"Behold, behold, the long expected day!
"Fly swift, ye hours; ye minutes, haste away.
"To wed the fair, O favoured of the skies,
"Rise in thy time, thou destined hero, rise.
"For thro' this scene of opening Fate, I see
"A greater FREDERIC shall arise in thee!
"Then let thy fears from this blest moment cease:
"Henceforth shall pure Religion reign in peace.
"Thy royal race shall Albion's sceptre sway;
"And son to son th' Imperial power convey:
"All shall support, like thee, the noble cause
"Of Truth, Religion, Liberty, and Laws."
This said, the venerable shade retired:
The wond'ring hero, at the vision fired,
With generous rapture glows; forgets his pains,
Smiles at his woes, and triumphs in his chains.
JO. SPENCE,
Professor of Poetry, and Fellow of
New College, Oxford.
INSCRIPTION.
A Water Nymph speaks.
BY DR. DARWIN.
Ir the meek flower of bashful dye,
Attract not thy incurious eye;
If the soft murmuring rill to rest
Encharm not thy tumultuous breast,
Go, where Ambition lures the vain,
Or Avarice barters peace for gain !
Which accompany the beautiful Engraving of the Limodoron Tankervillie, or Chinese Limodoron, in Dr. Thornton's splendid Botanical Work.
SWEET flower, whose modest beauties blow
Deep in the green and silent vale,
Where willows bending o'er the stream,
Wave gently to the passing gale!
So, in thy native Sina's shades,
Like thee, sequester'd and serene,
Soft-smiling sit her pensive maids,
Pleas'd with the solitary scene.
There, listening to some magic tale,"
Of fabled bliss, or fancied woe,
They deck with art the silken veil,
Or tend the flowers that round them blow.
From moss-clad rocks and tangled shades,
The murmuring waters roll around,
Sweep through the garden's green arcades,
And shine along the varied ground.
On waving boughs the plumy race
Sweet carol from the blossom'd spray;
While, glittering in each pictur'd vase,
The golden-scaled beauties play.
Domestic cares and duteous love
In turn their tender thoughts employ;
And form within their green alcove
A happiness that cannot cloy.
BY J. B. S. MORRIT, ESQ.
LOST in a jarring world's tumultuous cries,
Unmark'd around us sink the good and wise:
Here BURGH is laid; a venerable name,
To Virtue sacred, not unknown to Fame;
Let those he lov'd, let those who lov'd him, tell
How dear he liv'd, and how lamented fell;
Tell of the void his social spirit left,
Of comforts long enjoy'd for ever reft,
Of wit that gilded many a sprightlier hour,
Of kindness when the scene of joy was o'er,
Of Truth's ethereal beam, by Learning given,
To guide his virtues to their native Heaven;
Nor shall their sorrowing voice be heard unmov'd,
While gratitude is left, or goodness lov'd;
But listening crowds this honour'd tomb attend,
And childrens' children bless their father's friend.
YE giant robbers of the nation,
Whose shuddering dread of reformation,
(Such dread the minor robber feels,
When Bow-street runners dog his heels)
Prompts you, by every art to strive
To keep our fear of change alive,
Learn that the hackney'd old pretences
No more can cheat us of our senses.
In vain, again, with treble din
You raise the cry of " JACOBIN * !"
The long-exploded cry we hear
With nothing but a bitter sneer!
This stale attempt our souls to fright
From claiming antient law and right,
Betrays a poorness of invention,
As little skill as good intention.
Thus, says the tale, a country clown,
Who, when a friend or two came down
On Sundays at his cot to dine,
Gave apple-pie and leg of swine,
Once having, at some festal tide,
For thrice the number to provide,
The author by no means intends to assert that the country never was in danger from jacobinical principles. He is fully satisfied that, at one time, it was in the utmost peril from the detestable principles and machinations of jacobinism. What he means to assert is, that, long after the danger was over, the cry of " Jacobin" continued to be raised, by venal scribblers, against every person, however loyal, who was desirous of correcting even the most flagrant abuses. There may, perhaps, still be a few inveterate Jacobins, but they can only be objects of contempt, or, at most, of vigilance.
After much racking of his brain,
What dinner he should give the train,
At length presented to their eyes,
Three legs of pork, three apple-pies.
We own, indeed, there was an hour
The bug-bear phantom had such power,
That, when you held it up to view,
It made us fifty follies do!
Heavens! how we sweated, pray'd, and trembled,
And asses more than men resembled!
Then, like that sage Hibernian elf,
To save his neck who hang'd himself,
To keep secure our lives and purses,
We both committed to your mercies.
But those your golden days are past,
We've through the juggle seen at last,
And that which once destroy'd our rest,
Is now become a standing jest.
So when, to guard from birds his crops,
HODGE in his fields a scare-crow props,
With furious phiz, and jacket flaming,
And wooden gun at spoilers aiming,
Awhile, the dread of feather'd bands,
The formidable malkin stands ;
But soon, familiar with its figure,
And finding out its want of vigour,
The birds, recover'd from their wonder,
Boldly resume the work of plunder,
Around their foe undaunted tread,
Or perch upon its empty head.
"Tis true that, in one trifling point,
My simile is out of joint:
WE are the tillers of the plain,
And you the plunderers of our grain.
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