Gorgon-visag'd, bloody minded,
On the viper's venom fed;
By guilt harden'd, by zeal blinded,
By Revenge and Murder led.
Imp of hell! How unsuspected

Hast thou sprung to light again,
Rushing on the unprotected,

With thy worse than tyger train!

Save us, Heav'n! See mild Kilwarpen
Bleeds beneath the monster's fangs!--
Mercy shuts the gates of pardon,

As she views the Martyr's pangs.

Save us, Heav'n! the tumult thickens,
Savage shouts in air resound;
Massacre his mad pace quickens,

Loyal cor'ses strew the ground.

Valour, tho' surpris'd, undaunted

Grasps his sword with hasty hand;
Flies where'er his aid is wanted-
Terror strikes the Rebel band.
On! ye hearts of sterling value!
Let the red-wing'd vengeance fly;
Round your loyal standard rally,
Conquer now, or nobly die!
See! the Rebel horde disperses,
Baffled in their dire intent!

God be praised for all his mercies!
May our cruel foes repent.

SELECTED POETRY.

CONQUEST OR DEATH,

LET the Christianiz'd Mussulman-Papist* of France,
With his Myrmidon Host of Invaders advance;
The loud vaunts of Usurpers and Slaves we defie,
For the Motto of BRITONS is " Conquer or Die."

Can a lawless Marauder to Freedom pretend?
Or a faithless Apostate Religion befriend?

The vain threats of an Atheist we Christians defie,

When the voice of our Gon bids us "Conquer or Die."

HAFIZ

* Formerly Ali-Bonaparte: now the hypocrite calls himself the Thrice-Christian Head of the Catholic French Church :-a Mahometan in Egypt—a Christian in France.

Both our Thoughts and our Souls are in battle-array,
Which no Hell-begot Judas can strike with dismay,
Since all Ranks and all Sects the Impostor defie,
For the Motto of Christians is "Conquer or Die."

Here no Tyrant, no Autocrat poisons our Laws,
Or enervates the will, which gives life to our cause:

With our Swords bright with Freedom, French threats we defie-
For the Motto of Britain is " Conquer or Die."

Let the Strutter come forth, nor be longer remiss,

On our Shores we'll avenge all the wrongs of the Swiss,
Gallic Slaves and Enslavers we scorn and deffe,

For the Motto of Freemen is " Conquer or Die"

RICHARD LLWYD, THE BARD OF SNOWDEN,
TO HIS COUNTRYMEN.

YE, (1) whom Britain's earliest day
Saw among her meadows play;
Unconscious yet that Ocean's waves
Form'd the isle it loves and laves!

Lords of realms, as yet unknown,
A blest creation all your own;
A region yet by blood unstain'd,
Where Peace unbroke, unruffl'd reign'd.

Ere yet, the icy rocky North (2)
Had pour'd her hungry myriads forth,
The hordes that ravag'd guiltless lands,
And forc'd to arms your past'ral bands.

Decreed to share a restless doom,

A world, in vain, resisted Rome:

Yet Claudius (3) heard, on Empire's throne,
A voice then greater than his own.

Led by rapine, fraud and spoil,
Saxons, Normans, trod your soil;
And Bards in strains of sorrow tell;

(1) Aborigines.

That Britain's offspring, fought, and fell.

(2) Invasion of the Danes and Norwegians.

(3) See an elegant version of the speech of Caractacus, before Claudius, in the Juvenilia of my accomplished. friend. J. H. L. Hunt, Esq.

S. 2

Lost

Till Concord came, with efforts blest,
And sooth'd Contention's roar to rest!

United now to Britain's throne,

Your Sires (5) return, resume their own;
Chiefs of your country's antient days,
Britannia's wider sceptre sways!

O'er Britain's fair extended face,
One brave, one rich, and potent race ;-
High in honour-high in fame-

The first of nations-BOASTS YOUR NAME!

BRITONS hear, that name's a host,
And forms a bulwark round your coast:
And Fame shall tell, in records fair,
You're worthy of the name you bear!

The foe that racks a suffering world,
At you the bolt of war has hurl'd;
And dares in language loud and high
Your warriors to the field defy:

Dares, and hopes, by threats and wiles,
To ravage, rule-the Queen of Isles:
Her sons shall check his thirst of blood,
By all that's great, and all that's good!
By genuine Freedom's holy flame,
By your own Arthur, Alfred's name;
By Deva's (6) waves, when Ida fled,
By Mona's sons, when Merfyn (7) led.
By Rodri's (8) bright and vengeful sword,
That gleam'd in Conway's lucid ford;
By Euloe's (9) forests, Berwyn's heath,
Where Owen gain'd th' unfading wreath,

(4) The ridge of Snowdonia,

(5) The restoration of the British line, in Henry the 7th, of the House of Tudor. (6) The battle of Bangor, upon the Dee. (7) That of Llanfaes in Anglesey.

(8) Dial Rodri, or Roderick's Revenge at Cymryd, upon the River Conway.

(9) In the forests of Euloe, in Flintshire, and on the mountain of Berwyn, the fortunes of Henry II. the Power of England, aided by a diversion from Ireland, upon the coast of Wales, and a full exertion of the old maxim, Divide et impera, gave way to a combination of elemental warfare, an inaccessible country, and the prowess of Owen Gwynedd.

By Jorwerth (10)-Cynan-Howel's name,
By all that fills the rolls of fame,

Unfold your banners, rend the air,

And proudly show the shields (11) you bear!

Sons (12) of Snowden, yours the meed,
Nobly live, or nobly bleed;

Your Country, Parents, Children, save,
Or fill one great and glorious grave!

(10) Llewllyn ap Jorwerth, Gryffyth ap Cynan, and Howel Dda (or the good) Princes of Wales.

(11) In the ages of contention and discord, before the incorporation by which we became one great and happy people, the now neglected language of Shields, of Chivalry, and Arms, was that which symbolically recorded the actions of those to whom their country was indebted for safety in the hour of danger: whose names it is honourable to recollect, and whose exploits it is glorious to emulate. Of those of Gwyerd ap Rhys Gôch, Ednyfed Vychan, Carwed of Twrcelyn, Meurig, from Hêdd Moelwynog, Howel y Fwyall Dafydd Gam (see History, battle of Cressy and Poictiers) and that of the Lloyds of Bôd Idris in Iâl, are particularly instructing and entertaining.

(12) Llangciau'r Eryri,

RD. LLWYD.

THE ORACLE CONSULTED.

WHAT's a Frenchman?---Slavery's
fool.

What's a Briton?---Freedom's tool,
Form'd to curb despotic rule-

Fit with any foe to cope.
What's the Frenchman's view?—
Invasion

If he find a fair occasion.
What's the Briton's?-Full persuasion
“That he'll blast the Frenchman's hope.

What's the Frenchman's pleasure?-
Plunder.

What's the Briton's?--Naval thunder,
That shall make the Frenchman won-
der,

If he dare insult our strand.

What's the end?---To Frenchmen---
madness,
Disappointment, shame, and sadness:
But to Britons---glory, gladness,
Safety in their native land.
HAFIZ.

Morning Post.]

WAR ADDRESS.

RISE, ye Britons, march to glory,
Dauntless stand 'midst war's alarms;
Tell the Youth of future story,

That their Sires were great in arms.

What, tho' Despot Frenzy threaten

Louder than the raging waves; Free born Warriors fight for Britain; Gallia's Soldiers are but Slaves.

Tyrant! tho' thy troops victorious,

Darken yonder distant shore;
Here you'll find a contest glorious;

Come, but you return no more,
Here, no Turkish host parading,
Here, no tame Italian band,
Views afar the Foe invading,

March resistless o'er the land.

Here, each virtuous feeling tender,
Here, each dear domestic tie,
Arms our every brave Defender,
Arms, to Conquer, or to Die.

Come,