to place them upon a footing with your memorialists; and your memorialists, as in duty bound, shall ever bark. Signed, in behalf of all the Dogs in the city, by

May 29, 1811.

CESAR,

TOWSER,

POMPEY,

WATCH, and
SPOT.

HORACE IN LONDON.

Of all the descriptive passages in Horace, none has been perused with a more cordial approbation, especially by the rural enthusiast, than that far-famed Epode, which so enchantingly celebrates the joys of the sylvan life. In this beautiful poem, the poet, with his accustomed felicity, describes one Alphius, a scoundrel usurer, chaunting, at great length, the delights of rural retirement, resolving to repair to the groves of solitude: but finally, from the despotism of Avarice and of Habit, returning to his villainous speculations and his trade of money-lending. Horace in London, has very happily modernized this matchless performance; and if Mr. Pope could be raised from the tomb, he would not hesitate liberally to commend his fellow-labourer in this peculiar way of composition.

EPODE II. RURAL FELICITY.

Beatus ille qui procul negotiis, &c.

"HAPPY the man who leaves off trade

(Thus to himself, Paul Poplin said,)

No care his mind engages;

Fix'd on a gently rising hill,

At Somers-town, or Pentonville,

He eyes the passing stages.

The city rout, the lord mayor's ball,
The bankrupt meeting at Guildhall,
He cautiously avoids;

Nor, when bold privateers invade
Our homeward bound West India trade
Pays cent per cent at Lloyd's.

His poplars, Lombardy's delight,

He ranges graceful to the sight,

Than mighty Magog taller;

And if one overtop his peers,

The overgrown intruder shears,

Or substitutes a smaller.

Pleas'd from his summer-house to spy,
The lowing herd to Smithfield hie,

To feed each London glutton;

His blushing elder wine he brews,

To treat his city friends, who chuse

To taste his Sunday's mutton.

When Autumn rears his sun-burnt head, And plums his garden wall o'erspread, What joy rewards his labours!

First, chusing for himself the best,

He civilly bestows the rest

Upon his next-door neighbours.

Where glides old Middleton's canal,
He sometimes joins the motley mall,
And feasts on ale and fritters;

And when he nods in soft repose,

Responsive to his vocal nose,

The merry blackbird twitters.

When drifted snow engulfs the house,
He hunts the weazle, rat or mouse,
Or, with a net of bobbin,

Entraps the sparrow's chirping brood,
And oft-times, in a valiant mood,

Ensnares the fierce red robin.

But if, to grace his rural life,

He takes unto himself a wife,

(No more a naughty ranger)

He marries one of honest kin,
Like Pamela, or void of sin,

Like her who chose the stranger.

What more can mortal man desire,
An elbow chair, a blazing fire,

Two spermaceti tapers;

An appetite at five to dine,

A dish of fish, a pint of wine,

A leg of lamb and capers!

No turbot, eighteen pence a pound,
Should on my humble board be found,
No fricandeau or jelly;

No moor game, dear and dainty breed,
Should fly from Berwick upon Tweed,
To roost within my belly.

I'd kill a pig-I'd drive a team-
I'd keep a cow to yield me cream,
More delicate than nectar;

O pure and innocent delight,

To snatch the pigeon from the kite,
And-in a pie-protect her.

And when the Hampstead stage I spied,

With six fat citizens inside,

Their daily labour over:

The horned herd I'd thus provoke

"Fag on, obedient to the yoke,

Behold me safe in clover."

Paul Poplin, in a curious fuss,

A future Cincinnatus thus

His honest pate was puzzling;

When lo! before his counter stands

A pursy widow and demands

Six yards of ell-wide muslin!

He starts-displays the Indian ware,

His country box dissolves in air,

Like mists of morning vapour;

And, in the Poultry, Poplin still

Sticks to his shop, and eyes the till
A smirking linen-draper!

EVERY reader of the London gazettes and magazines will re member the circumstances of the arrest and imprisonment of sir

Francis Burdett, whom the court party at the time viewed in the light of a turbulent demagogue. Our facetious poet thus merrily alludes to some of the particulars of this transaction. The seventh stanza exhibits an antithesis of which, Seneca or Goldsmith, Babzac or Voiture. might have been proud.

BOOK I. ODE 37.

Nunc est libendum, nunc pede libero.

The poet rejoiceth on the return of tranquillity, after the imprisonraent of sir Francis Burdett in the tower.

"Now broach ye a pipe of the best malvoisie,
'Tis sold at the Marmion tavern,

Come feast upon turtle; and sing a Scotch glee
And dance round the table in grand jubilee,
Like so many hags in a tavern.

'Tis wrong to draw corks in the midst of a row,
Old port is the devil when shaken,

The caption was novel, I needs must allow,
An Englishman's house was his castle, till now,
But castles are now and then taken.

Dame Fortune had given sir Francis a dram,
Your drunkards will never be quiet;
He said, Mr. Serjeant, your warrant's a sham
Upheld by the rabble, I'll stay where I am-
So London was all in a riot.

But soon Mr. Sergeant surmounted the casement,
Which only made John Bull the gladder;
For back he was push'd, to his utter amazement,
The baronet smil'd, when he saw from the casement,
His enemies mounting a ladder.

At length, all the constables broke in below,
Quoth JIBBS, it is legal depend on't,

Thus, riding in chace of a doe, or a roe,

The flying bumbailiff cries "yoix! tally-ho!”
And setzes the luckless defendant.

Sir Francis determined the question to try,
Was quietly reading law latin;

Not able and therefore not willing to fly,
He saw all the parliament forces draw nigh
As firm as the chair that he sat in.

His lady sat by, and she played on her lute,
And sung "Will you come to the bower,"
The Serjeant at arms, who was hitherto mute,
Advanc'd and exclaim'd, like an ill-natured brute,
Sir Knight "will you come to the Tower?"

He mounted the carriage, by numbers oppress'd
But first, with no honest intention,
Like queen Cleopatra, he secretly press'd
Two serpents, in tender adieu, to his breast,
Whose names I had rather not mention.

'Tis thus other Wimbledon heroes attain
The summit of posthumous fame,

They dodge their pursuers through alley and lane,
But when they discover resistance is vain

They kick up a dust, and die game."

THE MORAL WORLD.

In the intervals of a life of Ambition, Luxury, or Avarice, however prone, the majority of mortals may be, like the brutes, described by SALLUST, to grovel in a state of abject servitude, under the dominion of Appetite, still there are golden moments, when the voice of the fairest of the virtues is distinctly audible, My lord BOLINGBROKE, another name for eloquence itself, declares, with his accustomed elegance of expression, that the love of study and the desire of knowledge he had felt all his life, and that he was not quite a stranger to that industry and application as requires the whole vigour of mind to be exerted in the pursuit of truth. While, says this ardent nobleman, I ran the course of Pleasure, and of Business, there was always the warning voice of Monition, whispering in my ear; but my good