Our time would fail us here to state

The decency of French debate ;

But we'll suppose, by chance we've blunder'd
Among the turbulent Five Hundred-

Now see them threaten!-hear them rave!

We're surely in Eolian cave,

And fifty hurricanes, together,

Are busy, brewing stormy weather!

Indulgent heaven! deliver me From that assassin, Jean De Brie. By French direction, he and others, Murder'd his diplomatick brothers: In this atrocious act, their aim

To stigmatize the Austrian name.*

A deed more horrid ne'er was known-
Night shudders on her ebon throne!
While backward rolls the rising sun,

And Satan owns himself out done!

* Many circumstances, too numerous to be here recapi. tulated, led to this conclusion.

Again we rise, and take our flight To some tall Alpine's hoary height,

Where fighting Europe's maddening crew, Parade before us in review!

Behold the tiger-bands of France,
O'er widow'd Switzerland advance!
Before them moves the fiend Despair,
And Murder stalks with clotted hair!
Fell Até, rising "hot from hell,"
With shrill, disanimating yell,
Leads forth Massena's savage band,
To desolate the weeping land!

Again behold from Arctick pole
The dreadful tide of battle roll!
Suwarrow comes, in vengeance drest,
Before him Victory plumes his crest;
Struck by the lightning of his eye
The baffled host of Vandals fly;

But while their rapid flight they urge,

Pale Horrour screams their funeral dirge!

Now victory waits the haughty Gaul,

Germania mourns her Hotze's fall,
Success attends that fell Hyena,

That scourge of Switzerland, Massena ;
Yet France as sure as heaven is just,
Must yet be humbled in the dust,
And all her desecrated crew,
Meet the rewards to atheists due!

Now, muse, we take another start
To visit Monsieur Buonapart';
O'er torrid Africk's burning sands
Behold him roam with meagre bands,
Defeat, Disaster, and Dismay,
Companions of his dreary way!*

So long that bloody jacobin

Has trod the wilderness of Sin,

No doubt he soon will find an alley,

To lead him down to Death's dark valley!

This was written after the defeat of Buonaparte by Sir Sidney Smith.

Now onward still our course we run,

And seek the oriental sun,

'Till we intrench ourselves before

The capital of rich Mysore.

The sultan having been, for years, With English nabobs by the ears, Now fortifies Seringapátam,

But soon the English troops are at him;

They storm the town, proceed to plunder

Mid fire, and sword, and blood, and thunder; Find treasures hitherto untold,

And take-a tiger made of gold!

Now, muse, if further we should stray,

'Tis ten to one we lose our way;

Then let us now, without more fuss,
Remount our restive Pegasus,

And twice as swift as sun beam darted,
Fly back again from whence we started.

And now, kind reader, if you choose, I'll just take off my high-heel'd shoes,

M

No longer strut poetick stilt on,
Like Homer proud, or Mr. Milton,
No longer flirt about and flare,
Like jack-o'lanthorn in the air;
But my sweet muse, and I, and you,
Must bid each other sad adieu,
But hoping still some other time,
That we shall meet in lofty rhyme,

And I, your favourite bard, aspire
To "tune my lays an octave higher;"
And strut, and swell, and rant, and roar,
As mortal never did before !