Or France, like vigorous Sampson, when of yore,
Rent from their hinges, Gaza's gates he bore.
With nought but Bourbon's glory Paris rung,
Till Rome's unrivall'd Patriots Corneille sung,
Recall'd his audience to a pristine age,
And rous'd with loftier sentiments the stage:
In after-days Voltaire his steps pursued;
Gay Courtiers first avenging Brutus view'd,
Then hail'd the march of that victorious Dame
Fair Liberty, as down Morat she came *,
And proudly stalk'd o'er slaughter'd Charles the Brave,
Stain'd with the gore of many an Austrian slave.
But ah! he sunk into the silent tomb,
While unexplor'd Futurity's deep gloom
Yet o'er his country hung. What Muse of fire
Shall catch his mantle, with auspicious lyre
Those names recording to whom millions owe
Their rescue from th' o'erwhelming tides of woe?
Loud roar'd the blast, convulsions shook the sky,
Amazement saw no guardian Angel nigh,
"La Liberté, j'ai vu cette Deesse altiere
"Descendre du haut de Morat en habit du guerriere,
"Ses mains teintes du sang des fiers Autrichiens,
"Et de Charles le temeraire."
So little of their celebrated Poet's love of Freedom was thought to have been transfused into the breasts of Frenchmen, that we find a British Laureat, one of Voltaire's contemporaries, rashly expressing himself thus:
"The land of Freedom, with the land of Slaves,
"As Nature's friend, must wage eternal War.”
Reasons equally strong for setting no bound to hostilities undertaken from motives quite the reverse have lately issued in a profusion hardly credible from the Press, the Pulpit, and the Senate.
When the huge Danube (whose ferocious tribes,
Inur'd to havoc, thirsting after bribes,
Peace and her train of social Arts detest,)
In noon-tide glare display'd his haughty crest,
And, masking vile designs with feign'd alarms,
Rais'd his hoarse voice, and call'd the World to arms,
But its own bulk dissolves th' unwieldy mass;
Mephitic clouds exhale their stores, and pass:
Let Europe's sons, scarce rescued from dismay,
Welcome these omens of a happier day.
May pure Religion o'er the soul diffuse
Her healing balm, and point to nobler views,
Wrest from the Hypocrite Power's scorpion rod,
Assert the prostituted name of God,
And to that" Holy Mount," where Aspics change
Their nature, where innoxious Lions range,
Greatest and best of miracles, convey
Reluctant Man more cruel far than they.
To Tyrants, or pretended Saints, too long
Have nations pour'd the tributary song,
While bloated malice, leagu'd with childish zeal,
Is titled ardor for the public weal:
Too long have wild Crusades, yon Statesman's dreams,
Fields drench'd in blood, and conquest's distant gleams,
Of many a venal Bard employ'd the pen:
'Tis time to rouse, think, speak, and act, like men,
For those whom Folly hurries to the snare
No more let Fame her blasted wreaths prepare,
But weave unfading garlands, tribute due
To that sage Chieft, whom grateful Senates view,
Beyond th' Atlantic ocean, in an age
So deeply tinctur'd with Ambition's rage,
Isaiah, chap. iii. ver. 9, and chap, Ixv. ver. 25.
General Washington.
Quitting the helm, while at his mandate close
The gates of Janus, and the tribes repose:
Or to posterity transmit cach deed
Of those who dar'd in Freedom's cause to bleed;
Him who in Olmutz' cursed dungeons lay,
By Despots long secluded from the day,
Ere Austria's Eagle, of her plumage shorn,
Left ether's heights, and to the ground was borne.
Or brave Kosciusko, in an evil hour
To Poland lost, while, with gigantic power,
The North's foul Harpy seiz'd her struggling prey;
Carnage awhile then dimm'd the solar ray,
Till Death, that great avenger, on her Throne
His banner fix'd, and claim'd her for his own.
FEBRUARY, 1798.
THIS print, in Europe's general history bound,
With all its Monarchs scepter'd, rob'd, and crown'd,
(Wrought in the graver's broadest, blackest tone,)
Is Catharine, despot of the frozen zone.
But could the pencil mental features trace,
And give as well her spirit as her face,
This plate would stride o'er portraits, books, and maps,
And swallow all my library perhaps.
BY THE LATE REV. W. B. STEVENS.
THE Scenery of the following Odes is supposed to lie in the most wild and unenlightened Parts of India. The Names of the two adverse Countries, Hindvar and Oglu, are fictitious. Rutren, or
as he is called, Ishuren, or Ruddiren, is one of the three chief Divinities among the Indians: his Office is that of Destruction, and he is the favourite Deity of the Malabars. The Goddess Chaday, is believed by that Nation to be the Mother of the Dirumurtigol, under which general denomination the three Divinities are included.
"Twas at the sad and and solemn hour,
When Midnight wrapp'd the regions round,
And wayward Hags of secret Pow'r
Charm'd the air with angry sound;
From Indian fires, a dying flame
Gleam'd with faint lustre through the cypress-shade,
Which to the fevered eye of Fear became
A thousand Giant-Forms, in fancied hues array'd.
While hungry panthers urg'd their furious way,
Yell'd to the glooms, and mock'd their shrieking prey;
While, waken'd by the sound, the lordly snake
Rais'd his crown'd head in horror from the brake,
Say, Muse, what spectres darted through the glade?
Where moan'd her fate the visionary maid?
And where the warriour-spirit stalk'd along,
And wav'd his airy bow, and howl'd his hideous song?
First the Sons of Rutren camé,
Fierce in arms of fiery show ;
Leaders once of mighty name,
All that bare and bent the bow.
Strong to slay and swift to fly,
All that fought, and all that died;
Fearless of the battle-cry,
Hindvar's terror, Oglu's pride.
Rutren led the warrior-crew
O'er the dews of Oglu's field;
Well the valiant power I knew,
By the bow and by the shield.
Red with lightnings glane'd his spear,
Martial as he mov'd along;
Death-birds scream'd in frighted air;
Clashing javelins join'd their song.
Virgins all that died for Love,
Who embalm'd the crimson'd youth;
Shedding in the cypress grove
Tears of Woe, and Tears of Truth:
Warriour-mothers, warriour-wives,
Warriour-daughters join'd the train:
All who pour'd their patriot-lives
Freely on the' empurpled plain:
All who climb'd the funeral pyre,
(Such the purest offerings come)
Who, enshrin'd in bow'rs of fire,
Sought, spontaneous, Chaday's dome,
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