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· PATRIOTIC ADDRESS, Delivered by Mrs. LITCHFIELD, at Covent-Garden Theatre, on the
30th of May, 1804,
WRITTEN BY MAURICE JAMES, ESQ.
Tuanks! thanks!_I knew that Britons were the same,
Prompt to applaud, unwilling still to blame,
At Nature's call, that justice would relent,
And to a woman's plea, cry still " content !"
Their's is the gentlest, as the bravest soul,
They raise the drooping, and the proud control-
Now the trump clangs, with martial rage they glow,
Now sigh in cadence to the notes of woe-
Now stalk remorseless, 'midst whole heaps of dead,
Now with light steps the floor of sorrow tread.
Now, voic'd with thunder, set the world at bay,
Now, in mild accents, whisper pain away-
So yon bold cliff, that spurns the roaring flood,
Gives its soft nest to many a little brood
So yon stout oak, that frowns o'er all the grove,
Sweetly supports the woodbiņe's modest love,
Britons beware!while bravery sleeps secure,
"The midnight murderer oft unlocks the door
Oft has the hero, who despis’d his foe,
Fall'n by the treach'rous cowards guilty blow-
Weak womens fears--yet, Britons ! still beware!
Too great to fear, oh cease not to prepare-
Freedom at last must conquer, but, before,
Our British plains may stream with British gore;
And though whole seas of Gallic swell the flood,
All won't atone one drop of British blood.-
Britain defies thee, France !-Oh glorious sound!
E'en infant hearts with thrilling rapture bound !-
Bold deeds of pigmy prowess children dare,
Grasp little arms, and move the mimic war-
Tread firm their narrow strand, and try to frown,
And at one blow strike the whole battle down.
Mothers, 'tis ours the patriot spark to fan,
To rear the infant hero into man-
My boy in arms, soon as he learns to crow,
Shall lisp his baby challenge to the foe
And when he lifts his pretty hands to heav'n,-
Begging his innocence inay be forgiv'n-
I'll teach him still to add this little pray'r,
“God bless my country, and my good king spare."
Hail! Britain, hail! here bending at thy shrine,
All right in this young warrior I resign-
Peace, mother, peace-thy voice is heard no more,
A foreign tyrant threats to tread our shore-
His hungry squadrons swarm from ev'ry part,
And feast in fancy on Britannia's heart-
Go then, my son, the rushing monster stay,
Go, with thy soul and body block his way
A thousand dastards hem my hero round,
A thousand swords would fell him to the ground;
Yet he retreats not, but where first he stood,
Still stands, knee-deep ingulph'd in hostile blood.
Numbers press on, yet, with undaunted mien,
He smiles at death, indignantly serene
Now, in his might, he rises on the foe,
The tyrant totters, tumbles, and lies low-
Victory! Ilark! Hark! they chant this patriot stave,
“ The land of freedom is THE TYRANT's grave."
ADDRESSED TO MISS W**G.
SILENT sorrow marks my anguish,
Written in this faded cheek;
Eyes emitting thoughts that languish;
looks that eloquently speak.
Blushing tremor, faint expression,
Flutt'ring something to impart; Language ne'er could make confession · Like the tumult in this heart!!!
i DELIA'S GRAVE,
A CANZON ETTE. Set to Music by Mr. Webster, of Mansfield. “My love was sweeter than the rose,
“ Wash'd with the morning dew; * But cold she lies as wintry snows,
" Beneath this lonely yew : “ From hence my sorrows and my cares
“ Will, with my days increase, * For ah !--my love lies buried here,
« And with her all my peace !" Where daisy-dappled banks invite;
Or by the fountain clear;
Or upland slope could yield delight,
If Delia she was there :-
Attun'd to love, our hearts were true,
When wandering through the grove;
Each bird hung forward froin its bough,
To hear the “ voice of love."
Where beds of flowers their fragrance breathe,
- The woodbine hower among There, as she wove the civic wreath,
She charm'd me with her song:
Delicious, then, the balmy gale,
That kiss'd the thistle's beard;
The myrtle grove, and elm-clad vale,
Her lovely hands had rear'd.
But now, alas ! nor purling rill;
Nor daisy-dappled dale;
Nor myrtle grove; nor sloping hill;
Nor odour-fanning gale:
Nor violet bank; nor roseat bower;
Nor shade of alder tree;
Can, since my Delia is no more,
Diffuse their charms to me,
OR HELPS TO READ. WHERE gently swinging o'er the gate, The royal lion hugs his chain,
Deck'd in a tawny hide, and wig (Instead of mane)
As frizzled and as big
As that which clothes the wisest judge's pate.
The village club, inspir'd by beer,
Had met, the chronicle to hear,
Which, weekly, to the list’ning crowd,
Aaron, their clerk, proclaim'd aloud.
While talking over state affairs,
Each fault in politics discerning,
And praising Aaron's wondrous learning,
A hawker came to vend his wares;
The well-pack'd box his aged shoulders prest,
And his rough beard descended to his breast.
“ Vell, Shentlemen, vat you vant to buy?
“ Goot razors, knives, vate'er you choose,
“ Vatch keys, or buckles for de shoes;
« Or do you stand in need
“ Of spectacles, vich help to read?” "Do you sell helps to read?” Hodge cries, And yawns, and rubs his drowsy eyes;
“ Hand me a pair,--at least I'll try;
“ Who knows, but, when the old man's dead,
"" I may be clerk, in Aaron's stead."
So said, he fix'd them on his snout,
And star'd, and wink'd, and look'd about, .
But all in vain :
« Perhaps de soight's too old," the pedlar cries,
“ Sher, try anoder pair;
“ Dese, Sher, vill shute you to a hair." Again the bumpkin try'd;
His eyes ran o'er the page again, But all was dark and puzzling as before.
“ Vell, Sher,” cry'd Moses,“ can you now see better?" “ Not I,” quoth Hodge, with angry roar;
“I cannot tell a letter." Then madly stampt and rav'd, Swearing he'd have the cheating Hebrew shavd;
He'd dock his chin, he'd mow his grisly beard.
“ Vy, Sher,” cry'd Moses, striving to be heard, “ Perhaps you cannot reud, and, if 'tis so, “ Noting vill help you out, you know;
“De spectacles are very goot indeed, “ But den, perhaps, you never vent to school."
“ What,” growl'd the clown, with fiery eye,
And rudden'd face, whose anger you might see,
“ D’ye take me for a fool?
“ If I could say my A, B, C,
“ What need have I
“ For any helps to read ?"
J. BRITTON, Junr.
O, BEAUȚEOUS maiden, hear me plead
For love, the bliss of blisses;
Those lips can learn no sweeter creed;
Believe me by these kisses;
Those rolling eyes thou canst not move,
And neither feel nor kindle love.
Behold all nature round thee bloom,
And each for love created,
Till night and death the whole entomb,
Of love 'twill not be sated.
Wouldst thou alone exception prove,
And neither feel nor kindle love?
Soft is thy bosom,-can thy heart
Not palpitate with feeling?
To day relent-my bliss impart
Ah what avails concealing.
To-morrow we may cease to move,
And neither feel nor kindle love.
Where hast thou in the world around
Another truer, fonder,
Whose love, whose life, together bound,
Are thine-- ah wherefore ponder?
'Tis worse than transport, pangs to prove,
To feel, and not enkindle, love. E, D.