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Charm’d by the magic of his tongue,
I lost the strains I lately sung,
While those he taught, remain impressid
For ever on my faithful breast.

DORUS.

Something like the same idea seems to have dictated the following stanzas, which appear to be a loose Imi. tation of the beautiful Dialogue of Horace and Lydia, and for which, though confessedly in a lower style of poetry, and conceived rather in the slang, or Brentford dialect, than in the classical Doric of the foregoing Poem, we have many thanks to return to an ingenious academical Correspondent.

THE NEW COALITION.

I.

F.
W

HEN erst I coalesced with North,
And brought my Indian bantling forth,
In place I smild at faction's storm,
Nor dreamt of radical Reform.

11.
T. While yet no patriot project pushing,
Content I thump'd Old Brentford's cushion,
I pass'd my life so free and gaily ;
Not dreaming of that d—d Old Bailey.

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F. Well, now my favourite preacher's Nickle,
He keeps for Pitt a rod in pickle ;
His gestures fright the astonish'd gazers,
His sarcasms cut like Packwood's razors.

IV. T. Thelwall's my man for state aların ; I love the rebels of Chalk Farm; Rogues that no statutes can subdue, Who'd bring the French, and head them too.

V.
F. A whisper in your ear, J-n H-ne,
For one great end we both were born,
Alike we roar, and rant, and bellow-
Give us your hand, my

honest fellow.

VI.

T. Charles, for a shuffler long I've known thee:
But come-for once, I'll not disown thee;
And since with patriot zeal thou burnest,
With thee I'll live or hang in earnest.

No, XVIII.

March 12.

We are indebted for the following exquisite Imitation of

one of the most beautiful Odes of Horace, to an unknown hand. All that we can say is, that it came to us in a blank cover, sealed with a Ducal Coronet, and that it appears evidently to be the production of a mind not more classical than convivial.

ODE.

WJITHER, O Bacchus, in thy train, *
Dost thou transport thy votary's brain

With sudden inspiration ?
Where dost thou bid me quaff my wine,
And toast new measures to combine

The Great and Little Nation?
Say, in what tavern I shall raise +
My nightly voice in Charley's praise,

HOR. LIB. III. CARM. 25.

DITHYRAMBUS.

* Quo me Bacche rapis, tui

Plenum ? quæ in nemora, aut quos agor in specus,
Velox mente noyâ ?

+ Quibus
Antris egregii Cæsaris aûdiar
Eternum meditans decus
Stellis inserere, et consilio Jovis ?

And dream of future glories, When F-x, with salutary sway (Terror the Order of the Day)

Shall reign o'er K-ng and Tories.

My mighty feelings must have way.
A toast I'll give—a thing I'll say

As yet unsaid by any,
“ Our Sov'REIGN Lord!”-let those who doubt
My honest meaning, hear me out-

“ His MAJESTY-THE MANY !"

Plain folks may be surprised, and stare,
As much surprised as B2b Ad-r

At Russia's wooden houses;
And Russian snows that lie so thick,
And Russian boors that daily kick,

With barbarous foot, their spouses.

Dicam insigne, recens, adhuc
Indictum ore alio.

+ Non secus in jugis
Exsomnis stupet Evias,
Hebrum prospiciens,

# et nive candidam Thracen, ac pede barbaro

Lustratam Rhodopen. $ There appears to have been some little mistake in the Translator here. Rhodope is not, as he seems to imagine, the name of a woman, but of a mountain, and not in Russia. Possibly, however, the Translator may have been misled by the inaccuracy of the traveller here alluded to.

What joy, when drunk, at midnight's hour, *
To stroll through Covent-Garden's bow'r,

Its various charms exploring ;
And, midst its shrubs and vacant stalls,
And proud Piazza's crumbling walls,

Hear trolls and watchmen snoring !

Parent of wine, and gin, and beer, t
The nymphs of Billingsgate you cheer;

Naiads robust and hearty ;
As Brooks's chairmen fit to wield
Their stout oak bludgeons in the field

To aid our virtuous party.

Mortals ! no common voice you hear;
Militia Colonel, Premier Peer.

Lieutenant of a County !
I speak high things! yet, god of wine,
For thee, I fear not to resign

These Gifts of Royal Bounty.

* Ut mihi devio Ripas, et vacuum nemus Mirari libet!

+ O Naiadum potens Baccharumque valentium

Proceras manibus vertere fraxinos.
# Nil parvum, aut humili modo,

Nil mortale loquar. Dulce periculum est,
O Lenæe, sequi deum
Cingentem viridi tempora pampino.

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