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HARK! "Tis the dismal sound that echoes on thy roofs, O Cornwall!-Hail! double-face sage! thou worthy son of the chair-borne Fletcher! The Great Council is met to fix the seats of the chosen Chiefs; their. voices resound in the gloomy hall of Rufus, like the roaring winds of the cavern.-Loud were the cries for Rays, but thy voice, O Foxan, rended the walls like the torrent that gusheth from the Mountain-side. Cornwall leaped from his throne, and screamed-the friends of Gwelfo hung their heads How were the mighty fallen! Lift up thy face, Dundasso, like the brazen shield of thy chieftain! Thou art bold to confront disgrace, and shame is unknown to thy brow-but tender is the youth of thy leader; who droopeth his head like a faded lily-leave not Pitto in the day of defeat, when the Chiefs of the Counties fly from him like the herd from the galled Deer.-The friends of Pitto are fled. He is alone-he layeth himself down in despair, and sleep knitteth up his brow.-Soft were his dreams on the green bench-Lo! the spirit of Jenky arose, pale as the mist of the morn-twisted was his long lank form-his eyes winked as he whispered to the child in the cradle. Rise, he sayeth-arise, bright babe of the dark closet! the shadow of the Throne shall cover thee, like the wings of a hen, sweet chicken of the Back-stair brood! Heed not the Thanes of the Counties; they have fled from thee, like Cackling Geese from the hard-bitten Fox: but will

they not rally and return to the charge? Let the host of the King be numbered; they are as the sands of the barren shore. There is Powno, who followeth his mighty leader, and chaseth the stall-fed stag all day on the dusty road.— There is Howard, great in arms, with the beaming star on his spreading breast.-Red is the scarf that waves over his ample shoulders-Gigantic are his strides on the terrace, in pursuit of the Royal footsteps of lofty Georgio.

No more will I number the flitting shades of Jenky; for behold the potent spirit of the black-browed Jacko,"Tis the Ratten Robinso, who worketh the works of darkness! Hither I come, said Ratten-Like the mole of the earth, deep caverns have been my resting-place; the ground Rats are my food.-Secret minion of the Crown, raise thy soul! Droop not at the spirit of Foxan. Great are thy foes in the sight of the many-tongued war.-Shake not thy knees, like the leaves of the aspen on the misty hill-the doors of the stairs in the postern are locked; the voice of thy foes is as the wind, which whistleth through the vale; it passeth away like the swift cloud of the night.

The breath of Gwelfo stilleth the stormy seas. Whilst thou breathest the breath of his nostrils, thou shalt live for ever. Firm standeth thy heel in the Hall of thy Lord. Mighty art thou in the sight of Gwelfo, illustrious leader of the friends of Gwelfo! great art thou, O lovely imp of the interior closet! O lovely Guardian of the Royal Junto!


MR. MASON having laid aside the more noble subject for a Probationary Ode, viz. the Parliamentary Reform, upon finding that the Rev. Mr. Wyvill had already made a considerable progress in it, has adopted the fol-" lowing. The argument is simple and interesting, adapted either to the harp of Pindar, or the reed of Theocritus, and as proper for the 4th of June, as any day of the year.

It is almost needless to inform the public that the University of Oxford has earnestly longed for a visit from their Sovereign, and, in order to obtain this honour without the fatigue of forms and ceremonies, they have privately desired the Master of the Staghounds, upon turning the stag out of the cart, to set his head in as straight a line as possible, by the map, towards Oxford :which probably, on some auspicious day, will bring the Royal Hunt to the walls of that city. This expedient, conceived in so much wisdom, as well as loyalty, makes the subject of the following




O GREEN-ROB'D Goddess of the hallow'd shade,
Daughter of Jove, to whom of yore

Thee, lovely maid, LATONA bore,

Chaste virgin, Empress of the silent glade!
Where shall I woo thee?-Ere the dawn,
While still the dewy tissue of the lawn
Quivering spangles to the eye,

And fills the soul with Nature's harmony?

Or 'mid that murky grove's monastic night,

The tangling net-work of the woodbine's gloom, Each zephyr pregnant with perfume ?

Or near that delving dale, or mossy mountain's height?


When Neptune struck the scientific ground,

From Attica's deep-heaving side,

Why did the prancing horse rebound,

Snorting, neighing all around,

With thund'ring feet and flashing eyes

Unless to show how near allied

Bright science is to exercise?


If then the horse to wisdom is a friend,

Why not the hound? why not the horn?

While low beneath the furrow sleeps the corn, Nor yet in tawny vest delights to bend !

For Jove himself decreed,
That DIAN, with her sandal'd feet,
White-ankled Goddess pure and fleet,

Should with every Dryad lead,

By jovial cry o'er distant plain,

To England's Athens, Brunswick's sylvan train!


Diana, Goddess all-discerning!
Hunting is a friend to learning!

If the stag, with hairy nose,

In Autumn ne'er had thought of love;
No buck with swollen throat the does
With dappled sides had tried to move-
Ne'er had England's King, I ween,
The Muses' seat, fair Oxford, seen.


Hunting, thus, is learning's friend!
No longer, Virgin Goddess, bend

O'er Endymion's roseate breast-
No longer, vine-like, chastely twine
Round his milk-white limbs divine!-

Your brother's car rolls down the east-
The laughing Hours bespeak the day!
With flow'ry wreaths they strew the way!
Kings of sleep! ye mortal race!

For George with Dian 'gins the Royal chase!


Visions of bliss, you tear my aching sight;
Spare, O spare your poet's eyes!
See, every gateway trembles with delight,
Streams of glory streak the skies:


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