, let Satire be my song.

    Oh! Nature’s noblest gift — my grey goose-quill!
  Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will,
  Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen,
  That mighty instrument of little men!    10
  The pen! foredoomed to aid the mental throes
  Of brains that labour, big with Verse or Prose;
  Though Nymphs forsake, and Critics may deride,
  The Lover’s solace, and the Author’s pride.
  What Wits! what Poets dost thou daily raise!
  How frequent is thy use, how small thy praise!
  Condemned at length to be forgotten quite,
  With all the pages which ‘twas thine to write.
  But thou, at least, mine own especial pen!
  Once laid aside, but now assumed again,    20
  Our task complete, like Hamet’s  shall be free;
  Though spurned by others, yet beloved by me:
  Then let us soar to-day; no common theme,
  No Eastern vision, no distempered dream
  Inspires — our path, though full of thorns, is plain;
  Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain.

    When Vice triumphant holds her sov’reign sway,
  Obey’d by all who nought beside obey;
  When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime,
  Bedecks her cap with bells of every Clime;     30
  When knaves and fools combined o’er all prevail,
  And weigh their Justice in a Golden Scale;
  E’en then the boldest start from public sneers,
  Afraid of Shame, unknown to other fears,
  More darkly sin, by Satire kept in awe,
  And shrink from Ridicule, though not from Law.

    Such is the force of Wit! I but not belong
  To me the arrows of satiric song;
  The royal vices of our age demand
  A keener weapon, and a mightier hand.     40
  Still there are follies, e’en for me to chase,
  And yield at least amusement in the race:
  Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame,
  The cry is up, and scribblers are my game:
  Speed, Pegasus! — ye strains of great and small,
  Ode! Epic! Elegy! — have at you all!
  I, too, can scrawl, and once upon a time
  I poured along the town a flood of rhyme,
  A schoolboy freak, unworthy praise or blame;
  I printed — older children do the same.    50
  ’Tis pleasant, sure, to see one’s name in print;
  A Book’s a Book, altho’ there’s nothing in’t.
  Not that a Title’s sounding charm can save
  Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave:
  This LAMB  must own, since his patrician name
  Failed to preserve the spurious Farce from shame.
  No matter, GEORGE continues still to write,
  Tho’ now the name is veiled from public sight.
  Moved by the great example, I pursue
  The self-same road, but make my own review:    60
  Not seek great JEFFREY’S, yet like him will be
  Self-constituted Judge of Poesy.

    A man must serve his time to every trade
  Save Censure — Critics all are ready made.
  Take hackneyed jokes from MILLER,  got by rote,
  With just enough of learning to misquote;
  A man well skilled to find, or forge a fault;
  A turn for punning — call it Attic salt;
  To JEFFREY go, be silent and discreet,
  His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet:    70
  Fear not to lie,’twill seem a sharper hit;
  Shrink not from blasphemy, ‘twill pass for wit;
  Care not for feeling — pass your proper jest,
  And stand a Critic, hated yet caress’d.

  And shall we own such judgment? no — as soon
  Seek roses in December — ice in June;
  Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff,
  Believe a woman or an epitaph,
  Or any other thing that’s false, before
  You trust in Critics, who themselves are sore;    80
  Or yield one single thought to be misled
  By JEFFREY’S heart, or LAMB’S Boeotian head.
  To these young tyrants, by themselves misplaced,
  Combined usurpers on the Throne of Taste;
  To these, when Authors bend in humble awe,
  And hail their voice as Truth, their word as Law;
  While these are Censors, ‘twould be sin to spare;
  While such are Critics, why should I forbear?
  But yet, so near all modern worthies run,
  ’Tis doubtful whom to seek, or whom to shun;    90
  Nor know we when to spare, or where to strike,
  Our Bards and Censors are so much alike.
  Then should you ask me,  why I venture o’er
  The path which POPE and GIFFORD  trod before;
  If not yet sickened, you can still proceed;
  Go on; my rhyme will tell you as you read.
  ”But hold!” exclaims a friend, — ”here’s some neglect:
  This — that — and t’other line seem incorrect.”
  What then? the self-same blunder Pope has got,
  And careless Dryden — ”Aye, but Pye has not:” —    100
  Indeed! — ’tis granted, faith! — but what care I?
  Better to err with POPE, than shine with PYE.