you may not know he was ftarved to death in the temple of the Mufes at Metapontum. The Mufes 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 facrifices.

A young man was complaining the other day that he had loft his appetite; "Turn Poet, then," said one in company, they generally have pretty ftout ones." Your fenfible eyes have not long, I know, been dry from the tale of ChatterEven 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.

ton.

That I may make you fome amends for teizing you with my bad poetry the other day, I will to-day fend you fome very good. It is the compofition of a clergyman, an Englishman, fettled near Dublin. It got the prize at Oxford not long fince, and was

fpoken

fpoken in the theatre at fuch a public businefs, 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 illuftrious, who, in days of yore, With peerlefs might the British target bore, Who, clad in wolf-fkin, from the scythed car, Frown'd on the iron brow of mailed war; Who dar'd your rudely painted limbs oppofe To fteel of Chaly bs, and to Roman foes: And ye of later age, tho' not lefs fame In tilt and tournament, the princely game Of Arthur's barons, won't, in hardieft fport, To claim the fairest Guerdon of the Court; Say, holy fhades, did e'er your gen'rous blood. Roll thro' your faithful fons in nobler flood, Than late, when George bade gird on ev'ry thigh

The myrtle-braided fword of liberty;

These lines were written foon after the installation at Windfor, 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 fhook a flaming torch, and yell'd 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 fons, when forth like ftorms they pour'd,

In freedom's caufe, the fury of the fword?

Who rul'd the main, or gallant armies led,

With Hawke who conquer'd, or with Wolf who bled.

Poor is his triumph, and difgrac'd his name,
Who draws the fword for empire, wealth, or fame;
For him tho' wealth be blown on ev'ry wind,
Tho' fanie announce him mightieft of mankind,
Tho' twice ten nations fink beneath his blade,
Virtue difowns him, and his glories fade.

For him no pray'rs are pour'd, no peans fung,
No bleffings chaunted from a nations tongue,
Blood marks the path to his untimely bier,
The curfe of widows and the orphan's tear

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

Not fo the patriot chief, who dar'd withstand
The base invader of his native land;
Who made her weal his nobleft, only end,
Rul'd but to ferve her, fought but to defend,
Her voice in council, and in fight her fword,
Lov'd as her father, as her god ador'd;
Who firmly virtuous, and feverely brave,
Sunk with the freedom that he could not fave.
On worth like his, the mufe 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 mufe withdraw the blood-ftain'd
veil,

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

But

But fternly 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 feal'd by death the lessons that he taught.

Dear is the tie that links the anxious fire,
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 footh;
Dear is the brother, sister, husband, wife;
Dear all the charities of focial life:

Nor wants firm friendship holy wreaths to bind,
In mutual fympathy the faithful mind:

But not th' endearing springs that fondly move
To filial duty, or parental love,

Not all the ties that kindred bofoms bind,
Not all in friendship's holy wreaths entwin'd,
Are half fo dear, fo potent to controul
The gen'rous workings of the patriot soul,
As is that holy voice which cancels all
Those ties, which bids him for his country fall;
At this high fummens, with undaunted zeal,
He bares his breaft, invites th' impending steel,
Smiles at the hand that deals the fatal blow,
Nor heaves one figh for all he leaves below.