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Ere long, perhaps, to this astonish'd isle, Fresh from the shores of subjugated Nile, Shall Buonaparte's victor fleet protect The genuine theophilanthropic sect,— The sect of Marat, Mirabeau, Voltaire,Led by their pontiff, good La Reveillère. Rejoiced our clubs shall greet him, and instal The holy hunch-back in thy dome, St. Paul! While countless votaries thronging in his train

Wave their red caps, and hymn this jocund strain:

"Couriers and Stars, sedition's evening-host, Thou Morning-Chronicle, and Morning-Post! Whether ye make the rights of man your theme,

Your country libel, and your God blaspheme, Or dirt on private worth and virtue throw, Still blasphemous or blackguard, praise Lepaux.

And ye five other wandering bards that move In sweet accord of harmony and love, Coleridge and Southey, Lloyd, and Lamb

and Co.

Tune all your mystic harps to praise Lepaux.
Priestley, and Whitefield, humble, holy men,
Give praises to his name with tongue and pen!
Thelwal, and ye that lecture as ye go,
And for your pains get pelted, praise Lepaux!
Praise him each jacobin, or fool, or knave,
And your cropped heads in sign of worship


All creeping creatures, venomous and low, Paine, Williams, Godwin, Holcroft, praise Lepaux!

And thou, leviathan! on ocean's brim
Hugest of living things that sleep and swim;
Thou in whose nose by Burke's gigantic hand
The hook was fix'd to drag thee to the land,
With-and-in thy train,

And-wallowing in the yeasty main-
Still as ye snort, and puff, and spout, and blow,
In puffing, and in spouting, praise Lepaux!"

Britain, beware; nor let th' insidious foe, Of force despairing, aim a deadlier blow. Thy peace, thy strength, with devilish wiles assail,

And when her arms are vain, by arts prevail. True, thou art rich, art powerful!—through thine isle

Industrious skill, contented labour, smile;
Far seas are studded with thy countless sails;
What wind but wafts them, and what shore
but hails?

True, thou art brave!-o'er all the busy land
In patriot ranks embattled myriads stand;
Thy foes behold with impotent amaze,
And drop the lifted weapon as they gaze!
But what avails to guard each outward part,
If subtlest poison, circling at thy heart,
Spite of thy courage.of thy power, and wealth,
Mine the sound fabric of thy vital health?

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There are, to whom (their taste such pleasures cloy) No light thy wisdom yields, thy wit no joy; Peace to their heavy heads,and callous hearts, Peace-such as sloth, as ignorance imparts! Pleased may they live to plan their country's good,

And crop with calm content their flowery food!

What though thy venturous spirit loved to urge

The labouring theme to reason's utmost verge,

Kindling and mounting from th' enraptured sight;

Till anxious Wonder watch'd thy daring flight!

While vulgar souls, with mean malignant stare,

Gazed up, the triumph of thy fall to share! Poor triumph! price of that extorted praise, Which still to daring genius envy pays.

Oh! for thy playful smile,-thy potent frown,

T'abash bold vice, and laugh pert folly down! So should the Muse, in humour's happiest vein,

With verse that flow'd in metaphoric strain, And apt allusions to the rural trade,

The sword we dread not:-of ourselves secure,

Firm were our strength, our peace and freedom sure.

Let all the world confederate all its powers. Be they not back'd by those that should be ours,

High on his rock shall Britain's genius stand, Scatter the crowded hosts, and vindicate the land.

Guard we but our own hearts: with constant view,

To ancient morals, ancient manners true, True to the manlier virtues, such as nerved Our fathers' breasts, and this proud isle preserved

For many a rugged age:-and scorn the while

Each philosophic atheist's specious guile-
The soft seductions, the refinements nice,
Of gay morality, and easy vice:-
So shall we brave the storm;-our 'stablish'd

Thy refuge, Europe, in some happier hour.— But, French in heart-though victory crown our brow,

Low at our feet though prostrate nations bow. Wealth gild our cities, commerce crowd our shore,

Tell of what wood young jacobins are made; | London may shine, but England is no more How the skill'd gardener grafts, with nicest

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Of weightiest matters, grave distinctions UNRIVALL'D Greece! thou ever-honoured

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That rules of policy, and public good,
In Saxon times were rightly understood;
That kings are proper, may be useful things,
But then some gentlemen object to kings;
That in all times the minister's to blame;
That British liberty's an empty name,
Till each fair burgh, numerically free,
Shall choose its members by the rule of three.

So should the Muse, with verse in thunder clothed, Proclaim the crimes by God and nature loathed,

Which-when fell poison revels in the veins

(That poison fell which frantic Gallia drains From the crude fruit of freedom's blasted tree)

Blot the fair records of humanity.

To feebler nations let proud France afford Her damning choice, the chalice or the sword,

To drink or die ;-oh, fraud! oh, specious lie! Delusive choice! for if they drink, they die.


Thou nurse of heroes dear to deathless fame Though now to worth, to honour all unknown Thy lustre faded, and thy glories flown, Yet still shall memory with reverted eye Trace thy past worth, and view thee with a sigh.

Thee freedom cherish'd once with foster ing band, And breathed undaunted valour through the land. Here the stern spirit of the Spartan soil, The child of poverty inured to toil. Here, loved by Pallas and the sacred Nine. Once did fair Athens' towery glories shine To bend the bow, or the bright falchion wield To lift the bulwark of the brazen shield, To toss the terror of the whizzing spear, The conquering standard's glittering glorie


And join the maddening battle's loud carver How skill'd the Greeks; confess what Per sians slain

Were strew'd on Marathon's ensanguine plain;

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When heaps on heaps the routed squadrons |

And with their gaudy myriads peopled hell.
What millions bold Leonidas withstood,

And seal'd the Grecian freedom with his

Witness Thermopyla! how fierce he trod,
How spoke a hero, and how moved a god!
The rush of nations could alone sustain,
While half the ravaged globe was arm'd in

Let Leuctra say, let Mantinea tell,

1 How great Epaminondas fought and fell!
1 Nor war's vast art alone adorn'd thy fame,
But mild philosophy endear'd thy name.

Who knows not, sees not with admiring eye,
How Plato thought, how Socrates could die?

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Thy sons (sad change!) in abject bondage sigh;

Unpitied toil, and unlamented die.
Groan at the labours of the galling oar,
Or the dark caverns of the mine explore.
The glittering tyranny of Othman's sons,
The pomp of horror which surrounds their

Has awed their servile spirits into fear,
Spurn'd by the foot they tremble and revere.
The day of labour, night's sad, sleepless hour,
Th' inflictive scourge of arbitrary power,
The bloody terror of the pointed steel,
The murderous stake, the agonizing wheel,
And (dreadful choice!) the bowstring, or
the bowl,

Damps their faint vigour and unmans the soul.
Disastrous fate! still tears will fill the eye,
When to the mind recurs thy former fame,
Still recollection prompt the mournful sigh;
And all the horrors of thy present shame.

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Pour forth a father's sorrows on thy tomb. TAKE back thy gifts, thou noble dame,



Ay, twine thy hair with a summer-wreath, And sing thy bridal song;

Gifts that might courtly homage claim:
This ring is circled by diamonds bright,
This chain is flashing with ruby light,
This emerald-wreath once bound thy curls,
And thy waist was clasp'd by this zone of

Lady, such gifts were unwish'd by me,
And I loved them but as bestow'd by thee.

Pledges so splendid I could not impart,
My poor return was a faithful heart;
But now that our gifts we each resign,

Lady, how sad an exchange is mine!
Thy glittering gems are still gay and bright,

Let fragrant flowers around thee breathe And may charm a high-born lover's sight,

It will not be for long.

As that bright garland will decay,

Thy beauty will soon be gone; And thy very name will pass away, Like thy sweet song's closing tone.

Ay, deck thee with that golden chain,
It severs with scarce a touch;
Its strongest link is snapt in twain,
And thou wilt be as such:

And mingle with the thoughtless crowd,
And don thy gorgeous vest:

"Twill soon be changed, for thy burial shroud Already wraps thy breast.

Bright and clear the heavens are,

There is but one speck in the sky; But that speck covers thy natal star, The star of thy destiny!

I gazed on that star last night, it shook;
And though it still faintly gleams,
It looks not as it was wont to look,
And a mist is over its beams.

I have read thy fate in a flowery braid;I hung it on a tree

I saw one bright rose fall and fade,— "Twas the blossom I named for thee!

But mostly thy fortune I can tell, From thy happiness and mirth, For when did bliss so perfect dwell More than an instant on earth?

But the humblest maid will spurn a token Like the heart thy treachery has broken!


AT Cheltenham, where one drinks one's fill
Of folly and cold water,

I danced, last year, my first quadrille,
With old Sir Geoffrey's daughter.
Her cheek with Summer's rose might vie,
When Summer's rose is newest;
Her eyes were blue as Autumn's sky,
When Autumn's sky is bluest;
And well my heart might deem her one
Of Life's most precious flowers,
For half her thought were of its Sun,
And half were of its Showers.

I spoke of Novels:-"Vivian Gray"
Was positively charming
And “Almack's" infinitely gay,

And "Frankenstein" alarming;

I said "De Vere" was chastely told,
Thought well of "Herbert Lacy,"
Called Mr. Banim's sketches "bold,"
And Lady Morgan's "racy:"

I vow'd that last new thing of Hook's
Was vastly entertaining;
And Laura said "I doat on books,
Because it's always raining!"

I talk'd of Music's gorgeous fane;
I raved about Rossini,
Hoped Ronzi would come back again,
And criticised Pacini;

I wish'd the chorus-singers dumb,
The trumpets more pacific,
And eulogized Brocard's à plomb,
And voted Paul "terrific."

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