Thus a far famous sage thrice ten years pass'd,
With all a lovers zeal his country praised;
But, ah the fall! the sage grown blind at last

Fell as he shook the column he had raised.
So Samson fell, but not alone. We stand

Strong with augmented liberty and fame, And more than ever the proud world command, Fresh blooming still from Envy's traitourous

aim,

Nor would we pillage Peerage, Church and

Throne,

To favour low-born pride, and make the world

our own.

Firm English honesty, sound English sense, Touch rights existing, holy ground, with care, Scorn Envy's fraud, pert Vanity's pretence,

Nor dash to dust what Wisdom should repair. Hence History proud on Britain's acts to wait, Has told the world she can her rights main

tain,

From tyrant-power with temper save her state,

With ease majestick cast her papal chain,

Too wise for hurry, too humane for rage, Dauntless as youth's blind zeal, and cool as well taught age.

What shall I Read?

AN ODE.

Written in 1780, experimentally-in order to ascertain how the observation, that poetry is imitation,' could apply to lyrical composition: I therefore as soon as I came into my study, set down, in the above careless way, the real circumstance of the moment.

'Tis winter, cold and rude,
Heap, heap the warming wood;
The wild wind hums the sullen song to night.
Oh hear that pattering shower!

Haste boy-this gloomy hour
Demands relief; the cheerful tapers light.

Though now my cot around

Still roars the Wintery sound, Methinks 'tis Summer by this festive blaze!

My books; companions dear,

In seemly ranks appear,

And glisten to my fire's far-flashing rays.

Her hairy length outspread,

See Chloe sleeping laid,

Whilst whisker'd Tabby, purring sits beside: My romping babes at rest

With perfect leisure blest,

Where shall I now my letter'd feast provide?

Shall I my gay MONTAIGNE,

Pursue thy rambling vein,

And hunt for wisdom in thy motley maze?
Or, with a brow of care,

Think deep with thee Bruyere,

And ponder man in all his mystick ways?

Shall TEMPLE skill'd to please

In prose, whose graceful ease Wins half the glory from the Poet's toil, Ambition's pang controul,

And fix my fervent soul Where rural pleasures best her cares beguile ?

Or shall I, couch-reclined

To COWLEY yield my mind,

When the sweet bard forgets his strains of art, And to the tender lays,

That paint Retirements praise,

Bids all his soul its moral charms impart ?

Or in this hour of ease,

Shalt thou CERVENTES please,

And shew thy champions feasts-my prime delight?

No-now thy pleasant page

Shall not my thoughts engage,

Though Wit, though Virtue ruled thy fancy bright;

Though thy good-nature there

(To wit companion rare)

Might smooth the furrows of the sternest brow, And Quixote's eloquence

'Mid madness flashing sense,

With wisdom's lessons laughter's hour endow.

SWIFT I will gladly praise

Thy skill in easy lays,

Thy humourous prose, perspicuous, pure, and

terse;

Yet whilst my candid mind

Some honour owes mankind,

From thy malignant page it turns averse.

No-be yon volume sought,
With golden wisdom fraught,

An Attick vest where English genius wears,
Where harmless humour plays,

Soft as the Solar rays,

And beautifies the flowers that Virtue bears.

Be this thy praise alone,

Immortal ADDISON,

That whilst the Graces o'er thy works preside, There in their forms divine,

Religion, Virtue, shine,

And point thy writings where thy actions guide.