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you may not know he was starved to deatlı in the temple of the Muses at Metapontum. The Muses have no temples, it is true, in our days (for God knows they are not much worshipped now) but the Ladies are not without their human sacrifices.

A young man was complaining the other day that he had lost his appetite " Turn Poet, then,” said one in company,

they generally have pretty stout ones.”

Your sensible eyes have not long, I know, been dry from the tale of Chatter

Even now, a pearly drop peeps over
the brim of each; and now they drop,
drop upon his mangled memory, like the
Samaritan's balm upon the traveller's
wounds. ---And, perhaps, what I had
heard and told you may not be half.
That I

may
make

you

some amends for teizing you with my bad poetry the other day, I will to-day send you some very good. It is the composition of a clergy man, an Englishman, settled near Dublin. It got the prize at Oxford not long since, and was

ton.

spoken spoken in the theatre at such a public business, as one at which, I think, I remember to have heard you say you were present. Perhaps you were there this very time.

When you have read the lines, you will think I need not add a word about the author's abilities.

On the Love of our Country.

YE fouls illustrious, who, in days of yore, With peerless might the British target bore, Who, clad in wolf-lkin, from the scythed car, Frown'd on the iron brow of mailed war ; Who dar'd your rudely painted limbs oppose To steel of Chalybs, and to Roman foes : And ye of later age, tho' not less fame In tilt and tournament, the princely game Of Arthur's barons, won't, in hardiest sport, To claim the fairelt Guerdon of the Court ; Say, holy shades, did e'er your gen’rous blood Roll thro' your faithful sons in nobler flood, Than * late, when George bade gird on ev'ry

thigh The myrtle-braided sword of liberty ;

* These lines were written foon after the installation at Windsor, by the Rev. CHRISTOPHER BUtson, chaplain to the Right Honourable the LORD CHANCELLOR.

The

Say, when the high-born Druids' magic strain
Rouz'd on old Mona's top a female train
To madness, and with more than mortal

rage
Bade them like furies in the fight engage,
Frantic when each unbound her bristling hair,
And shook a faming torch, and yelld in wild

despair ;
Or when on Creffy's plain the fable might
Of Edward dar'd four monarchs to the fight;
Say, holy fhades, did patriotic heat
In your big hearts, with quicker transports beat
Than in your sons, when forth like storms they

pour'd,
In freedom's cause, the fury of the sword ?
Who ruld the main, or gallant armies led,
With Hawke who conquer'd, or with Wolf who

bled.

Poor is his triumph, and disgrac'd his name,
Who draws the sword for empire, wealth, or fame;
For him tho’ wealth be blown on ev'ry wind,
Tho' fanie announce hiin mightiest of mankind,
Tho' twice ten nations fink beneath his blade,
Virtue disowns him, and his giories fade.

For him no pray’rs are pour'd, no päacs sung,
No blessings chaunted from a nations tongue,
Blood marks the path to his untimely bier,
The curse of widows and the orphan's tear
E

Cry

#

Cry to high Heaven for vengeance on his head;
Alive, deserted ; and accurst, when dead.
Indignant of his deeds, the muse, who sings
Undaunted truth, and scorns to flatter kings,
Shall shew the monster in his hideous form,
And mark him as an earthquake, or a storm.

Not so the patriot chief, who dar'd withftand
The base invader of his native land ;
Who made her weal his noblest, only end,
Rul'd but to serve her, fought but to defend,
Her voice in council, and in fight her sword,
Lov'd as her father, as her god ador’d;
Who firmly virtuous, and severely brave,
Sunk with the freedom that he could not save.
On worth like his, the muse delights to wait,
Reveres alike in triumph or defeat,
Crowns with true glory and with spotlefs fame,
And honours Paoli's more than Frederick's name.

Here let the muse withdraw the blood-stain'd

veil,
And shew the boldest son of public zeal.
See Sidney leaning o'er the block! His mein,
His voice, his hand, unshaken, clear, ferene.
Yet no harangue, proudly declaimed aloud,
To gain the plaudit of a wayward crowd ;
No specious vaunt death's terrors to defy,
Still death delaying, as afraid to die.

Bat

But sternly filent, down he bows to prove
How firm his virtuous, though mistaken love..
Unconquer'd patriot! form’d by ancient lore
The love of ancient freedom to restore,
Who nobly acted, what he boldly wrote.
And seald by death the lessons that he taught.

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Dear is the tie that links the anxious sire,
To the fond babe that prattles round his fire ;
Dear is the love that prompts the grateful youth
His fire's fond cares and drooping age to sooth;
Dear is the brother, fifter, husband, wife ;
Dear all the charities of social life :
Nor wants firm friendship holy wreaths to bind,
In mutual sympathy the faithíul mind :
But not th’endearing springs that fondly inove
To filial duty, or parental love,
Not all the lies that kindred bosoms bind,
Not all in friendship’s holy wreaths entwin'd,
Are half so dear, so potent to controul
The gen'rous workings of the patriot foul,
As is that holy voice which cancels all
Those ties, which bids him for his country fall ;
At this high summons, with undaunted zeal,
He bares his breast, invites th' impending steel,
Smiles at the hand that deals the fatal blow,
Nor heaves one sigh for all he leaves below.

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