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 the 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 sbe sung,
And with due laurel wreaths thy cradle, Brunswick, hung!
But tho' uncouth my numbers flow

-From a rude reed,--

That drank the dew of Isis' lowly mead,

And wild pipe, fashion'd from the embatted sedge
Which on the twilight edge

Of my own Cherwell loves to grow:

The god-like theme alone

Should bear me on its tow'ring wing ;

Bear me undaunted to the throne,

To view with fix'd and stedfast eye

-The delegated majesty

Of heav'ns dread lord, and what I see to sing.

Like heaven's dread lord, great George his voice can

raise,

From babes and suckling's 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 hostle gore:

Who joy in war's terrific charms,
To see the steely gleam of arms,
And hear the cannon's zoan;

Unknown the god-like 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. The pious George to white-stoled peace alone His olive sceptre yields, and palm-encircled throne. Or if his high degree

On the perturbed sea
The bloody flag unfurls;

Or o'er the embattl'd 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;
O'er Rappahanock's recreant shores;
Up the rough rocks of Kipps's-bay ;
The huge Anspachar wins his way;

Or scares the falcon from the fir-cap'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 subject's 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—

Brunswick, in more saint-like guise
Claims for his spoils a purer prize,
Content at every price to buy

A conquest o'er himself, and o'er his progeny.
His be domestic glory's radient calm

His be the sceptre wreath'd with many a palm— His be the throne with peaceful emblems hung, And mine the laurel'd lyre, to those mild conquests strung!

NUMBER XV,

1

PINDARIC,

By the RIGHT HON. HERVEY REDMOND,

LORD VISCOUNT MOUNTMORRES,

Of Castle Morres, of the Kingdom of Ireland, &c. &c.

I.

AWAKE, Hibernian lyre, awake,
To harmony thy strings attune,

O tache their trembling tongue to spake
The glories of the fourth of June.
Auspicious morn!

When George was born

To grace (by deputy) our Irish throne,

North, south, aiste, west,

Of Kings the best,

'Sure now he's aquall'd by himself alone;

Throughout the astonish'd globe so loud his fame shall

ring,

The dif themselves shall bare the strains the dumb shall

sing.