Then hail thy Catharine wise and great,
Then proudly wave thy banners round,

And spread the trump's parade of sound,
The pomp of robes, and all the monarch state.

But see her day of glory flown-
Europe has curs'd her baneful name,
And Nature veils herself in shame,
To think what ruffians wear a crown.

Yet Fame shall her Elysium raise,
While Genius culls his wreathe of flowers,

And seated in unfading bowers,
Alfred, ennobled, shine through endless days.

And circle high the mount sublime,
Fancy has hail'd the vision'd sight,
Round living streams of sapphire bright,
The Bards, who raise the lofty rhyme.

“ Blest, Alfred, be thy honoured name :
A people's voice of praise is sweet

“ And sweet the songs, his ears that greet, The Prince, whose bosom glows with Freedom's flame,

“ Still blossom, 'mid the lapse of years,
“ The laurels wreath'd on virtue's brow,
“ In richer pride their honours blow,
And age their memory but endears.

" See Britain rising from her seat,
“ Proud of her rights, and equal laws,

“ Ardent in Freedom's sacred cause “ Proclaims thee, Alfred, wise and good and great.

“ 'Twas thine each citizen to fire,

They pant the thirsty lance to wield,

They rush impetuous to the field, And Freedom sees her foes expire.


They ceas'd—and cease the lyric strain-
For Alfred lives, to bless no more,

Though still, its day of splendor o'er,
Downward the sun but sinks to rise again.

Thus Alfred shines, a glorious name,
And darting golden glories high,
Still marches stately through the sky,
While Nations bless the sacred flame.


Sweet to the morning traveller

The sky-lark's earliest song, Whose twinkling wings are seen at fits

The dewy light among.

And cheering to the traveller

The gales that round him play, When faint and heavily he drags

Along his noon-tide way.

And when beneath the unclouded sun

Full wearily toils he,
The flowing water makes to him

Most pleasant melody.

And when the evening light decay's

And all is calm around, There is sweet music to his ear

In the distant sheep-bells sound.

And sweet the neighbouring church's bell

That marks his journey's bourne ; But sweetest is the voice of Love

That welcomes his return.


Spider ! thou need'st not run in fear about
To shun


I won't humanely crush thy bowels out :

Lest thou should'st eat the flies,
Nor will I roast thee with a damn'd delight
Thy strange instinctive fortitude to see,
For there is one who might

One day roast me.

Thou art welcome to a Rhymer sore-perplext,

The subject of his verse :
There's many a one who on a better text

Perhaps might comment worse.
Then shrink not, old Free-Mason, from my view,
But quietly like me spin out the line ;
Io thou thy work pursue

As I will mine.

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