Grant, that, like Solomon's of old,
My faith be still in Proverbs told;
Like his, let my religion be

Conundrums of divinity.

And O! to mine let each strong charm belong, That breathes salacious in the wise man's Song. And thou, sweet bard, for ever dear To each impassion'd love-fraught ear, Soft, luxuriant ROCHESTER;?/ Descend, and ev'ry tint bestow That gives to phrase its ardent glow; From thee thy willing Hill shall learn Thoughts that melt, and words that burn: Then smile, O gracious smile, on this petition! So Solomon, gay Wilmot join'd with thee, Shall show the world that such a thing can be As, strange to tell !-u virtuous Coalition ! 2, 15

IV.

Thou too, thou dread and awful shade.
Of dear departed WILL. WHITEHEAD,.
Look through the blue ethereal skies, i.
And view me with propitious eyes!
Whether thou most delight'st to loll

On Sion's top, or near the Pole!.......
Bend from thy mountains, and remember still
The wants and wishes of a lesser Hill!
Then, like Elijah, fled to realms above,
To me, thy friend, bequeath thy hallow'd cloak,
And by its virtue Richard may improve,
And in thy habit preach, and pun, and joke.

The Lord doth give---The Lord doth take away.---
Then, good Lord Sal'sbury, attend to me→
Banish these sous of Belial in dismay;

And give the praise to a true Pharisee:
For, sure, of all the scribes that Israel curst,
These scribes poetic are by far the worst.
To thee, my Samson, unto thee I call-

Exert thy jaw-and straight disperse them all-
So, as in former times, the Philistines shall fall!
Then as 't was th' beginning,

So to th' end 't shall be;

My Muse will ne'er leave singing

The LORD of SAL'SBURY!!!

NUMBER V.

DUAN,

IN THE TRUE OSSIAN SUBLIMITY,

By MR. MACPHERSON.

Does the wind touch thee, O Harp?
Or is it some passing Ghost?

Is it thy hand,

Spirit of the departed Scrutiny? Bring me the harp, pride of CHATHAM !

Snow is on thy bosom,

Maid of the modest eye!

A song shall rise!

Every soul shall depart at the sound!!!
The wither'd thistle shall crown my head!!!
I behold thee, O King!

I behold thee sitting on mist!!!
Thy form is like a watery cloud,

Singing in the deep like an oyster!!!!

Thy face is like the beams of the setting moon!

Thy eyes are of two decaying flames !
Thy nose is like the spear of ROLLO!!!
Thy ears are like three bossy shields !!!
Strangers shall rejoice at thy chin!
The ghosts of dead Tories shall hear me
In their airy hall!

The wither'd thistle shall crown my head!
Bring me the Harp,

Son of CHATHAM !

But thou, O King! give me the Laurel!

NUMBER VI.

We

[THOUGH the following Ossianade does not immediately come under the description of a Probationary Ode, yet, as it appertains to the nomination of the Laureat, we class it under the same head. must at the same time compliment Mr. Macpherson for his spirited address to Lord Salisbury on the subject. The following is a copy of his letter:]

MY LORD,

I TAKE the liberty to address myself immediately to your Lordship, in vindication of my poetical character, which, I am informed, is most illiberally attacked by the Foreign Gentleman, whom your Lordship has thought proper to select as an assessor on the present scrutiny for the office of Poet Laureat to His Majesty. Signor Delpini is certainly below my notice: but I understand his objections to my Probationary Ode are two;--first, its conciseness; and next, its being in prose. For the present, I shall wave all discussion of these frivolous re

marks; begging leave, however, to solicit your Lordship's protection to the following Supplemental Ode, which, I hope, both from its quantity and its style, will most effectually do away the paltry, insidious attack of an uninformed reviler, who is equally ignorant of British Poetry and of British Language.

I have the honour to be,

My Lord,

Your Lordship's most obedient,

and faithful servant,

J. MACPHERSON.