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So kindly just, the parent monarch sighs,
And greatly pities, while the laws chastise:
When Albion's safety would, how swift to save ?
(A deed for gods) he pitied and forgave :
Large as his heart, the blessings he design'd;
His godlike bounty deluged all mankind:
Here he restrain'd the Indian's thirst of gore,
And bid the murderous tomax drink no more ;
Crush'd faithless Gallia, with her savage train,
Who foster factions, to disturb his reign;
Stretch'd through these haunts the blessings of his sway,
And pour'd on pagan darkness, beamy day;
"T is from his hand this tide of plenty flows,
Thence learning buds, the infant of repose;
'T is he, whose wisdom crown'd the happiest reign,
When patriots only, equal honors gain;
Where all distinction was to vice denied,
And patriot virtue spread its influence wide:
No sons but virtue's, shone among the great,
Nor less than Pitt, the pilot of the state.
Nor civil virtues were his only claim,
His early prowess won a martial fame :
The victor wreath in dreadful fields he twined,
And valor throned him monarch of mankind;
Germania's realms his matchless courage boast,
And clustering glories in his name are lost.
Long was the blessing spared to Albion's cries,
Loved by his realms, and ripening for the skies ;
In his full orb of majesty complete,
He quits his earthly for a heavenly seat:
Death, and death only, to such kings imparts
A kingdom equal to their great deserts."

Here the full tide of grief his song suppressid,
And sighs and tears, instructive, spoke the rest.
Amid the instant wreck, the laboring sigh,
What glorious form commands the weeping eye?
Pierced with a kingdom's woes, she leads the tear,
The infections drop our lids are proud to wear;
'Tis Albion's guardian! see, her glossy plume
Darts a keen radiance through the withering gloom!
Not Cynthia's beams with such effulgence flow,
When her full disk gives all its broad below :
High o'er the silver-skirted main she rose,
And o'er a world in anguish smiled

repose :
She waves her hand, and points to Britain's throne,
George still survives, 0 Albion! all thy own:

From deep despair, redemption he commands,
And guides the sceptre with instructed hands."

New flush'd with life, the blooming forests rise,
Shine with fresh green, and climb to taller skies ;
The warbling wantons through the dusky grove,
Sweetly conspiring pour a waste of love ;
Perfumes from every breathing flower exhale,
And balmy incense loads the fragrant gale;
Their savory banquet lowing herds regain,
Ranged on the velvet of the pasturing plain:
On the bless'd theme the bard indulged him long,
Then thus his raptures he attuned to song:
“ Thrice bless'd Britannia ! heaven's peculiar care !
Oft rescued in the moment of despair;
Pangs but arrive e'er blessings swift pursue,
We scarcely tremble, e'er we triumph too.
How scourged! how lost! let Albion's groans inform;
This western empire scarce survived the storm:
Our ague fears, and enervating woe,
Edged the keen vengeance of the insulting foe;
But-snatch'd from fate, when to its stroke resign'd-
Who dares despair ? for heaven and George were kind.
Then whilst with Albion we our joys contest,
And pour our raptures in the monarch's breast;
The distant blessing honor and approve,
With secret avarice dwell upon his love;
To listening skies our laboring breasts unload,
And wrest new blessings from his conscious God;
He dies. At this our bursting bosoms rave,
And pain'd remembrance envied George his grave.

“What kindly God presides ? the tumults cease,
This hour all tempest, and the next all peace;
We smile, bless'd heaven! a George upon the throne,
Another George, 0 Albion! all thy own;
From deep despair a nation to redeem,
And check our sorrows in their midway stream:
He sways the sceptre, takes the glorious charge ;
Unbounded goodness now shall lord at large :
His virtues blazon'd wide as fame can wing,
And proud Britannia glories in her king
Blush, grandeur ! blush, in all thy purple pride,
True greatness is to goodness close allied:
The worthy heart will ever claim esteem;
O prince, thy virtue is thy brightest gem:

Food for applause to distant realms dispense,
Beyond the reach of poor magnificence;
Blessings are tongued, and ever on the wing-
A wondering world's a circle for a king.
Joy to the realms where slavery was design'd,
A Brunswick reigns, the guardian of mankind.
While gay-eyed conquest rears his banners high,
A flaming meteor in the Gallic sky.
He bids his bolted thunders cease their roar;
And offers peace to Gallia's faithless shore.
Bless'd prince! whose unexampled goodness charms,
Thy people's blessings be thy brightest arms :
The base of empire is the king's desert,
And merit is the monarch of the heart.
Nor hostile worlds shall favorite George dethrone ;
Each Briton's breast's a barrier to his own.
May one clear calm attend thee to thy close,
One lengthen’d sunshine of complete repose :
Correct our crimes, and beam that christian mind
O'er the wide wreck of dissolute mankind;
To calm brow'd peace, the maddening world restore,
Or lash the demon thirsting still for gore ;
Till nature's utmost bound thy arms restrain,
And prostrate tyrants bite the British chain.


JAMES'ALLEN was born in Boston, July 24th, 1739. His father was a merchant of considerable wealth, and wished to make him a scholar, but the youth, although possessed of good natural parts, was too averse to study to make any great progress with his books. The resolution and assiduities however, of his tutor, carried him through his preparatory studies in a short space, after the pupil had spent most of the time allotted to that purpose in slothful inactivity. He entered Harvard College, but his inattention to his books, and his free notions upon religion, hindered his attaining to the honors of the University. He spent, but three years at College, and then abandoned his scholastic pursuits altogether. His life offers nothing of interest or vicissitude. He continued to reside in Boston, without applying himself to regular business of any sort. Inheriting a comfortable patrimony, and naturally in clined to repose, he felt none of those stimulants to exertion, which in other circumstances might have effected the full development of his powers. His occupations, or more properly, amusements, were writing essays and verses upon the political affairs of the times; but he was too fond of his ease to become individually a partizan in public disputes, or load himself with the cares of any official station. The career of hardly any man of letters (if Allen's disinclination for study, and the small degree of care he bestowed upon his works, can allow him any claim to that title) is less diversified by any striking event. He led the noiseless easy life of a bachelor, and though a person of considerable whim and eccentricity of character, passed his days in the pleasures of a cheerful intimacy with a circle of friends. He died in 1808, in his 70th year.

Mr Allen was the author of a great number of poems, but few of them have been published. The lines on the massacre of the fifth of March are the best known. These were first printed in 1772. The performance was written at the request of Dr Warren, and designed to be published as a companion to the oration on the same subject which the Doctor had been appointed by a committee of the town of Boston to deliver. Allen's poem struck the committee so favorably that they voted it to be printed with the oration, but insinuations being thrown out that the political principles of the writer were unsound, that body thought fit to suppress it. Mr Allen seems to have been not very solicitous to disabuse the public respecting the matter, and prized his literary fame too little to make any exertion for the purpose of bringing his poetry into no tice. The work might therefore have been neglected and finally lost like the greater part of his writings, but for the endeavors of some of his friends, who procured the manuscript and published it, accompanied by specimens of another poem of his, called “ The Retrospect,” which the editors offered their comments upon, with the object of clearing the author's



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character as to his politics, no less than to commend his poetical abilities. We believe nothing of his besides these two pieces has been made public, save a few short scraps in the magazines.

He wrote an epic with the title of “ Bunker Hill," and went so far as to make arrangements for its publication, but his indolent habits soon mastered this resolution, and the poem we think is now lost. No inducement could prevail upon him to bestow any pains upon the correction of his writings, or make any resolute effort to extend his reputation as a poet. He cared nothing for fame, and though an author's rank must be awarded him according to the merits of what he has executed, we sħould form too low an estimate of Allen's powers, from performances which display so little care and application, as those which he has given to the world. His -verses are not wanting in poetical spirit, but they do not bear the marks of finished elaboration.


From realms of bondage, and a tyrant's reign,
Our godlike fathers bore no slavish chain.
To Pharaoh's face the inspired patriarchs stood,
To seal their virtue, with a martyr's blood :
But lives so precious, such a sacred seed,
The source of empires, heaven's high will decreed;
He snatch'd the saints from Pharaoh's impious hand,
And bid his chosen seek this distant land :
Thus to these climes the illustrious exiles sped,
’T was freedom prompted, and the Godhead led.
Eternal woods the virgin soil defaced,
A dreary desert, and a howling waste ;
The haunt of tribes no pity taught to spare,
And they opposed them with remorseless war,
But heaven's right arm led forth the faithful train,
The guardian Godhead swept the insidious plain,
Till the scour'd thicket amicable stood,
Nor dastard ambush trench'd the dusky wood:
Our sires then earn'd no more precarious bread,
Nor 'midst alarms their frugal meals were spread.


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