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I may proceed in safety, for T am unobserved by all, except such wretches as are too much occupied by their own misery to regard me.

"Those that mingle reason with your passion,

"Must be content to think you old." Those who do not resign their feelings to passionate complaints, but correct the influence of those complaints with a due mixture of reason, must be satisfied with imputing them to the infirmity and waywardness of old age.

"I will be the pattern of all patience,

"I will say nothing." Silence adds great sublimity to distress: this Dryden knew; when describing the sorrow of the Duke of York, at the death of his royal brother, he said,—

"Horror in all its pomp was there,

"Mute and magnificent, without a tear."

"You have seen,

"Sunshine and rain at once—her smiles and tears "Were like a better day." This passage has not been satisfactorily explained: it is, probably, corrupt:—the quarto reads, "better way." Dr. Warburton's emendation appears the most plausible, "a wetter May" I wish there were any authority for an April day, which would be exactly congruous, and is a simile so applied by Otway.

"the beauteous Belvedera

came weeping forth, "Shining thro' tears, like April suns in showers, "That labour to o'ercome the clouds that load them."

Venice Preserv'd.

— "how fearful

"And dizzy 'tis, to cast one's eyes so low!" Most readers, I believe, will concur with Addison in the general encomium he has pronounced on this speech; and "the poverty of that writer's wit," in the instance quoted by Dr. Johnson, would be almost overlooked, had it not instigated the learned and acute editor, to a false and disingenuous remark. If the Doctor (to use his own words on another occasion) had been in quest of truth, he would plainly perceive the difference between a real object of terror, and a fictitious one. The objection, perhaps, might stand, if we could suppose the speaker to be really impressed with the terrors of the precipice which he is only artfully describing; but as Edgar had made a plausible representation, to deceive his father, the Doctor seems determined to play a similar trick on his confiding readers.




Hark! 'tis the cannon's horrid roar

The frighted earth again alarms; The martial bands from Gallia's shore

Excite all England's sons to arms; The thund'ring tube was scarcely cold,

The fatal hail scarce ceas'd to fly, When Mars—" To arms ye brave and bold,

Tis yours to conquer or to die!"

Scarce had the soldier and the tar

Inhal'd a breeze of native air, Or mother wept o'er Henry's scar,

Or lover kiss'd his constant fair,
Or wife enjoy'd a mate's embrace,

Or child a father's beaming eye,
When through the air's unbounded space,

The alarm was, "Conquer, or we die."

Scarce had the drum's discordant sound

Forborne the ambient air to rend, Or lovely Peace, with olive crown'd,

Been welcom'd as a long lost friend; Commerce again, with fav'ring gales,

Had scarcely brought her treasures nigh, When cruel war again assails;

For we must fight, or tamely die.

The sword scarce sheath'd from bloody fight,

Again meets sword with hideous clang, Again maintaining England's right,

The soldier feels the dying pang. Ceres' rich stores that strew'd the plains,

Now mangled heaps of slain supply, And hills re-echoing shepherds' strains,

Resound "We'll conquer, or we'll die."

Then since it is by Hcav'n decreed

That war shall fill th'ensanguin'd plain,
Let us not tamely drooping bleed,

But fight and beat them once again.
Rous'd by a Howe—a Nelson's fame,

Let's scorn from Gallic slaves to fly;
Whilst England's shores shall still proclaim,

"We'll conquer, or we'll nobly die."

So shall sweet peace on England smile,

Unlike the peace that late we priz'd,
Plenty and commerce bless our isle,

When French ambition is chastiz'd.
Then England's land with vict'ry crown'd,

Shall stand in Europe's balance high,
While Britain's sons repeat the sound,

We'll freedom gain, or fighting die."




Greece ow'd her freedom to Harmodius' lyre!

And, as Tyrttcus wak'd the martial strain,
Sparta's bold legions felt the sacred fire,

And saw—what myriads lost—a poet gain.

So—rous'd to vengeance—should the Gallic foe
On Albion's coast bid war's fell demons rage—

With kindred flames each patriot breast shall glow,
And catch new ardour from thy classic page.

Then, when for all that life endears, they pay

Their thanks, and grateful own thy verse prevail'd;

Britons to thee shall raise this votive lay!"The bard succeeded, where the statesman fail'd."

J. A.

# At the present important Crisis, it would be unpardonable in us to omit recommending to the serious perusal of our readers, this animated poem, as one of the best written, and best tinted productions, that ever issued from the British press.

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Ite, Rime dolente, al duro sasso

Che 7 mio caro Tesoro in terra asconde:
Lei chiamate chi dal Ciel risponde;

Bench}. 7 mortal sia in loco e basso.

Ditele, ch' to son gia di viner lasso;
Del narigar per queste orribir onde:
Ma, rieogliendo lejue sparse Jronde,

Dietro le vo pur cost, passo passo.

Sol di lei ragionando viva e morta,
Anzi pur vira, edorfatta immortale;
Accibche 7 Mondo la ennosca ed ame.

Piaccele al mio passar etser' accorta;

Che e presso omai: siam' al incontro; e quale Ellae net Cielo, Use mi tiri e chiame.



Go, melancholy Hhimes; in pity go,
And penetrate the rigid Marble's Base
That marks with awful front the sacred place

Where sleeps my Laura, in the dust below.

Yet though on earth her Form shall never know
The wonted semblance of its winning Grace,
And though Death preys upon her beauteous Face,

Still shall her voice from Heaven's wide concave flow.

Ii. Say, I am weary of Life's joyless Day: Of journeying through this desolated Waste.

I trace her scatterM leaves* which guide my sight: And to the silent Tomb my progress haste.

In hope, though now uncheer'd by her mild ray,
It soon shall meet me in the realms of Light
S. W. L
18 Jul. 1803.

*In allusion to the Laurel


Occasioned by the preceding having been written on the obitual Day of Petrarch.*

Lov'd Songstress! who on Petrarch's parting Day,
Dear to the Muse of the soft plaintive Lyre,
Hast breath'd such Strains as might his Dust inspire

With sense, although his Laura sleeps in clay,

That still survives the pure celestial Ray

'Which in his breast waken'd the sacred Fire
Of tender, elegant, and high Desire,

And bade his numbers wing to Heaven their Way:


Dear be That Day to us!—oft as the Hours
Bring its return,—if Heaven so will,—to me,
May it remind me what to Heaven I owe
For thy mild sweetness, thy poetic Powers;
For every source of purest Bliss in Thee:And never o'er this thought may chill Oblivion flow.


Let the dull, the grave declare,

That 'tis vain to chasten Care;

"Sober Reason's sway should guide—"

Love, and joy, and wine deride

Gravest maxims, Wisdom's rules.

Let them call us Folly's tools;

While we've youth, and health, and wine,

Rosy God! our vows are thine.

Let them preach of saints and prudes—
Whilst their logic thus intrudes,
We the more indulge your sway,
God of love, and God of day.
They, bereft your care, betray
But envy, while we still display How much we own your favours dear,
Sacrificing through the year.

Liverpool. J. P. B.

* Nacque Petrarca a di xx. di LugUo Mccciiii.
Passe poi di quest a apiufelice Vita; a di xvm. di Luglio

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