From Thule's hyperborean reign,

To where, upon the southern main,
Bellerus frowns-to where the Atlantic roars,

O verdant Erin, 'gainst the western shores,
The pæans loud of exultation rise,

Wafting a nation's plaudits to the skies;
And, while the hallow'd rites of prayer and praise

To Heaven's high throne their grateful incense raise,
Mild Charity, with liberal hand,

Spreads her blest influence o'er the smiling land:
With genial current far and wide,

Flows of Benevolence the copious tide,
Grateful the boon, while shouting myriads see,
That dries Affliction's tear, and sets the Captive free.

Though looking back, through many an age,

Since Egbert first our Saxon sires obey'd,
No King recorded stands on History's page
So long, who England's golden sceptre sway'd ;*
O yet, through many a rolling year,
Long! long! may Albion's joyful race
Behold a crown, to Freedom sacred, grace
The Man they love-the Sovereign they revere.
Though seated on her rocky throne,
Girt by her navy's adamantine zone,

Britannia rears sublime her dauntless head,
Amid the storms of war that round her spread;
Yet by a generous Monarch be possess'd,
The first great object of his patriot breast-

*Though, to reckon from the accession to the demise, Henry III. reigned nominally 56, and Edward III. 50 years, yet, as the first acceded at nine years of age, and the last at fourteen, they did not, either of them, in fact, reign so long as his present Majesty has now reigned.

May every baleful vapour fly,

That hangs malignant now o'er Europe's sky, Infernal Discord's iron tempest cease,

And GEORGE's sun decline in Glory and in Peace.

Mad Song.

BY MRS. OPIE.

Ha! what is this that on my brow

Presses with such o'erwhelming power?
My love to Heaven is gone, I know;
But 'tis to fix our bridal hour:

Then on his tomb why should I sorrow?
He's gone, but will return to-morrow.

Ah! then yon lofty hill I'll mount,
And seize on morning's brightest cloud;
On that I'll wait, my love, and count

The moments till he leaves his shroud:
And he the rainbow's vest shall borrow,
To grace our bridal day to-morrow.

But all's not right in this poor heart,
Yet why should I his loss deplore?
It was indeed a pang to part,

But when he comes he'll rove no more:
And all to-day can laugh at sorrow,
When sure of being blest to-morrow.

Then why am I in black array'd?

And why is Henry's father pale?
And why do I, poor frantic maid,
Tell to the winds a mournful tale?
Alas! the weight I feel is sorrow——
Nay, no-he cannot come to-morrow.

LOCH-LONG.

BY S. ROGERS, ESQ.

Upon another shore I stood,
And look'd upon another flood,*
Great Ocean's self! 'tis he who fills
That vast and awful depth of hills,
Where many an elf was playing round,
Who treads unshod his classic ground,
And speaks his native rocks among,
As Fingal spoke and Ossian sung.
Night fell; and dark and darker grew
That narrow sea, that narrow sky,
As o'er the glimmering waves we flew,
The sea-bird rustling, wailing by.
And now the grampus half descry'd
Black and huge above the tide;
The cliffs and promontories there,
Front to front, and broad and bare,
Each beyond each with giant feet,
Advancing as in haste to meet,

The shatter'd fortress, where the Dane
Blew his shrill blast, nor rush'd in vain,

Tyrant of the drear domain.

All into midnight shadow sweep,

When day springs upward from the deep, Kindling the waters in its flight;

The prow wakes splendor, and the oar That rose and fell unseen before,

Flashes in a sea of light!

*Loch-Long.

Glad sign and sure; for now we hail
Thy flowers, Glenfinart, in the gale,
And bright indeed the path should be
That leads to friendship, and to thee!
Oh, blest retreat, and sacred too,

Sacred as when the bell of prayer
Toll'd duly on the desart air,
And crosses deck'd thy summit blue;
Oft like some lov'd romantic tale,

Oft shall my weary mind recall,
Amid the hum and stir of men,

The beachen grave, and waterfall,

Thy ferry, with its gliding sail,
And Here-the Lady of the Glen!

To a very homely, but vain young Lady.

Celia, why put two patches on?
Is it for ornament or grace?
Take my advice, wear only one,
And let it cover all your face.

Epitaph for the Right Hon. William Windham.

Ye sacred stones, by English mourners prest, Where Fox and Chatham's son in concord rest, Open your vaults, and at their honour'd side Place the third prop of England's falling pride. What worthy claimant of this hallow'd tomb Lives yet to check his country's awful doom? Close, close your vaults, ye stones for ever close, Where Glory's last triumvirate repose.

Oh! timely called to share the Patriot's grave,
Nor see the ruin'd state thou couldst not save,
Windham, adieu! by all the good approv❜d,
By Johnson honour'd, and by Burke belov'd.
In Truth's decay to high-soul'd virtue true,
Thou setting star of ancient fame, adieu!

What prescient terrors at thy loss arise! What tears of sorrow fill Reflection's eyes! Who now remains, with treasur'd learning fraught, To wake, like thee, the teeming world of thought? Who now remains, in rival ardour strong,

To roll the tide of eloquence along?

Prompt at thy call, creative Fancy came,
And Reason bore thee on her wings of flame :
Fancy, unfelt by Slavery's venal crew,
Reason too bright for Dullness' owlet view.
Rejoin, blest shade, the sons of Genius fled,
And swell the synod of the virtuous dead:
Rever'd companion of the good and wise,
Reseek thy lov'd precursors in the skies.

The Last Token; or, "Remember Me."

WRITTEN ON THE PRINCESS AMELIA'S MOURNFUL
PRESENT TO HIS MAJESTY.

By Peter Pindar, Esq.

With all the virtues blest, and every grace,
To charm the world, and dignify her race,

Life's taper losing fast its feeble fire,

1

The fair Amelia thus bespoke her Sire: