It is impossible to feel any serious or general contempt for a person of Mr. Southey’s genius;—­and, in reviewing his other works, we hope we have shown a proper sense of his many merits and accomplishments.  But his Laureate odes are utterly and intolerably bad; and, if he had never written any thing else, must have ranked him below Colley Cibber in genius, and above him in conceit and presumption.  We have no toleration for this sort of perversity, or prostitution of great gifts; and do not think it necessary to qualify the expression of opinions which we have formed with as much positiveness as deliberation.—­We earnestly wish he would resign his livery laurel to Lord Thurlow, and write no more odes on Court galas.  We can assure him too, most sincerely, that this wish is not dictated in any degree by envy, or any other hostile or selfish feeling.  We are ourselves, it is but too well known, altogether without pretensions to that high office—­and really see no great charms either in the salary or the connexion—­and, for the glory of writing such verses as we have now been reviewing, we do not believe that there is a scribbler in the kingdom so vile as to think it a thing to be coveted.

ON THOMAS MOORE

[From The Edinburgh Review, July, 1806]

Epistles, Odes, and other Poems.  By THOMAS MOORE, Esq. 4to. pp. 350.  London, 1806.

A singular sweetness and melody of versification,—­smooth, copious, and familiar diction,—­with some brilliancy of fancy, and some show of classical erudition, might have raised Mr. Moore to an innocent distinction among the song-writers and occasional poets of his day:  But he is indebted, we fear, for the celebrity he actually enjoys to accomplishments of a different description; and may boast, if the boast can please him, of being the most licentious of modern versifiers, and the most poetical of those who, in our times, have devoted their talents to the propagation of immorality.  We regard his book, indeed, as a public nuisance; and would willingly trample it down by one short movement of contempt and indignation, had we not reason to apprehend, that it was abetted by patrons who are entitled to a more respectful remonstrance, and by admirers who may require a more extended exposition of their dangers.

There is nothing, it will be allowed, more indefensible than a cold-blooded attempt to corrupt the purity of an innocent heart; and we can scarcely conceive any being more truly despicable, than he who, without the apology of unruly passion or tumultuous desires, sits down to ransack the impure places of his memory for inflammatory images and expressions, and commits them laboriously to writing, for the purpose of insinuating pollution into the minds of unknown and unsuspecting readers.