Nor such her later chiefs, who try, 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, Sees Commerce, springs of guiltless wealth explore, V. But lo! across the blackening skies What swarthy dæmon wings his flight? And see Britannia's awful form, With breast undaunted, brave the storm : O'erwhelm'd the wrecked Armada's pride, Suspending o'er a prostrate foe, She snatch'd, in Vict'ry's moment prompt to save, 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 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, 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, Permit me, Druid, here to stray, And ponder 'mid thy drear retreat; To wail the solitary way Where Wisdom held her hallow'd seat; Poor ghost! no more the Druid race 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. No more the bards, in strains sublime, 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: But sullen, death-like, silence reigns, Let others, heedless of the hill, 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 are rich soups, hams, tongues, oils, sauce, sour crout; And here's a wife and five small children wanting bread: 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. Divide their tickets into shares and quarters; And here's a servant-maid found hanging in her garters! [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 ! As wisely can find fault, as those who pay their crown! Can talk as fast as, as-as if we understood! Oh! I'll be there; get the first row, and with my staff The prompter's boy has call'd our Jack aside, Are far more rich and rare than ribbands, rank, and birth! 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. As happy, ev'ry soul, as your applause makes me! But to my text-The theme to-night is pride: [Exit. Of |