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E. 2.
Spirit of great Elizabeth ! inspire
High thoughts, high deeds, worthy our ancient

fame; Breathe through our ardent ranks the patriot fire,

Kindled at Freedom's ever hallow'd flame ; Baffled and scorn'd the Iberian Tyrant found, Though half a world his iron sceptre bound, The gallant Amazon could sweep away, Arm’d with her people's love, the“Invincible” array.*

S. 3.
The Bold Usurper t firmly held

The sword, by splendid treasons gain’d;
And Gallia's fiery genius quell'd,

And Spain's presumptuous claims restrain'd:
When lust of sway by flattery fed,
To venturous deeds the youthful Monarch I led,
In the full flow of Victory's swelling tide
Britain check'd his power and pride.

A. 3. To the great Batavian's name

Ceaseless hymns of triumphs raise ! Scourge of tyrants, let his fame

Live in songs of grateful praise.

* The Spanish Armada. # Louis XIV.

+ Oliver Cromwell. Ś William III.

Thy turrets, Blenheim,* glittering to the sun,
Tell of bright fields from warlike Gallia won;
Tell how the mighty Monarch mourn’d in vain
His impious wish the world to chain.

E. 3. And

ye famed Heroes, late retired to heaven, Whose setting glories still the skies illume, Bend from the blissful seats to virtue given

Avert your long-defended Country's doom. Earth from her utmost bounds shall wondering tell How Victory's meed ye gain’d, or conquering fell; Britain's dread thunders bore from pole to pole, Wherever man is found, or refluent oceans roll.

S. 4.
Names embalm’d in Honour's shrine,

Sacred to immortal praise,
Patterns of Glory, born to shine

In breathing arts or pictured lays :
See Wolfe by yielding numbers prest,
Expiring smile, and sink on Victory's breast!
See Minden's plains and Biscay's billowy bay
Deeds of deathless fame display.

A. 4. 01 tread with awe the sacred gloom,

Patriot Virtue's last retreat ;

* Blenheim, Ramilies, &c. &c.

Where Glory on the trophied tomb

Joys their merit to repeat ; There Chatham lies, whose master-hand Guided through seven bright years the mighty Band, That round his urn, where grateful Memory weeps, Each in his hallow'd marble sleeps.

E. 4.
Her brand accursed when Civil Discord hurld,*

Britain alone the united world withstood,
Rodney his fortune-favour'd sails unfurl'd,

And led three Nations' Chiefs to Thames's flood. - Firm on his Rock the Veteran Hero + stands;

Beneath his feet unheeded thunders roar; Smiling in scorn he sees the glittering Bands Fly with repulse and shame old Calpe's hopeless

shore.

S. 5.
Heirs or partners of their toils,

Matchless Heroes still we own;
Crown'd with honourable spoils

From the leagued nations won.
On their high prows they proudly stand
The godlike Guardians of their native land ;
Lords of the mighty deep triumphant ride,
Wealth and Victory at their side.

* American War.

| Lord Heathfield.

A. 5.
Loyal, bold, and generous Bands,

Strenuous in their country's Cause,
Guard their cultivated Lands,

Their Altars, Liberties, and Laws.
On his firm deep-founded throne
Great Brunswick sits, a name to fear unknown,
With brow erect commands the glorious strife,
Unawed, and prodigal of life.

E. 5.
Sons of fair Freedom's long-descended line,

To Gallia’s yoke shall Britons bend the neck No; in ber Cause though Fate and Hell combine

To bury all in universal wreck, Of this fair Isle to make one dreary waste, Her greatness in her ruins only traced, Arts, Commerce, Arms, sunk in one common graveThe Man who dares to die, will never live a Slave.

No, XXIX.

May 28. In a former Number, we were enabled, by the commu

nication of a classical Correspondent, to compliment Citizen Muskein with an Address to his Gun-boats, imitated from a favourite Ode of Horace.--Another (or perhaps the same) hand, has obligingly furnished us with a Composition, which we have no doubt will be equally acceptable to the Citizen to whom it is addressed.

ODE TO THE DIRECTOR MERLIN.

HORACE, B. 1. 0. 5.

Woo now from Naples, Rome, or Berlin,
Creeps to thy blood-stain'd den, O Merlin,

With diplomatic gold ; to whom
Dost thou give audience en costume ?

AD PYRRHAM.

Quis multâ gracilis te puer in rosa
Perfusus liquidus urget odoribus

Grato, Pyrrha, sub antro?
Cui flavam religas comam,

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