Liberty's friends thus all learn to amalgamate, Et cætera, et cætera, et cætera. SONNET TO LIBERTY. JUST Guardian of man's social bliss! for thee But worse than death it pains my soul, to see What though his iron sceptre, blood-imbrued, No. VI. Decemb. 18. We cannot enough congratulate ourselves, on having been so fortunate as to fall upon the curious specimens of classical metre and correct sentiment, which we have made the subjects of our late Jacobinical Imitations. The fashion of admiring and imitating these productions has spread in a surprising degree. Even those who sympathize with the principles of the writer selected as our model, seem to have been struck with the ridicule of his poetry. There appeared in the Morning Chronicle of Monday a Sapphic Ode, apparently written by a friend and associate of our Author, in which he is however travestied most unmercifully. And to make the joke the more pointed, the learned and judicious Editor contrived to print the ode en masse, without any order of lines, or division of stanza; so that it was not discovered to be verse till the next day, when it was explained in a hobling erratum. We hardly know which to consider as the greater object of compassion in this case-the original Odist thus parodied by his friend, or the mortified Parodist thus mutilated by his Printer. "Et tu Brute!" has probably been echoed from each of these worthies to his murderer, in a tone that might melt the hardest heart to pity. We cordially wish them joy of each other, and we resign the modern Lesbian lyre into their hands without envy or repining. Our Author's DACTYLICS have produced a second imitation, (conveyed to us from an unknown hand) with which we take our leave of this species of poetry also. THE SOLDIER'S WIFE. DACTYLICS. Weary way-wandĕrĕr, &c. &c. IMITATION. DACTYLICS. Being the quintessence of all the Dactylics that ever were, or ever will be written. HUMBLY ADDRESSED TO THE AUTHOR OF THE ABOVE. WE EARISOME Sonnetteer, feeble and querulous, Painfully dragging out thy demo-cratic lays Moon-stricken Sonnetteer, "ah! for thy heavy chance!" Sorely thy Dactylics lag on uneven feet: Slow is the syllable which thou would'st urge to speed, Lame and o'erburthen'd, and "screaming its wretch edness!" * + * * Ne'er talk of ears again! look at thy spelling-book; Dilworth and Dyche are both mad at thy quantitiesDACTYLICS, call'st thou 'em?" God help thee, silly 66 one !" * * * * * * * * * The Verses, which we here present to the Public, were written immediately after the Revolution of the Fourth of September. We should be much obliged to any of our Classical and Loyal Correspondents, for an English Translation of them. IPSA mali Hortatrix scelerumque uberrima Mater My worthy friend the Bellman, had promised to supply an additional stanza; but the business of assisting the Lamplighter, Chimney sweeper, &c. with Complimentary Verses for their worthy Masters and Mistresses, pressing on him at this season, he was obliged to decline it. Mox tamen ipsius rursúm violentia morbi Aspicis! Ipsa sui bacchatur sanguine Regis, Barbaraque ostentans feralis signa triumphi, Mole giganteâ campis prorumpit apertis, Successu scelerum, atque insanis viribus audax. At quà Pestis atrox rapido se turbine vertit, Cernis ibi, priscâ morum compage solutâ, Procubuisse solo civilis fœdera vitæ, Et quodcunque Fides, quodcunque habet alma verendi Religio, Pietasque et Legum fræna sacrarum. Nec spes Pacis adhúc-necdum exsaturata rapinis Effera Ballatrix, fusove expleta cruore. Crescit inextinctus Furor, atque exæstuat ingens Una etenim in mediis Gens intemerata ruinis Libertate probâ, et justo libramine rerum, Securum faustis degit sub legibus ævum; Antiquosque colit mores, et jura Parentum Ordine firma suo, sanoque intacta vigore, |