Fair was her form, and FREEDOM's honour'd name
Conceal'd the horrors of her secret shame:
She claim'd some kindred with that guardian power,
Long worshipp'd here in Britain's happier hour:
Virtue and Peace, she said, were in her train,
The long-lost blessings of Astræa's reign.—
But soon the vizor dropp'd-her haggard face
Betray'd the Fury lurking in the Grace-
The false attendants that behind her press'd,

In vain disguised, the latent guilt confess'd.

PEACE dropt her snow-white robe, and, shudd'ring, shew’d
AMBITION's mantle reeking fresh with blood;
Presumptuous FOLLY stood in REASON'S form,
Pleased with the power to ruin,—not reform ;
PHILOSOPHY, proud phantom, undismay'd,
With cold regard the ghastly train survey'd ;
Saw PERSECUTION gnash her iron teeth,
While Atheists preach'd the eternal sleep of death!
Saw ANARCHY the social chain unbind,

And DISCORD sour the blood of human kind;
Then talk'd of Nature's Rights, and Equal Sway;
And saw her system safe-and stalk'd away!

Foil'd by our ARMS, where'er in arms we met, With ARTS LIKE THESE, the foe assails us yet.

Hopeless the fort to storm, or to surprise,

More secret wiles his envious malice tries:

Diseased himself, spreads wide his own despair,
Pollutes the fount, and taints the wholesome air.

While many a chief, to glory not unknown,
Alarms each hostile shore, and guards our own,
'Tis THINE, the latent treachery to proclaim;
An humbler warfare, but the cause the same.
In vain had Pompey crush'd the Pontic host,
And chased the pirate swarm from every coast ;
Had not the Civic Consul's watchful eye
Track'd through the windings of conspiracy,

The crew that leagued their country to o'erthrow;
The base confederates of a Gallic* foe;
Exposed, confounded, shamed, and forced away,
The "JACOBIN REFORMER of his day."

"Tis THINE a subtler mischief to pursue,

And drag a deeper, darker, plot to view;

* Conjuravere Cives noblissimi Patriam incendere-Gallorum gentem infestissimam nomini Romano in bellum arcessunt-Dux Hostium cum exercitu supra caput est.-ORAT. CATON. ap. SALLUST.

+ Tum Catilina polliceri tabulas novas, proscriptionem locupletium, Magistratus, Sacerdotia, rapinas, alia omnia quæ bellum atque lubido Victorum fert.-SALLUST.

Whate'er its form, still ready to engage,
Detect its malice, or resist its rage:
Whether it whispers low, or raves aloud,

In sneers profane, or blasphemies avow'd;
Insults its King, reviles its Country's cause,

And, 'scaped from justice, braves the lenient laws:—
Whate'er the hand, in desperate faction bold,

By native hate inspired, or foreign gold;

Traitors absolved, and libellers released,

The recreant peer, or renegado priest;
The Sovereign-people's cringing, crafty slave,
The dashing fool, and instigating knave,

Each claims thy care; nor think the labour vain ;
Vermin have sunk the Ship that ruled the Main.

'Tis THINE, with truth's fair shield to ward the blow,

And turn the weapon back upon the foe:

To trace the skulking fraud, the candid cheat,

That can retract the falsehood, yet repeat:

To wake the listless, slumb'ring as they lie,

Lapt in the embrace of soft security ;

To rouse the cold, re-animate the brave,

And shew the cautious ALL THEY HAVE TO SAVE.

Erect that standard ALFRED first unfurl'd,

Britain's just pride, the wonder of the world;

Whose staff is Freedom's spear, whose blazon'd field Beams with the CHRISTIAN CROSS, the REGAL SHIELD;

That standard, which the Patriot Barons bore,

Restored, from Runimede's resounding shore;

Which since consign'd to William's guardian hand,
Waved in new splendour o'er a grateful land ;

Which oft in vain by force or fraud assail'd,

Has stood the shock of ages-and prevail'd.

Yes! the BRIGHT SUN OF BRITAIN yet shall shine,

The clouds are earthborn, but his fire divine!

That temperate splendour, and that genial heat,

Shall still illume, and cherish empire's seat;
While the red meteor, whose portentous glare
Shot plagues infectious through the troubled air,
Admired, or fear'd no more, shall melt away,
Lost in the radiance of HIS BRIGHTER DAY!

LINES

WRITTEN UNDER THE BUST OF

CHARLES FOX,

AT THE CROWN AND ANCHOR.

I'll not sell Uncle Noll, Charles Surface cries ;-
I'll not sell Charley Fox, John Bull replies:
Sell him, indeed! who'll find me such another?-
Fox is above all price; so hold your bother.

Morning Post, February 6.

To make our Readers some amends for this miserable doggrel, we will present them, in our turn, with some lines written under a bust, NOT at the Crown and Anchor, by an English traveller. We believe they are more just; we are certain they are more poetical.

LINES

written by a Traveller at Czarco-Zelo, under the Bust of a certain Orator, once placed between those of Demosthenes and Cicero.

THE Grecian Orator of old,
With scorn rejected Philip's laws,
Indignant spurn'd at foreign gold,

And triumph'd in his country's cause.