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At miut ca Zet1 3 2 ,

Tatsune iz 3341.
Visti Pope od Tust be made se wort

Aj Estats bat knees, st;
As, on the c10 201 crestat ije

Voxbut tiris cock stapice, sr.
A bandog szuschoose said bas busch,

And the bus pak a sbatter;
u Hold, bu," be cried, I I keep the land,"

" Add you st2 kerp the esta."
" I'm chanticker, your friend, wbeseer

" You stand in need of favoar:
Then stzik'd away, as u bo sbould say,

"Now mnd your good behaviour
He thought Joba Bull so gross a fool,

That be'd approve the notion;
And then, w better bis wings bad growd,

He'd plunge him in the ocean.
The bull-dog bold let go his hold,

He was not bloody-minde 1,
Then bask'd at length bis hairy strength,

And in the sun reclin'd it.

This to his slaves, less fools than knaves,

The bantam did disclose, sir;
O bo, quoth be, dog though he be,

We'll strut before his pose, sir;
And then he crow'd so very loud,

He broke the bull-dog's slumbers;
Who struts be mark’d, and fiercely bark'd,

At him and all his numbers.

Yet still this cock affects to mock

At teeth and claws, ('tis true, sir)
Although they tore bis wing before,

And made him cry parbleu! sir.

« Ве

* By Pope, seems to be meant, an animal that has two horns like a lamb, and a voice like a dragon. By Turk, the author probably intended a turkey.cock.

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Almighty vengeance stretch its iron hand;
Its impious agent ev'ry realm enthral,
And with wide wasting carnage cover all.
The human fiend, each day, each hour he lives,
Still to the world some baleful evil gives.
Oh, when he dies, what shouts shall shake the sphere!
New suns shall shine and double moons appear;
Death thro' the world one holiday shall make,
And hell get drunk with sulphur for bis sake!
His throne a pile of human sculls sustains,
And bones that fell on those unhappy plains,
Where pale Toulon lay prest beneath her dead,
Where Lodi fought and fell Marengo bled.
Professing ev'ry faith, he mocks his God,
And virtue trembles underneath bis nod.
The nations, crouching round, his pomp adorn ;
Britannia sits apart, and smiles in scorn;
Calm and unharm’d amidst his inipious ire,
While trembling millions from the strife retire.
So round some cliff when now the tempest roars,
And the weak Linnet downward turns her 'vars,
The royal Eagle, from his craggy throne,
Mounts the loud storm majestic and alone,
And steers his plumes athwart the dark profound,
While roaring thunders replicate around!
But now, rous'd slowly from her opiate bed,
Lethargic Europe lifts the heavy head;
Feels round her heart the creeping torpor close,
And starts with horror from her dire repose.

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Favour's

Favour'd be heaven, let Britons bend the knee,
And thank that awtal Pow'r who keeps us free;
Own Him our strength, on Him repose our all,
Sedate in triumph, and resigned to tall.

THE HORRORS OF WIR:

À POETICAL TRAVSLITION OF A LETTER OF A CERTAIN GREAT

PERSONAGEŤ TO THE KING OF FRUSSIA.

From Dr. Thornton's Temple of Flora.

To Frederick the Greai, king of Prussia,

W ,

And martial deeds immortalize your name,
On burnish’d arms while glory brightly beams,
And fields victorious fill the monarch's dreams;
Trembling I view whence all that glory spring,
Which crowns the awful brows of hero-kings;
Shock'd I behold the source whence dart those rays
Which shine on victors, and round conqu’rors blaze;
And, fondly anxious praises to bestow,
Reluctant gwell the stream of general woe;
For e'en those laurels which your brows entwine,
Your triuraphs crown, and bid your conquests shine,
Meant as immortal trophies to arlorn,
Were from my country's bleeding bowels torn.
While in whai's truly brave, and greatly bold,
You outstrip beroes dignify'd of old;
My native Mecklenburgh, a prey to arms,
In desolation finds her ruin'd charms:
No more her plains their plenteous verdure yield,
No longer Ceres decks the golden field;

Through * Farourd by heaven, let Pritons bend the knee.]-I think I may say (bat meekly let ne ay it, and with awful reverence), that Providence watches over this empire with an eye of peculiar regard. England secms to be soleninly selected and delegated to interpose a barrier between partial subversion and miversal anarchy: to punish the punishery of nations; to heal the wounds of agonizing Europe, and to sit like a wakeful nurse, watching at her side, and administering to her lips the medicine of salvation. We stand on a noble, but a dreadful elevation; responsible in ourselves for the future happiness of the human race. We have a spirit, a constitution, and a religion: unrivallori, inparalleled, nnprecedented. From these sources I draw my politics, and these tell me, we shall triumph. The red right hand of Providence is every where visible. Even at this moment it is performing the promised work of Papal Extirpation. Persevere then, Britons, in the mighty task before you. To recede from it were ruin. Be firm, and you triumph--fear, and you fall.

+ Then princess of Mecklenburg, now Queen of England, imploring relief from the oppressions of the military then quartered on the Mecklenburg territory.

Through all her bounds dark scenes of horror rise,
Despair's loud yell, and sorrow's frantic cries.

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Conscious I am, great sire, the patriot's theme
In my weak sex may unbecoming seem;
For, in an age so viciously refin’d,
By folly blinded, to caprice resign'd,
Perliaps you deem the very name of arms,
The thought of rapine, and of war's alarms,
Of slaughter by contending armies made,
of burnish'd swords in deathful feats display'd,
Of mourning widows, and of bleeding swains,
Of burning towns, and desolated plains,-
Perhaps you deem such themes were ne'er design'd
To occupy the tender female mind;
Ordain’d to study only how to please,
And court the prospect of domestic ease:
Yet oh! forgive, while patriot virtue fires,
And soft humanity the strain inspires:
Forgive, great sire, if sorrowing I unfold
Each dismal scene wbich

my
sad
eyes

behold; And, while the natives of my country bleed, The canse of suff'ring worth I dare to plead.

The radiant sun rolls on its swift career,
But not remote beam'd forth that joyful year,
When o'er proud Mecklenburgh's belov'd domain
Fair plenty snilld on every fertile plain:
The placid months serenely fled away,
The fields were fruitful and the groves were gay.
But now, alas! my streaming sorrows flow,
Now, my dear country is one scene of woe;
Depopulation makes a frightful void,
The peasant flies, or lingering is destroy'd:
Where'er, in anguish, roll my aching eyes,
All the dire horrors of the war arise;
The devastations of the martial train,
With streaming gore empurple ev'ry plaio:
With native blood the swollen rivers glide,
And to the ocean roll a crimson tide;,
While into camps the fertile fields are made,
And thickest woods can scarce from danger shade;
Woods where afflicted families retire,
To sbun the slaught'ring sword or raging fire.
In vain they seek their weary eyes to close;
Or if exhausted strength induce repose,
Oppressive terrors agitate the soul,
And fancy hears the battle’s thunder roll,

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