West of the city, near those borders gay, Where Seine obliquely winds her sloping way, (Scenes now, where Pleasure's soft retreats are found,

Where triumphs Art, and Nature smiles around,
Then, by the will of fate, the bloody stage
For war's stern combat and relentless rage)
Th' unhappy Valois bad his troops advance,
There rush'd at once the generous strength of
France.

A thousand heroes, eager for the fight,
By sects divided, from revenge unite.
These virtuous Bourbon leads, their chosen guide,
Their cause confederate, and their hearts allied.
It seem'd the army felt one common flame,
Their zeal, religion, cause, and chief the same.
The sacred Louis, sire of Bourbon's race,
From azure skies, beside the throne of grace,
With holy joy beheld his future heir,
And ey'd the hero with paternal care;
With such as prophets feel, a blest presage,
He saw the virtues of bis ripening age:
Saw Glory round him all her laurels deal,
Yet wail'd his errours, though he lov'd his zeal;
With eye prophetic he beheld e’en now,
The crown of France adorn his royal brow;

He knew the wreath was destin'd which they gave,

More will'd the saint, the light which shines to

save.

Still Henry's steps mov'd onward to the throne, By secret ways, e'en to himself unknown; His help from Heaven the holy prophet sent; But hid the arm his wise indulgence lent: Lest sure of conquest, he had slack'd his flame, Nor grappled danger for the meed of fame.

Already Mars had donn'd his coat of mail, And doubtful Conquest held her even scale; Carnage with blood had mark'd his purple way, And slaughter'd heaps in wild confusion lay, When Valois thus his partner king addrest, The sigh deep-heaving from his anxious breast. "You see what fate, what humbling fate is mine,

Nor yet alone, the injury is thine.

The dauntless league, by hardy chieftains led,
Which hisses faction with her Hydra head,
Boldly confederate by a desperate oath,
Aims not at me alone, but strikes at both.
Though I long since the rega! circle wear,
Though thou by rank succeed my rightful heir,
Paris disowns us, nor will homage bring
To me their present, you their future king.
Thine, well they know the next illustrious claim,
From law, from birth, and deeds of loudest
fame;

Yet from that throne's hereditary right
Where I but totter, wou'd exclude thee quite.
Religion burls her furious bolts on thee,
And holy coune Is join her firm decree:
Rome, though she raise no soldier's martial band,
Yet kindles war through every awe-struck land;
Beneath her banners bids each host repair,
And trusts her thunder to the Spaniard's care,
Far from my hopes each summer friend is flown,
No subjects hail me on my sacred throne;
No kindred now the kind affection shows,
All fly their king, abandon, or oppose:
Rich in my spoils, with greedy treacherous haste,
While the base Spaniard lays my country waste.
VOL. XV.

Midst foes like these, abandon'd, and betray'd,
France in her turn shall seek a foreign aid:
Shall Britain's court by secret methods try,
And win Eliza for a firm ally.

Of old I know between each pow'rful state,
Subsists a jealous and immortal hate;
That London lifts its tow'ring front on high,
And looks on Paris with a rival eye;
But I, the monarch of each pageant throne,
Have now no subjects, and no country own:
Vengeance alone my stern resolves avow,
Who gives me that, to me is Frenchman now,
The snail-pac'd agents, whose deliberate way,
Creeps on in trammels of prescrib'd delay,
Such fit not now; 'tis you, great prince, alone
Must haste a suppliant to Eliza's throne,
Your voice alone shall needful succours bring,
And arm Britannia for an injur'd king.
To Albion hence, and let thy happier name
Plead the king's cause, and raise their generous
flame!

My foes' defeat upon thy arm depends,
But from thy virtue I must hope for friends."

Thus spoke the king, while Henry's looks con-
fest,

The jealous ardour which inflam'd his breast,
Lest others' arms might urge their glorious claim,
And ravish from him half the meed of fame.
With deep regret the hero number'd o'er
The wreaths of glory he had won before;
When, without succours, without skill's intrigue,
Himself with Conde shook the trembling league,
When those command, who hold the regal sway,
It is a subject's virtue to obey.

Resolv'd to follow what the king commands,
The blows, suspended, fell not from his hands;
He rein'd the ardour of his noble mind,
And parting left the gather'd wreaths behind.
Th' astonish'd army felt a deep concern,
Fate seem'd depending on the chief's return.
His absence still unknown, the pent-up foe
In dire expectance dread the sudden blow;
While Valois' troops still feel their hero's flame,
And Virtue triumphs in her Henry's name.

Of all his fav'rites, none their chief attend, Save Mornay brave, his soul's familiar friend. Mornay of steady faith, and manners plain, And truth, untainted with the flatt'rers strain; Rich in desert, of valour rarely tried,

A virtuous champion, though on errour's side; With signal prudence blest, with patriot zeal Firm to his church, and to the public weal; Censor of courtiers, but by courts belov'd, Rome's fierce assailant, and by Rome approv'd.

Across two rocks, where with tremendous roar,
The foaming ocean lashes either shore,
To Dieppe's strong port the hero's steps repair,
The ready sailors ply their busy care.
The tow'ring ships, old Ocean's lordly kings,
Aloft in air display their canvas wings;
Not swell'd by Boreas now, the glassy seas
Flow'd calmly on, with Zephyr's gentle breeze.
Now, anchor weigh'd, they quit the friendly
shore,

And land receding greets their eyes no more.
Jocund they sail'd, and Albion's chalky height
At distance rose full fairly to the sight.
When rumbling thunders rend th' affrighted
pole,

Loud roar the winds, and seas tempestuous roll:

the fivid lightnings cleave the darken'd air, And all around reigns horrour and despair. No partial fear the hero's bosom knows, Which only trembled for his country's woes, seem'd his looks toward her in silence bent, Acus'd the winds, which cross'd his great in

tent.

So Caesar, striving for a conquer'd world, Near Epire's banks, with adverse tempests hurl'd, Trusting, undaunted, and securely brave, Roine's and the world's fate to the swelling wave, 'Though leagu'd with Pompey Neptune's self engage,

Oppos'd his fortune to dull Ocean's rage.

Mean time that God, whose power the tempest binds,

Who rides triumphant on the wings of winds,
That God, whose wisdom, which presides o'er all,
Can raise, protect, or crush this earthly ball,
From his bright throne, beyond the starry skies,
Beneld the hero with considering eyes.

God was his guide, and 'mid the tempests roar
The tossing vessel reach'd the neighbouring shore;
Where Jersey rises from the Ocean's bed,
There, Heaven-conducted, was the hero ied.

At a small distance from the shore, there stood
The growth of many years, a shadowy wood.
A ne ghbouring rock the calm retirement saves
From the rude blasts, and hoarse-resounding waves.
A grotto stands behind, whose structure knows
Te simple grace, which Nature's hand bestows.
Here far from court remov'd, a holy sage
Spent the mild evening of declining age.
While free from worldly toils, and worldly woe,
His only study was himself to know:
Here mus'd, regretting on his mispent days,
Or lost in love, or pleasure's flowry maze.
No gusts of folly swell the dangerous tide,
While all his passions to a calm subside;
The bubble life he held an empty dream,
His food the simple herb, his drink the stream; '.
Tranquil and calm he drew his aged breath,
And look'd with patience toward the port
death,

When the pure soul to blissful realms shall soar,
And join with God himself to part no more.
The God he worshipp'd ey'd the zealous sage,
And bless'd with wisdom's lore his silver'd age:
Gave him the skill of prophecy to know,
Aid from Fate's volume read events below.

of

The sage with conscious joy the prince address'd, And spread the table for his royal guest; The prompt repast, which simple Nature suits, The stream's fresh water, and the forest's roots, Not unaccustom'd to the homely fare, The warriour sat; for oft from busy care, From court retir'd, and pomp's fastidious pride, The hero dar'd to throw the king aside: Ad in the rustic cot well-pleas'd partook O labour's mean repast, and cheerful look ; Found in himself the joys to kings unknown And self-depos'd forgot the lordly throne.

The world's contention to their minds supplies Mach converse, wholesome to the good and wise. Anch did they talk of woes in human life,

christian kingdoms torn with jarring strife. The zeal of Mornay, like a stubborn fort, Attach'd to Caivin stood his firm support. Hary, still doubting, sought th' indulgent skies, That light's clear ray might burst upon his eyes,

Must then," said he, "the truth be always found, To mortals weak with mists encompass'd round? Must I still err? my way in darkness trod, Nor know the path which leads me to my God? If all alike he will'd us to obey,

The God who will'd it, had prescrib'd the way."

"Let us not vainly God's designs explore!" (The sage reply'd) "be humble and adore! Arraign not madly Heav'n's unerring laws For faults, where mortals are themselves the cause. These aged eyes beheld in days of yore, When Calvin's doctrine reach'd the Gallic shore, Then, though with blood it now distains the earth, Creeping in shade and humble in the birth, I saw it banish'd by religion's laws, Without one friend to combat in the cause. Through ways oblique I saw the phantom tread, Slow winding, and asham'd to rear her head, Till, at the last, upheld by pow'rful arms, 'Midst cannon's thunder, and 'mid war's alarins, Burst forth the monster in the glare of light, With tow'ring front full dreadful to the sight; To scoul at mortals from her tyrant seat, And spurn our altars at her impious fect. Far then from courts, beneath this peaceful cot, I wail'd religion's and my country's lot; Yet here, to comfort my declining days, Some dawn of hope presents its cheerful rays. So new a worship cannot long survive, Which man's caprice alone has kept alive. With that it rose, with that shall die away, Man's works and man are bubbles of a day. The God, who reigns for ever and the same, At pleasure blasts a world's presumptuous aim. Vain is our malice, vain our strength display'd, ΤΟ sap the city his right hand hath made; Himself hath fix'd the strong foundations low, Which brave the wreck of Time, and Hell's inve

terate blow:

The Lord of Lords shall bless thy purged sight
With bright effulgence of diviner light;
On thee, great prince, his mercies he'll bestow,
And shed that truth thy bosom pants to know.
That God hath chose thee, and his hand alone
Safe through the war shall lead thee to a throne.
Conquest already (for his voice is fate,)
For thee bids Glory ope her golden gate.
If on thy sight the truth unnotic'd falls
Hope not admission in thy Paris' walls,
Though splendid Ease invite thee to her arms,
O shum, great prince, the syren's poison'd charm!!
O'er thy strong passions hold a glorious reign,
Fly love's soft lap, break pleasure's silken chain!
And when, with efforts strong, all foes o'erthrown,
A league's great conqueror, and what's more your
own,

When, with united hearts, and triumph's voice,
Thy people hail thee with one common choice,
From a dread siege, to fame for ever known,
To mount with glory thy paternal throne,
That time, Affliction shall lay by her rod,
And thy glad eyes shali scek thy father's God:
Then shalt thou see from whence thy arms prevail.
Go prince, who trusts in God,-can never fail."
Each word the sage's holy lips impart,
Falls, like a flame, on Henry's generous heart.
The hero stood trausported in his mind
To times, when God heid converse with mankind,
When simple Virtue taught her heav'n-born lore,
And Truth commanding bad e'en kings adore.

.

AN IMITATION FROM THE SPECTATOR.

A MONTH hath roll'd its lazy hours away, Since Delia's presence bless'd her longing swain:

How could he brook the sluggish time's delay, What charm could soften such an age of pain? One fond reflection still his bosom cheer'd,

And sooth'd the torments of a lover's care, 'T was that for Delia's self the bow'r be rear'd, And Fancy plac'd the nymph already there. "O come, dear maid, and with a gentle smile, Such as lights up my lovely fair one's face, Survey the product of thy shepherd's toil,

Nor rob the villa of the villa's grace. "Whate'er improvements strike thy curious sight, Thy taste hath form'd-let me not call it mine, Since when I muse on thee, and feed delight,

I form no thought that is not wholly thine. "Th' apartments destin'd for my charmer's use, (For love in trifles is conspicuous shown) Can scarce an object to thy view produce,

But bears the dear resemblance of thine own. "And trust me, love, I could almost believe, This little spot the mansion of my fair; But that awak'd from fancy's dreams I grieve, To find its proper owner is not there. "Oh! I could doat, upon the rural scene,

Its prospect over hill and champaign wide, But that it marks the tedious way between,

That parts thy Damon from his promis'd bride. "The gardens now put forth their blossoms sweet, In Nature's flow'ry mantle gayly drest, The close-trimm'd hedge, and circling border ncat, All ask my Delia for their dearest guest.

"The lily pale, the purple-blushing rose,

In this fair spot their mingled beauties join; The woodbine here its curling tendrils throws,

In wreaths fantastic round the mantling vine. "The branching arbour here for lovers made, For dalliance met, or song, or amorous tale, Shall oft protect us with its cooling shade, When sultry Phoebus burns the lovely vale.

"Tis all another paradise around,

Aud, trust me, so it would appear to me, Like the first man were I not lonely found, And but half blest, my Deiia, wanting thee. "For two, but two, I've form'd a love'y walk, And I bave call'd it by my fair one's name; Here blest with tace, t'enjoy thy pleasing taik, While fools and madmen bow the knee to fame.

"The rustic path already have I try'd,

Oft at the sinking of the setting day; And while, my love, I thought thee by my side, With careful steps have worn its edge away. "With thee I've held discourse, how passing

sweet!

While Fancy brought thee to my raptur'd

dram,

With thee have prattled in my lone retreat,

Aud talk'd down suns, on love's delicious theme.

A BALLAD.

YE shepherds so careless and gay;

Who sport with the nymphs of the plain, Take heed lest you frolic away

The peace you can never regain. Let not Folly your bosoms annoy;

And of Love, the dear mischief beware. You may think 'tis all sunshine and joy, I know 'tis o'ershadow'd with care.

Love's morning how blithesome it shines,
With an aspect deceitfully fair;
Its day oft in sorrow declines,

And it sets in the night of despair.
Hope paints the gay scene to the sight,

While Fancy ber visions bestows, And gilds every dream with delight, But to wake us to sensible woes.

How hard is my lot to complain

Of a nymph whom I yet must adore, Though she love not her shepherd again, Her Damon must love her the more, For it was not the pride of her sex,

That treated his vows with disdain, For it was not the pleasure to vex,

That made her delude her fond swain. 'Twas his, the fair nymph to behold, He hop'd-and he rashly believ'd; 'Twas her's to be fatally cold,

He lov'd-andwas fondly deceiv'd; For such is of lovers the doon,

While passions their reason beguile, 'Tis warrant enough to presume,

If they catch but a look or a smile.
Yet surely my Phillis would seem
To prize me most shepherds above;

But that might be only esteem,

While I foolishly constru'd it love. Yet others, like Damon, believ'd

The nymph might have favour'd her swain, And others, like him, were deceiv'd,

Like him, though they cannot complain.

Of Phyllis was always my song,

For she was my pride and my care; And the folks, as we wander'd along, Would call us the conjugal pair. They mark'd how I walk'd at her side, How her hand to my bosom I prest, Each tender endearment 1 try'd,

And I thought none was ever so blest.

But now the delusion is o'er,

These day-dreains of pleasure are fled, Now her Damon is pleasing no more,

And the hopes of her shepherd are dead. May he that my fair shall obtain,

May he, as thy Damon, be true; Or haply thoul't think of that swain, Who bids thee, dear maiden, adieu.

TO CHLOE

IF Chloe seck one verse of mine
I call not on the tuneful Nine

With useless invocation;
Enough for me that she should ask;
I fly with pleasure to the task,

And her's the inspiration.
When poets sung in ancient days,
The Muses that inspire their lays,
Of whom there such parade is;
Their deities, let pride confess,
Were nothing more, and nothing less,
Than earth-born mortal ladies.

Did any nymph her subject choose?
She straight commenc'd inspiring Muse?
And every maid, of lovely face,
That struck the heart of wounded swain,
Exalted to yon starry plain,

Was register'd a Grace.

These were the compliments of old,
While nymphs, among the gods enroll'd,
Claim'd love's obsequious duty;

Thus, while each bard had favourite views,
Each nymph became a Grace, or Muse,
A Venus every beauty.

Say, in these latter days of ours,
When Love exerts his usual powers,

What difference lies between us?

In Chloe's self at once I boast,
What bards of every age might toast,
A Muse, a Grace, a Venus.

In Chloe are a thousand charms,
Though Envy call her sex to arms,

And giggling girls may flout her,
The Muse inhabits in her mind,
A Venus in her form we find,
The Graces all about her.

TO THE MOON.

ALL hail! majestic queen of night,

Bright Cynthia! sweetest nymph, whose presence brings

The pensive pleasures, calm delight,

While Contemplation smooths her ruffled wings
Which folly's vain tumultuous joys,

Or business, care, and buzz of lusty day
Have all too rufiled-Hence, away

Stale jest, and flippant mirth, and strife-en-
gendering noise.

When Evening dons her mantle grey,
I'll wind my solitary way,

And hie me to some lonely grove
(The haunt of Fancy and of Love)
Whose social branches, far outspread,
Possess the mind with pleasing dread.
While Cynthia quivers through the trees
That wanton with the summer breeze,
And the clear brook, or dimpled stream,
Reflects oblique her dancing beam.
How often, by thy silver light,
Have lovers' tongues beguil'd the night?
When forth the happy pair have stray'd,
The amorous swain and tender maid,
And as they walk'd the groves along,
Cheer'd the still Eve with various song.
While ev'ry artful strain confest
The mutual passion in their breast,
The lovers' hours fly swift away,

And Night reluctant yields to Day.
Thrice happy nymph, thrice happy youth,
When beauty is the meed of truth!

Yet not the happy Loves alone,
Has thy celestial presence known.
To thee complains the nymph forlorn,
Of broken faith, and vows forsworn;
And the dull swain, with folded arms,
Still musing on his false one's charms,
Frames many a sonnet to her name,
(As lovers use to express their flame)
Or pining wan with thoughtful care,
In downcast silence feeds despair;
Or when the air dead stillness keeps,
And Cynthia on the water sleeps;
Charms the dull car of sober Night,.
With love-born Music's sweet delight.

Oft as thy orb performs its round,
Thou list'nest to the various sound
Of shepherds' hopes and maidens' fears
(Those conscious Cynthia silent hears,
While Echo, which still loves to mock,
Bears them about from rock to rock.)

But shift we now the pensive scene,
Where Cynthia silvers o'er the green.
Mark yonder spot, whose equal rim
Forms the green circle quaint and trim;
Hither the fairies blithe advance,
And lightly trip in mazy dance;
Beating the pansie-paven ground
In frolic measures round and round;
These Cynthia's revels gayly keep,
While lazy mortals snore asleep;
Whom oft they visit in the night,
Not visible to human sight;
And as old prattling wives relate,
Though now the fashion's out of date,
Drop sixpence in the housewife's shoe,
And pinch the slattern black and blue.