Now Satan exults in his vengeance compleat,

To the Husband he makes the scheme known, Night comes and the lovers impatiently meet, Together they fly, they are seiz'd in the street,

And in prison the Painter is thrown.

With Repentance, his only companion, he lies,

And a dismal companion is she !
On a sudden he saw the Old Serpent arise,
Now you villainous dauber! Old Beelzebub cries,

You are paid for your insults to me!

But my

tender heart it is easy to move If to what I propose you agree ; That pi&urė,-be just ! the resemblance improve, Make a handsomer portrait, your chains I'll remove,

And you shall this instant be free.

Overjoyed, the conditions so easy he hears,

I'll make you quite handsome! he said,
He said, and his chain on the Devil appears,
Releas'd from his prison, releas'd from his fears,

The Painter is snug in his bed.

At morn he arises, composes his look,

And proceeds to his work as before;
The people beheld him, the culprit they took,
They thought that the Painter his prison had broke,

And to prison they led him once more.

They open the dungeon, behold in his place

In the corner old Beelzebub lay. He smirks and he smiles and he leers with a grace, That the Painter might catch all the charms of his face;

Then yanish'd in lightning away.

Quoth the Painter, I trust you'll suspect me no more, Since you find my

assertions were true, But I'll alter the picture above the Church door, For I never saw Satan so closely before,

And I must give the Devil his due.


In a celebrated SPOT in


Oh you who these crags in so happy a taste
With border and trim palisado have graced !
Push on your improvements; and fail not to block
With a neat front of brickwork yon opposite rock.

T. B.



Ah ! why should Song, enchanting Song,
Her votaries lose in Error's maze,

Why Flattery, pois’ning future days,
Give Pride those laurels, that to Truth belong?

Avaunt ! thou Bard of ancient time,
I hate the base insidious lyre,
That bids the gazing crowds retire,
While tyrants sit as Gods sublime.

I hail the man of generous frame,
Who beams with love of humankind,

Who leaves the vulgar great behind,
And scorns the splendid treacheries of a name.

Patriots ! the touch-stone page explore,
The wily statesman's craft it shews,
And blood-stain'd heroes to expose
Unfolds lov'd Freedom's sacred lore.

Where Discord hurl'd her torch on high,
Recount the warrior-Romans dead

The blood of gallant Britons shed,
Her vassal'd sons hear humbled Gallia sigh !

How stream'd the Rhine with German gore !
Let Cæsar mount the Victor's car ;
And Rome, amid the spoils of war,
Her Conqueror, and the World's adore !

Ah ! vain the pomp, the imperial sway,
When Justice takes her watchful stand,

Actions she weighs with patient hand,
Nor dares she rashly give her palms away;

the mad heroic race,
And oft, while Peans rend the skies,
While altars, breathing incense, rise,
The Conqueror marks for long disgrace.

Lift high to Catharine's name the strain,
Oh! Russia, deck thy Monarch's brow ;-

But, first, survey that Form of woe
Stalk ghastly over Warsaw's fated plain,

And hear the groan from Ismael's tower,
The pond'rous groans of thousands rise ;
And womens screams and infants cries,
Attended Conquest's baneful hour.

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