Nor such her later chiefs, who try,
Impell'd by soft Humanity,

The boist'rous wave, the rugged coast,

The burning zone, the polar frost,

That climes remote, and regions yet unknown,

May share a GEORGE's sway, and bless his patriot throne.

IV.

Warm Fancy, kindling with delight,
Anticipates the lapse of age,
And as she throws her eagle's sight
O'er Time's yet undiscover'd page,
Vast continents, now dark with shade,
She sees in Verdure's robe array'd;
Sees o'er each island's fertile steep
That frequent studs the southern deep,
His fleecy charge the shepherd lead,
The harvest wave, the vintage bleed ;

Sees Commerce, springs of guiltless wealth explore,
Where frowns the western world on Asia's neighbouring shore.

V.

But lo! across the blackening skies

What swarthy dæmon wings his flight?
At once the transient landscape flies,
The splendid vision sets in night.-

And see Britannia's awful form,

With breast undaunted, brave the storm :
Awful, as when her angry tide

O'erwhelm'd the wrecked Armada's pride,
Awful, as when th' avenging blow

Suspending o'er a prostrate foe,

She snatch'd, in Vict'ry's moment prompt to save,
Iberia's sinking sons from Calpe's glowing wave.

VI.

Ere yet the Tempest's mingled sound

Burst dreadful o'er the nations round,

What angel shape, in beaming radiance dight,

Pours through the severing clouds celestial light! "Tis Peace-before her seraph eye

The fiends of Devastation fly.

Auspicious round our monarch's brow

She twines her olive's sacred bough;

This victory, she cries, is mine,

Nor torn from War's terrific shrine!

Mine, the pure trophies of the wise and good,

Unbought by scenes of woc, and undefiled with blood.

ODE

ODE for his MAJESTY'S BIRTH DAY, June 4, 1791. By Henry James Pye, esq. Poet Laureat.

ODE ON CAMBRIA, a Mountain in Cornwall, by Peter Pindar, esq.

TEAR yonder solitary tower,

NEA

'Lone glooming 'midst the moony light,

I roam at midnight's spectred hour,

And climb the wild majestic height:

Low to the mountain let me rev'rence bow,
Where Wisdom, Virtue, taught their founts to flow.

Pale on a rock's aspiring steep,

Behold a Druid sits forlorn,

I see the white-rob'd phantom weep,

I hear his harp of sorrow mourn.

The vanish'd grove provokes his deepest sigh,
And altars open'd to the gazing eye.

Permit me, Druid, here to stray,

And ponder 'mid thy drear retreat;

To wail the solitary way

Where Wisdom held her hallow'd seat;
Here let me roam, in spite of Folly's smile,
A pensive pilgrim, o'er each pitied pile.

Poor ghost! no more the Druid race
Shall here their sacred fires relume:
No more their show'rs of incense blaze ;
No more their tapers gild the gloom.
Lo! snakes obscene along the temples creep,
And foxes on the broken altars sleep.

No more beneath the golden brook,

The treasures of the grove shall fall; Time triumphs o'er each blasted oak,

Whose power at length shall crush the ball.
Led by the wrinkled Pow'r, with gladden'd mien,
Gigantic Ruin treads the weeping scene.

No more the bards, in strains sublime,
The actions of the brave proclaim,

Thus rescuing from the rage of Time

Each glorious deed approv'd by Fame. Deep in the dust each lyre is laid unstrung,

While mute for ever stops each tuneful tongue.

Here

Here Wisdom's, Virtue's awful voice

Inspired the youths of Cornwall's plains:
With such, no more these hills rejoice,

But sullen, death-like, silence reigns,
While melancholy, in yon mould'ring tow's
Sits list'ning to old ocean's distant roar.

Let others, heedless of the hill,
With eye incurious pass along;
My muse with grief the scene shall fill
And swell with softest sighs her song.

PROLOGUE to the "School for Arrogance."

REAT news! Great news! Extraordinary news! Who'll buy, or give three-halfpence to peruse? [Sounds] Great news!-Pray, did you call, sirs? Here am I? Of wants, and wanted, I've a large supply!

Of fire and murder, marriage, birth, and death,

Here's more than I can utter in a breath!

Rapes, riots, hurricanes, routs, rogues, and faro!

Famine and fire in Turkey, and the plague at Cairo !
Here's tincture for the gums, which dentists make,
Whose teeth eat most when other people's ache.

Here are rich soups, hams, tongues, oils, sauce, sour crout;
And here's the grand specific for the gout!
Here's turtle newly landed; lamb house-fed:

And here's a wife and five small children wanting bread:
Wholesale and retail British spirits here:

And here's the dying speech of poor small-beer!

Here are tall men, short women, and fat oxen;

And here are Sunday-schools, and schools for boxing.

Here ruin'd rakes for helpmates advertise;

And only want 'em handsome, rich, and wise.
Great news! Here's money lent on bond! rare news!
By honest, tender-hearted, Christian Jews!
Here are promotions, dividends, rewards;
A list of bankrupts, and of new-made lords.
Here the debates at length are, for the week;
And here the deaf and dumb are taught to speak!
Here HAZARD, GOODLUCK, SHERGOLD, and a band
Of gen'rous gentlemen, whose hearts expand
With honour, rectitude, and public spirit,
Equal in high desert, with equal merit,

Divide their tickets into shares and quarters;

And here's a servant-maid found hanging in her garters!
Here! here's the fifty thousand, sold at ev'ry shop;
And here's the Newgate calendar—and drop.
Rare news! Strange news! Extraordinary news!
Who would not give three-halfpence to peruse ?

[Going, returns.] 'Sblud! I forgot-Great news again I say! To-night, at Covent-Garden, a new play!

[In raptures.] Oh! I'll be there, with Jack, our printer's devil! We're judges!-We know when to clap or cavil!

We've heard our pressmen talk of, of Rome and Greece !
And have read Harry-Harry-Harry Stotle's Masterpiece!
When we have paid our shilling, we're the Town!

As wisely can find fault, as those who pay their crown!
Nay, we, like them, if it be bad or good,

Can talk as fast as, as-as if we understood!

Oh! I'll be there; get the first row, and with my staff
I'll act the trunkmaker, thump, roar, encore, and laugh!

The prompter's boy has call'd our Jack aside,
And says, the play's to cure the world of pride!
That rich folks will no longer think they're born
To crush the weak, and laugh the poor to scorn!
The great 'twill teach that virtue, truth, and merit!
They may perchance possess, but can't inherit!
That learning, wisdom, genius, wit, and worth,

Are far more rich and rare than ribbands, rank, and birth!
Lord! Lord! Who ever heard of such a scheme?

Teach sense to wealth and pride! Your poets always dream!

Could he do this, there's no one will deny

That news! strange news! would be the gen❜ral cry.

EPILOGUE to the same.

HE curtain dropt, of course the author sends

To me

you listen, he politely says,

Whene'er I prattle, with a wish to praise.
For kindness so unceasing, may you be

As happy, ev'ry soul, as your applause makes me!

But to my text-The theme to-night is pride:
Much have we said, and much more have implied;
Our boldest strokes are feeble, nor can show
The child of pride with half his genuine glow;

[Exit.

Of