But heev'n betook us weil! and keep us weise! Leike thunder, burstan at thy dreed command! Keep, keep thy tongue," a warlock cries, And waves his gowden wand.

σε

V.

Noo, laddies! gi' your baugpipes breeth again;
Blaw the lood, but solemn, strain :

Thus wheil I hail with heart-felt pleasure,
In mejesty sedate,
In pride elate,

The smuith-cheeks Laird of aw the treasure;
Onward he stalks in froonan state;

Na fuilish smiles his broos unbend,

Na wall he bleithsome luik on aw the lasses lend.
Hail to ye, lesser Lairds! of mickle wit;
Hail to ye aw, wha in weise council sit,
Fra Tommy Toonsend up to Wully Pitt!
Weel faur your heeds! but noo na mair
To ye maun I the sang confeine:

To nobler fleights the muse expands her wing.
"Tis he, whose eyne and wit sa breightly sheine,
"Tis GEOURGE demands her care;

Breetons! boo down your heed, and hail your King! See! where with Atlantean shoulder,

Amazing each beholder,

Beneath a tott'ring empire's weight,

Full six feet high he stands, and therefore great

VI.

Come then, aw ye Poo'rs of vairse!
Gi' me great GEOURGE's glories to rehearse

And as I chaunt his kingly awks,

The list'nan warld fra me sall lairn
Hoo swuft he rides, hoo slow he walks,

And weel he gets his Queen wi' bairn.
Give me, with all a Laureat's art to jumble
Thoughts that soothe, and words that rumble !
Wisdom and Empire, Brunswick's Royal line;
Fame, Honour, Glory, Majesty divine!
Thus, crooned by his lib'ral hand,

Give me to lead the choral band;

Then, in high-sounding words, and grand,
Aft sall my peipe swell with his princely name,
And this eternal truth proclaim :

Tis GEOURGE, Imperial GEOURCE, who rules BRITANNIA's land!

NUMBER XIV.

ODE,

By DR. JOSEPH WARTON,

In humble Imitation of BROTHER THOMAS.

O! FOR the breathings of the Doric ote!
O! for the warblings of the Lesbian lyre!
O! for th' Alcean trump's terrific note!

O! for the Theban eagle's wing of fire!

O! for each stop and string that swells th'Aonian quire! Then should this hallow'd day in worthy strain be sung, And with due laurel wreaths thy cradle, Brunswick, hung! But though uncouth my numbers flow

-From a rude reed,

That drank the dew of Isis' lowly mead,

And wild pipe, fashion'd from th' embatted sedge

Which on the twilight edge

Of my own Cherwell loves to grow:

The godlike theme alone.

Should bear me on its tow'ring wing;

Bear me undaunted to the throne,

To view with fix'd and steadfast eye

-The delegated majesty

Of Heaven's dread Lord, and what I see to sing.

Like Heaven's dread Lord, great George his voice can

raise,

From babes' and sucklings' mouths to hymn his perfect

praise,

In poesy's trim rhymes and high resounding phrase.

Hence, avaunt! ye savage train,

That drench the earth, and dye the main,
With the tides of hostile gore:
Who joy in wur's terrific charms,
To see the steely gleam of arms,

And hear the cannon's roar;

Unknown the godlike virtue how to yield To Cressy's or to Blenheim's deathful field; Begone, and sate your Pagan thirst of blood; Edward, fell homicide, awaits you there, And Anna's hero, both unskill'd to spare Whene'er the foe their slaught'ring sword withstood. A The pious George to white-stol'd Peace alone His olive sceptre yields, and palm-encircled throne. Or if his high decree

On the perturbed sea
The bloody flag unfurls;

Or o'er th' embattled plain
Ranges the martial train ;
On other heads his bolts he hurls.
Haughty subjects, wail and weep,
Your angry master ploughs the deep.
Haughty subjects, swol'n with pride,
Tremble at his vengeful stride.
While the regal command
Desp'rate ye withstand,

He bares his red right hand,
As when Eloim's pow'r,

In Judah's rebel hour,

Let fall the fiery show'r

That o'er her parch'd hills desolation spread,

And heap'd her vales with mountains of the dead.

O'er Schuylkill's cliffs the tempest roars į
O'er Rappahanock's recreant shores;
Up the rough rocks of Kipps's Bay
The huge Anspacher wins his way;

Or scares the falcon from the fir-capp'd side
Of each high hill that hangs o'er Hudson's haughty tide.

Matchless victor, mighty lord!

Sheath the devouring sword!
Strong to punish, mild to save,
Close the portals of the grave.
Exert thy first prerogative,

Ah! spare thy subjects' blood, and let them live;
Our tributary breath

Hangs on thine for life or death.

Sweet is the balmy breath of orient morn,
Sweet are the honied treasures of the bee;
Sweet is the fragrance of the scented thorn,

But sweeter yet the voice of royal clemency.--
He hears, and from his wisdom's perfect day
He sends a bright effulgent ray,

The nations to illumine far and wide,

And feud and discord, war and strife, subside.

His moral sages, all unknown, t' untie

The wily rage of human policy,

Their equal compasses expand,

And mete the globe with philosophic hand.

No partial love of country binds

In selfish chains the lib'ral minds,

O gentle Lansdown! ting'd with thy philanthropy.
Let other monarchs vainly boast

A lengthen'd line of conquer'd coast,
Or boundless sea of tributary flood,
Bought by as wide a sea of blood