ENGLISH POETRY 1579-1830: SPENSER AND THE TRADITION
H., "The Laureat's Lament" Literary Speculum 1 (March 1822) 328-29.
1795: Samuel Taylor Coleridge
1796: Anna Seward
1796 ca.: James Jennings
1797: Anna Seward
1798: Thomas James Mathias
1800: Dr. Nathan Drake
1801: Thomas Stott
1801: Alexander Thomson
1802: Francis Jeffrey
1806: Anna Seward
1807: Lady Anne Hamilton
1808: Sir Walter Scott
1808: Bp Richard Mant
1808: Anna Seward
1809: Melesina Chenevix Trench
1809: Lord Byron
1809: Joseph Dennie
1810: Sir Walter Scott
1811: Henry Crabb Robinson
1811: Bp. Reginald Heber
1811: Leigh Hunt
1813: Sir Walter Scott
1813: Lord Byron
1813: Rev. Francis Hodgson
1814: Edward Thurlow
1814: George Daniel
1814: Thomas Barnes
1814: Edward Rushton
1814: J. W.
1814: Francis Jeffrey
1816: John Hamilton Reynolds
1816: Herbert Knowles
1816: Francis Jeffrey
1817: Percy Bysshe Shelley
1817: William Hazlitt
1817: R. F.
1817: Impar Sibi, Esq.
1817: Francis Jeffrey
1818: Rev. Francis Hodgson
1818: William Hazlitt
1818: J. M. C.
1819: Lord Byron
1819: Jeremiah Holmes Wiffen
1819: George Ticknor
1820: Rev. John Keble
1820: Ebenezer Elliott
1820: David Carey
1821: John Abraham Heraud
1821: O. F.
1821: P. P.
1822: James Harley
1822: Rev. Chauncy Hare Townshend
1823: Charles Lamb
1823: Charles Lamb
1823: Frances Wright
1825: William Hazlitt
1825: Thomas Enort Smith
1825: John Taylor Coleridge
1826: Joanna Carey
1830: Thomas Babington Macaulay
1830: Rev. George Barrell Cheever
1830: A. P.
1831: Rev. Edward Smedley
1831: John Gibson Lockhart
1833: John Wilson
1833: Allan Cunningham
1834: Walter Savage Landor
1835: Ebenezer Elliott
1836: Isaac Clark Pray
1836: Rev. Richard Polwhele
1837: Thomas Noon Talfourd
1838: Walter Savage Landor
1842: Robert Story
1843: Mary Russell Mitford
1843: William Wordsworth
1843: Rev. William Lisle Bowles
1845: George Gilfillan
1846: John Dix
1847: Horace Smith
1848 ca.: Edgar Allan Poe
1851: Dr. David Macbeth Moir
1852: Mary Russell Mitford
1871: S. C. Hall
1873: Joseph Devey
1880: Henry Taylor
1882: Epes Sargent
1898: Rowland E. Prothero
Come, all ye Bulls, ye Murphy's, and McDowals,
List, tho' my Hippocrene is somewhat drouthy;
Ye that have any pity in your bowels,
Compassionate the sorrows of Bob Southey.
Alas! the harp of my young days is tuneless;
Harsh is my sackbut and my dulcimer,
The horizon of life to me is moonless,
No guiding star of peace or hope is near.
My butt of claret too is quite exhausted,
The rascal vintner sent too small a cask;
No precious ruby drop has e'er been wasted,
Yet the remainder would not fill a flask.
The reading public, that prodigious beast,
Kicks at my laurels now, and snorts and bellows,
And trudge I south, or north, or west or east,
Critics beset me, — those uncivil fellows.
There was a time, — that time I well remember,
When Joan of Arc (poor girl) was in her glory;
Then 'twas my May of life, — now 'tis December:
(Have patience, I am coming to the story.)
There was a time, when Radicals and Whigs
Prais'd my prose verse heroics to the skies;
When by the nose I led reforming pigs,
And found myself at home in all their styes.
That time is past: I am an altered man,
And people say, I have apostatiz'd:
To wear me out they labour all they can,
But if they do, I shall be much surpris'd.
"Visions of Judgment," when I please to see,
And on my factious enemies pass sentence;
If of my homilies they'll heedless be,
Can I not leave them a "death-bed repentance?"
Lord Byron does not heed Lord Chesterfield;
He rails in good set terms and hits me hard:
Let him rail on; I should think scorn to yield:
I can rail too, and curse him by the card.
As for Wat Tyler, — my lame bastard child,
I paid the parish to maintain it for me,
And if the brat has prov'd a little wild,
It is not friendly with the news to bore me.
I may despond at times, but since the vintner
Is soon to send me a fresh butt of sack,
I'll e'en be merry, and despite of Winter
O'er comfortable cheer my lips I'll smack.
So God save George the Fourth, my dear, dear master,
York's Grace, and all the Royal Family;
Shield him, and them, sweet pow'rs, from all disaster!
And thus concludes Bob Southey's Homily.