No. VII. DECEMBER 25. We have been favoured with a Translation of the Latin Verses inserted in our last Number. We have little doubt that our Readers will agree with us, in hoping that this may not be the last contribution which we shall receive from the same hand. PARENT of countless crimes, in headlong rage, She falls her languid pulse scarce quick with life. Behold! she pours her Monarch's guiltless blood, And quaffs, with savage joy, the crimson flood; Then, proud the deadly trophies to display And runs with giant strength her mad career. Where'er her banners float in barbarous pride, Sink in the general wreck; indignant there Fly the mild duties of domestic life That cheer the parent, that endear the wife, Nor yet can Hope presage the auspicious hour, When Peace shall check the rage of lawless Power; Nor yet the insatiate thirst of blood is o'er, Nor yet has Rapine ravaged every shore. Exhaustless Passion feeds the augmented flame, And wild Ambition mocks the voice of Shame : Revenge, with haggard look and scowling eyes, Surveys with horrid joy the expected prize; Broods o'er each remnant of monarchic sway, And dooms to certain death his fancied prey. For midst the ruins of each falling state, The Rights her valour gain'd she dares uphold ; Just Heav'n! how Envy kindles at the sight! How mad Ambition plans the desperate fight! With what new fury Vengeance hastes to pour Her tribes of rapine from yon crowded shore! Just Heav'n! how fair a victim at the shrine Of injured Freedom shall her life resign, If e'er, propitious to the vows of hate, Unsteady Conquest stamp our mournful fate; If e'er proud France usurp our ancient reign, And ride triumphant o'er the insulted main! Far hence the unmanly thought-The voice of Fame Wafts o'er the applauding deep her Duncan's name. What though the Conqueror of the Italian plains Deem nothing gain'd, while this fair Isle remains, Though his young breast with rash presumption glow, He braves the vengeance of no vulgar foe: Conqueror no more, full soon his laurel'd pride Shall perish-whelm'd in Ocean's angry tide; His broken bands shall rue the fatal day, And scatter'd fleets proclaim BRITANNIA'S Sway! No. VIII. JANUARY 1, 1798. A Correspondent has adapted the beautiful poem of the BATTLE of SAbla, in 66 Carlyle's Specimens of Arabian Poetry," to the circumstances of the present moment. We shall always be happy to see the poetry of other times and nations so successfully engaged in the service of our Country, and of the present Order of Society. THE CHOICE. FROM THE BATTLE OF SABLA, IN CARLYLE'S SPECIMENS OF ARABIAN POETRY. I. HAST thou not seen the insulting foe In fancied triumphs crown'd? And heard their frantic rulers throw These empty threats around? "Make now YOUR CHOICE! The terms we give, 66 Desponding Britons, hear! "These fetters on your hands receive, “Or in your hearts the spear." F |