Taking on Virtue's wing her daring flight, The Muse should drag thee trembling to the light,

Probe thy foul wounds, and lay thy bosom bare To the keen question of the searching air.

Gods! with what pride I see the titled slave, Who smarts beneath the stroke which Satire

gave,

Aiming at ease, and with dishonest art
Striving to hide the feelings of his heart!
How do I laugh, when, with affected air,
(Scarce able, through despite, to keep his chair,
Whilst on his trembling lip pale anger speaks,
And the chaf'd blood flies mounting to his
cheeks,)
[cures
He talks of "Conscience, which good men se-
From all those evil moments guilt endures,"
And seems to laugh at those who pay regard
To the wild ravings of a frantic bard!
"Satire, whilst envy and ill humor sway
The mind of man, must always make her way;
Nor to a bosom with discretion fraught
Is all her malice worth a single thought:
The Wise have not the will, nor Fools the
pow'r,

To stop her headstrong course; within the hour,
Left to herself, she dies; opposing strife
Gives her fresh vigor, and prolongs her life.
All things her prey, and every man her aim,
I can no patent for exemption claim;

Nor would I wish to stop that harmless dart
Which plays around, but cannot wound, my

heart:

Though pointed at myself, be Satire free;
To her 'tis pleasure, and no pain to me."
Dissembling wretch! hence to the Stoic
school,

And there amongst thy brethren play the fool; There unrebuk'd, these wild, vain doctrines preach :

Lives there a man, whom Satire cannot reach?
Lives there a man, who calmly can stand by,
And see his conscience ripp'd, with steady eye?
When Satire flies abroad on Falsehood's wing,
Short is her life, and impotent her sting;
But when to Truth allied, the wound she gives
Sinks deep, and to remotest ages lives.
When in the tomb thy pamper'd flesh shall rot,
And e'en by friends thy mem'ry be forgot,
Still shalt thou live, recorded for thy crimes,
Live in her page, and stink to after-times.

Hast thou no feeling yet? Come, throw off
pride,

And own those passions which thou shalt not hide.

S, who, from the moment of his birth, Made human nature a reproach on earth; Who never dar'd, nor wish'd, behind to stay, When Folly, Vice, and Meanness, led the way; Would blush, should he be told, by Truth and Wit,

Those actions which he blush'd not to commit: Men the most infamous are fond of fame; And those who fear not guilt, yet start at shame. But whither runs my zeal, whose rapid force, Turning the brain, bears Reason from her course;

Carries me back to times, when poets, bless'd With courage, grac'd the science they profess'd; When they, in honor rooted, firmly stood, The bad to punish, and reward the good; When, to a flame by Public Virtue wrought, The foes of Freedom they to justice brought, And dar'd expose those slaves, who dar'd support

A tyrant plan, and call'd themselves a Court? Ah! what are Poets now? As slavish those Who deal in verse, as those who deal in prose. Is there an author, search the kingdom round, In whom true worth and real spirit's found? The slaves of booksellers, or (doom'd by fate To baser chains) vile pensioners of State; Some, dead to shame, and of those shackles proud

Which Honor scorns, for slavery roar loud; Others, half-palsied only, mutes become, And what makes Smollett write makes Johnson dumb. [eye

Why turns yon villain pale? why bends his Inward, abash'd, when Murphy passes by? Dost thou sage Murphy for a blockhead take, Who wages war with Vice for Virtue's sake? No, no-like other worldlings, you will find He shifts his sails, and catches ev'ry wind. His soul the shock of int'rest can't endure; Give him a pension then, and sin secure.

With laurel'd wreaths the flatt'rer's brows
adorn,

Bid Virtue crouch, bid Vice exalt her horn,
Bid Cowards thrive, put Honesty to flight,
Murphy shall prove, or try to prove, it right.
Try, thou State-Juggler, ev'ry paltry art,
Ransack the inmost closet of my heart,
Swear thou'rt my friend; by that base oath make
way

Into my breast, and flatter to betray:
Or, if those tricks are vain; if wholesome
doubt

Detects the fraud, and points the villain out;
Bribe those who daily at my board are fed,
And make them take my life who eat my bread;
On authors for defence, for praise, depend;
Pay him but well, and Murphy is thy friend.
He, he shall ready stand with venal rhymes,
To varnish guilt and consecrate thy crimes,
To make corruption in false colors shine,
And damn his own good name to rescue thine.

But if thy niggard hands their gifts withhold,
And Vice no longer rains down show'rs of gold,
Expect no mercy; facts, well grounded, teach,
Murphy, if not rewarded, will impeach.
What tho' each man of nice and juster thought,
Shunning his steps, decrees, by Honor taught,
He ne'er can be a friend who stoops so low
To be the base betrayer of a foe?
What tho', with thine together link'd, his name
Must be with thine transmitted down to shame?
To ev'ry manly feeling callous grown,
Rather than not blast thine, he'll blast his own.

To slander Government, and libel Kings;
To ope the fountain whence Sedition springs,
With Freedom's name to serve a present hour,
Though born and bred to arbitrary pow'r;

To talk of William with insidious art,
Whilst a vile Stuart's lurking in his heart;
And, whilst mean Envy rears her loathsome
head,

Flatt'ring the living, to abuse the dead;
Where is Shebbeare? O, let not foul Reproach,
Travelling hither in a city-coach,

The pill'ry dare to name; the whole intent
Of that parade was fame, not punishment;
And that old staunch Whig Beardmore, stand-
ing by,

Can in full court give that report the lie.

With rude unnat' ral jargon to support, Half Scotch, half English, a declining Court; To make most glaring contraries unite, And prove, beyond dispute, that black is white; To make firm Honor tamely league with Shame, Make Vice and Virtue differ but in name; Το that chains and freedom are but one,

prove

That to be sav'd must mean to be undone.

Is there not Guthrie? Who, like him, can call
All opposites to proof, and conquer all?
He calls forth living waters from the rock;
He calls forth children from the barren stock;
He, far beyond the springs of Nature led,
Makes women bring forth after they are dead;
He, on a curious, new, and happy plan,
In wedlock's sacred bands joins man to man;
And, to complete the whole, most strange but
true,

By some rare magic makes them fruitful too;
Whilst from their loins, in the due course of

shame,

Something which Nature shudders but to name,
Something which makes the soul of man retreat,
And the life-blood run backward to her seat;
Dost thou contrive, for some base private end,
Some selfish view, to hang a trusting friend,
To lure him on, e'en to his parting breath,
And promise life to work him surer death;
Grown old in villany, and dead to grace,
Hell in his heart, and Tyburn in his face,
Behold a Parson at thy elbow stands,
Louring damnation, and with open hands,
Ripe to betray his Saviour for reward,
The atheist Chaplain of an atheist Lord!

Bred to the Church, and for the gown de-
creed

Ere it was known that I should learn to read;
(Tho' that was nothing, for myfriends who knew
What mighty Dulness of itself could do,
Never design'd me for a working Priest,
But hop'd I should have been a Dean at least ;)
Condemn'd (like many more, and worthier men,
To whom I pledge the service of my pen),
Condemn'd (whilst proud and pamper'd Sons
of Lawn,

Cramm'd to the throat, in lazy plenty yawn)
In pomp of rev'rend begg'ry to appear,
Το and starve on forty pounds a year;
My friends, who never felt the galling load,
Lament that I forsook the packhorse-road;

pray

Whilst Virtue to my conduct witness bears,
In throwing off that gown which Francis wears,
What creature's that, so very pert and prim;
So very full of foppery and whim;
So gentle, yet so brisk; so wondrous sweet,
So fit to prattle at a lady's feet;

Who looks as he the Lord's rich vineyard trod,
And by his garb appears a man of God?
Trust not to looks, nor credit outward show;
The villain lurks beneath the cassock'd Beau;
That's an Informer; what avails the name?
Suffice it, that the wretch from Sodom came.

His tongue is deadly-from his presence run,
Unless thy rage would wish to be undone.
No ties can hold him, no affection bind,
And Fear alone restrains his coward mind.
Free him from that, no monster is so fell,
Nor is so sure a blood-hound found in hell.
His silken smiles, his hypocritic air,
His meek demeanour, plausible and fair,
Are only worn to pave Fraud's easier way,
And make gull'd Virtue fall a surer prey.
Attend his church-his plan of doctrine view,
The Preacher is a Christian, dull but true:
But when the hallow'd hour of preaching's o'er,
The plan of doctrine's never thought of more;
Christ is laid by, neglected on the shelf,
And the vile priest is Gospel to himself.

By Cleland tutor'd, and with Blacow bred, (Blacow, whom, by a brave resentment led, Oxford, if Oxford had not sunk in fame, Ere this had damn'd to everlasting shame) Their steps he follows, and their crimes par

takes:

To Virtue lost, to Vice alone he wakes;
Most lusciously declaims 'gainst luscious themes,
And, whilst he rails at blasphemy, blasphemes.
Are these the arts which Policy supplies?
Are these the steps by which grave Churchmen
rise?

Forbid it Heav'n! or, should it turn out so,
Let me, and mine, continue mean and low :
Such be their arts whom Interest controls;
Kidgell and I have free and honest souls :
We scorn preferment which is gain'd by sin,
And will, though poor without, have peace
within.

Me! me!-kill me! me, who bore him!

Spare the babe this bosom fed!
Ruffians from my cottage tore him,
Where he earn'd my daily bread.
Warrior, here, with rage unfeeling,

Here behold my white breast bare;
Dye it red, and plunge your steel in,
But my child, poor stripling, spare.
My age's solace!-for his father
Perish'd in the bloody field;
A babe he left me, which I'd rather
Than the gold the Indies yield.
Pledge of his love;-and I did dearly
Love the father, in the child;
Slay us both, I beg sincerely;

On us both the earth be pil'd.
They sink; but lo! a wondrous vision,
Cloud-clad ghosts unnumber'd rise;
Pale wan looks, that speak contrition;
Blood-stain'd cheeks and hollow eyes.
More in number than the ocean

Rolls the pebbles on its shore,
See they come! and lo! a motion
From a hand all red with gore!
"Listen, listen, sons of sorrow,
Few and evil were your days;
To-day the cowslip buds, to-morrow
Low the sithe the cowslip lays.
We, like you, O! heed our warning,
Warriors were, all blithe and gay:
But we fell in life's bright morning,

Ere we knew the joys of day.

Sons of men, all doom'd to trouble,
Travelling quickly to the grave,
Sheath the sword, for fame's a bubble;
Live to bless, O live to save!
Life to be enjoy'd was given:
Such the will of him above;
Live and love, make earth a heaven,
God made men to live and love!
Hark! the skies with music ringing,
Silver sounds the concave fill;
Angels' voices sweetly singing,

Peace on Earth, to men good-will.''

§ 261. Written on Occasion of a Ball, in which the Ladies agreed to dress in Silks, for the sake of encouraging the Spitalfields Manufacturers.

WEAVE the web of brightest blue,

Azure as its native sky; Flow'rets add of ev'ry hue, "Tis the vest of Charity.

Rich the tissue of the loom,
Glossy gleams the artist's dye;
Yet the mantle shall assume
Brighter tints from Charity.
Youth and beauty, lo! advance,
Light and gay as Love can be,
Nimbly tripping in the dance,
Clad in robes of Charity.

Babes and mothers lift the head,

Silk-clad trains of nymphs to see ;
Beauty deals them daily bread,
Deck'd in silks of Charity.

Shiv'ring with the winter's wind,
Age, disease, and infancy,

In warm wool their cold limbs bind;
Silk's the dress of Charity.
Lovely ladies at the ball,
Lovelier still if that can be,
Rob'd in silk, in Pleasure's hall,
Dance the dance of Charity.

§ 262. On the late Queen of France. If thy breast soft pity knows,

O! drop a tear with me; Feel for the unexampled woes Of widow'd royalty.

Fallen, fallen from a throne!

Lo! beauty, grandeur, power;
Hark! 'tis a queen's, a mother's moan,
From yonder dismal tower.

I hear her say, or seem to say,
"Ye who listen to my story,
Learn how transient beauty's day,
How unstable human glory.
And when ye hear that I was frail,
O! think what now I bear :
Heed not the page of scandal's tale,
But blot it with a tear."

$263. Verses, by DR. GLYNN.
TEAZE me no more, nor think I care
Though monarchs bow at Kitty's shrine,
Or powder'd coxcombs woo the fair,
Since Kitty is no longer mine.
Indifferent 'tis alike to me,
If my favorite dove be stole,
Whether its dainty feathers be
Pluck'd by the eagle or the owl.
If not for me its blushing lips
The rose-bud opens, what care I
Who the od❜rous liquid sips;

The king of bees, or butterfly? Like me, the Indians of Peru,

Rich in mines of golden ore, Dejected, see the merchant's crew Transport it to a foreign shore. Seeks the slave despoil'd, to know, Whether his gold in shape of lace Shine on the coat of birth-day beau,

Or wear the stamp of George's face?

$264. Hohenlinden; the Scene of a dreadful Engagement between the French and Imperialists, in which the former conquered. By T. CAMPBELL, Esq.

ON Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow ;
And dark as winter was the flow

Of Iser rolling rapidly:

While high in Leo flames thy radiant sire? With Egypt's glory is thy glory fled,

And with her genius quench'd thy native fire? For, direr than her desert's burning wind,

Gaul's furious legions sweep yon ravag'd vale; Death stalks before, grim Famine howls behind, And screams of horror load the tainted gale. Nile's crimson'd waves with blood polluted roll; Her groves, her fanes, devouring fire con

sumes;

But mark, slow-rising near the distant pole,

A sudden splendor all her shores illumes. Fatal to Gaul, 'tis Britain's rising star, That in the south the bright ascendant gains, Resplendent as her Sirius shines from far, And with new fervors fires the Libyan plains. A race as Egypt's ancient warriors brave,

For her insulted sons indignant glows; Defies the tropic storm, the faithless wave, And hurls destruction on their haughty foes. Exulting to his source old Nilus hears

The deep'ning thunders of the British line: Again its lovely head the Lotos rears,

Again the fields in rainbow glories shine. Still wider, beauteous plant! thy leaves extend, Nor dread the eye of an admiring muse; In union with the rising song ascend,

Spread all thy charms, and all thy sweets diffuse.

Of that bold race beneath the Pleïads born, To chant thy praise a northern bard aspires; Nor with more ardor erst at early dawn

The Theban artists smote their votive lyres. For, oh! can climes th' excursive genius bound? No-mid Siberia bursts the heav'n-taught strain,

At either pole the Muse's songs resound,

And snows descend and whirlwinds rage in

vain.

Four thousand summers have thy pride survey'd, Thy Pharaohs moulder in their marble tombs; Oblivion's wings the pyramids shall shade,

But thy fair family unfading blooms! Still 'mid these ruin'd tow'rs admir'd, rever'd, Wave high thy foliage, and secure expand; These vast but crumbling piles by man were rear'd;

But thou wert form'd by an immortal hand! With Nature's charms alone thy charms shall

fade; With Being's self thy beauteous tribe decline; Oh! living, may thy flow'rs my temple shade, And decorate when dead my envied shrine!

§ 267. Alonzo the Brave and the Fair Imogene. M. G. LEWIS, Esq. A WARRIOR SO bold, and a virgin so bright,

Convers'd as they sat on the green: They gaz'd on each other with tender delight, Alonzo the Brave was the name of the knight, The maid was the Fair Imogene.

I go,

To fight in a far-distant land, Your tears for my absence soon ceasing to flow, Some other will court you, and you will bestow On a wealthier suitor your hand."

"Oh, hush these suspicions," fair Imogene said, "So hurtful to love and to me; For if you be living, or if you be dead, swear by the Virgin that none in your stead Shall husband of Imogene be.

I

"And if e'er for another my heart should decide, Forgetting Alonzo the Brave,

God grant that to punish my falsehood and pride,
Thy ghost at my marriage may sit by my side,
May tax me with perjury, claim me as bride,
And bear me away to the grave."

To Palestine hasten'd the warrior so bold,
His love she lamented him sore;
But scarce had a twelvemonth elaps'd, when
behold,

A baron, all cover'd with jewels and gold,
Arriv'd at fair Imogene's door.

His treasure, his presents, his spacious domain,
Soon made her untrue to her vows,

He dazzled her eyes, he bewilder'd her brain, He caught her affections, so light and so vain, And carried her home as his spouse.

And now had the marriage been blest by the priest,

The revelry now was begun; The tables they groan'd with the weight of the feast,

Nor yet had the laughter and merriment ceas'd, When the bell of the castle toll'd-ONE! 'Twas then with amazement fair Imogene found A stranger was placed by her side; His air was terrific, he utter'd no sound, He spoke not, he mov'd not, he look'd not around,

But earnestly gaz'd on the bride.

His vizor was clos'd, and gigantic his height,
His armor was sable to view;

All laughter and pleasure were hush'd at his
sight,
[affright,
The dogs as they eyed him drew back with
And the lights in the chamber burnt blue.
His presence all bosoms appear'd to dismay,
The guests sat in silence and fear;
At length spoke the bride, while she trembled
I pray,

Sir knight, that your helmet aside you would lay,
And deign to partake of our cheer."
The lady is silent-the stranger complies,

And his vizor he slowly unclos'd.
Oh gods! what a sight met fair Imogene's eyes,
What words can express her dismay and surprise,
When a skeleton's head was expos'd!

All present then utter'd a terrified shout,

And turn'd with disgust from the scene; The worms they crept in, and the worms they crept out,

And sported his eyes and his temples about,
While the spectre address'd Imogene: