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Feb. 12. It has been our invariable custom to suppress such of our
Correspondents’favours as conveyed any Compliments to ourselves; and we have deviated from it in the present instance, not so much out of respect to the uncommon excellence of the Poem before us, as because it agrees so intimately with the general design of our Paper, to expose the deformity of the French Revolution, to counteract the detestable arts of those who are seeking to introduce it here, and above all, to invigorate the exertions of our Countrymen against every foe,
foreign and domestic, by shewing them the immense and inexhaustible resources they yet possess in British Courage and British Virtue !
TO THE AUTHOR
OF THE ANTI-JACOBIN.
Foe to thy country's foes ! 'tis thine to claim
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 pow'r, 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 reignBut soon the vizor dropp’d-her haggard face Betray'd the Fury lurking in the GraceThe 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 ; PAILOSOPHY, 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 a way!
Foild by our Arms, where'er in arms we met,
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; Expos’d, confounded, sham’d, and forc'd away, The “ JACOBIN REFORMER + of his day.”
'Tis THINE a subtler mischief to pursue, And drag a deeper, darker, plot to view; 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 avowd: 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 inspir'd, or foreign gold:
* Conjuravere Cives nobilissimi Patriam incendere-Gallorum gentem infestissimam nomini Romano in bellum arcessunt-Dux Hostium cum exercitu supra caput est.-ORATCaron. ap. SALLUST.
+ Tum Catilina polliceri tabulas novas, proscriptionem locupletium, Magistratus, Sacerdotia, rapinas, alia omnia quæ bellum atque lubido Victorum fert.-SALLUST.
Traitors absolv'd, and libellers releas'd,
'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 unfurld, 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, Restor’d from Runimede's resounding shore; Which since consign’d to William's guardian hand, Wav'd 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,
WRITTEN UNDER THE BUST OF CHARLES FOX,
AT THE CROWN AND ANCHOR.
l'll not sell Uncle Noll, Charles Surface cries:-
To make our Readers some amends for this miserable doggrel, we will present th 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.