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Servat adhuc, hominumque fidem, curamque Deorum.
Eheu! quanta odiis avidoque alimenta furori !
Quanta profanatas inter spoliabitur aras
Victima ! si quando versis Victoria fatis
Annuerit scelus extremum, terrâque subactâ
Impius Oceani sceptrum fædaverit Hostis!

No. VII.

Dec. 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,
War with herself see frantic Gallia wage,
'Till worn and wasted by intestine strife,
She falls—her languid pulse scarce quick with life.
But soon she feels through every trembling vein,
New strength collected from convulsive pain :
Onward she moves, and sounds the dire alarm,
And bids insulted nations haste to arm;
Spreads wide the waste of War, and hurls the brand
Of Civil Discord o’er each troubled land,
While Desolation marks her furious course,
And thrones subverted bow beneath her force.

Behold ! she pours her Monarch's guiltless blood, And quaffs with savage joy the crimson flood; Then proud the deadly trophies to display Of her foul crime, resistless bursts away,

Unaw'd by justice, unappallid by fear,
And runs with giant strength her mad career.

Where'er her banners float in barbarous pride,
Where'er her conquest rolls its sanguine tide,
There the fair fabrick of establish'd law,
There social order, and religious awe,
Sink in the general wreck; indignant there
Honour and virtue fly the tainted air;
Fly the mild duties of domestic life
That chear the parent, that endear the wife,
The lingering pangs of kindred grief assuage,
Or soothe the sorrows of declining age.-

Nor yet can hope presage th’ auspicious hour, When Peace shall check the rage of lawless Power ; Nor yet th’insatiate thirst of blood is o'er, Nor yet has Rapine ravaged every shore. Exhaustless Passion feeds th'augmented flame, And wild Ambition mocks the voice of shame; Revenge, with haggard look and scowling eyes, Surveys with horrid joy th' 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,
ONE FAVOUR’D NATION braves the general fate,
One favour'd nation, whose impartial laws
Of sober Freedom vindicate the cause ;

Her simple manners, midst surrounding crimes
Proclaim the genuine worth of ancient times ;
True to herself, unconquerably bold,
The Rights her valour gain'd she dares uphold ;
Still with pure faith ber promise dares fulfil,
Still bows submissive to th’ Almighty Will.-

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 injur'd Freedom shall her life resigu,
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 !

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Far hence the unmanly thought-The voice of Fame Wafts o'er the applauding deep her Duncan's name. What tho' the Conqueror of th’Italian plains Deem nothing gain’d, while this fair Isle remains, Tho' 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.

Jan. 1st, 1798. A Correspondent has adapted the beautiful poem of the Battle of Sabla, in 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 th’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,

“Desponding Britons, hear!
“ These fetters on your hands receive,

“ Or in your hearts the spear.”

Can we forget our old renown;

Resign the empire of the sea;
And yield at once our Sovereign's crowa,

Our ancient Laws and Liberty?

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