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Of fairy form, but not of spectre brood,
A living vision, warm with vital blood! -
Critics, ungentle critics, be polite!

O, if not fond, be civil the first night!

Then comes the test !-then comes URANIA's danger!
Then-when the lady is no more a stranger!

ODE by the late Right Honourable W. HUSSEY BURGH, Lord Chief Baroz of the Exchequer of Ireland. (Never published.)

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Recited at the London Tavern, on Mr. PITT's Birth Day, 1802, attributed to the Right Honourable GEORGE CANNING.

[F hush'd the loud whirlwind that ruffled the deep,

When our perils are past, shall our gratitude sleep?
No-Here's to the pilot that weather'd the storm!

At the footstool of power let flattery fawn;
Let faction her idols extol to the skies;
To virtue, in humble retirement withdrawn,
Unblam'd may the accents of gratitude rise!

And

And shall not his mem'ry to Britain be dear,
Whose example with envy all nations behold?
A statesman, unbiass'd by int'rest or fear,

By pow'r uncorrupted, untainted by gold!

Who, when terror and doubt through the universe reign'd,
While rapine and treason their standards unfurl'd,
The heart and the hopes of his country maintain'd,
And one kingdom preserv'd 'midst the wreck of the world.

Unheeding, unthankful, we bask in the blaze,

While the beams of the sun in full majesty shine;
When he sinks into twilight with fondness we gaze,
And mark the mild lustre that gilds his decline.

So Pitt, when the course of thy greatness is o'er,
Thy talents, thy virtues, we fondly recall;
Now justly we prize thee, when lost we deplore;
Admir'd in thy zenith, but lov'd in thy fall!

O take, then-for dangers by wisdom repell'd,
For evils, by courage and constancy brav'd-
O take, for a throne by thy counsels upheld,
The thanks of a people thy firmness has sav'd!

And, O! if again the rude whirlwind should rise,.
The dawning of peace should fresh darkness deform ;
The regrets of the good, and the fears of the wise,
Shall turn to the pilot that weather'd the storm!

SONG,

Upon the same Occasion, supposed to be written by Mr. GEORGE ROSE.

T

the statesman, whose genius and judgment matur'd, From Gallic ambition, 'midst anarchy's ery,

To his country her laws and her commerce secur'd,

Can Briton's the grateful memorial deny ?

No! just to his claim

Of a patriot's name,

They trust not his merit to posthumous fame;
Remember with pride what by Chatham was done,
And hallow the day that gave birth to his son.

Rome's

Rome's senate decreed to her worthies ovations,
With civic rewards she encircled their brows;
To a true British worthy we pour our libations,
While our senate her order of merit bestows:
Amidst Europe's alarms,

With persuasion's blest charms,

Britain's councils he led, rous'd her heroes to arms;
In the dread wreck of nations her empire maintain'd,
Her spirit unconquer'd, her credit unstain'd.

No Jacobin rites in our fête shall prevail,

Ours the true feast of reason-the soul's social flow;
Here we cherish the friend, and his virtues we hail,
But the Gallic fraternal embrace disavow:

Impress'd with his worth,

We indulge in our mirth,

And bright shines the planet that rul'd at his birth;
Round the orbit of Britain, O! long may it move
Like attendant satellites circling their Jove.

To the counsels of Pitt, in an æra that's past,

Her high rank 'midst the nations this city may trace ;
Though his statue may moulder, his mem'ry will last ;
"The great and the good live again in their race.”
Ere to time's distant day

Our marble convey

The fame that now blooms, and will know no decay;
Our fathers' example our breasts shall inspire,
And we'll honour the son, as they honour'd the sire.

LOCHIEL'S WARNING.

By THOMAS CAMPBELL, Esq. Author of the "Pleasures of Hope."

WIZARD.

OCHIEL, Lochiel, beware of the day,

When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array!

For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight,
And the clans of Culloden are scatter'd in fight:
They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and crown;
Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down!
Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain,
And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain.→
But hark! through the fast flashing lightning of war,
What steed to the desert flies frantic and far?
'Tis thine, oh Glenullin! whose bride shall await,
Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate.

A steed

A steed comes at morning: no rider is there;
But its bridle is red with the sign of despair.
Weep, Albin! to death and captivity led!

Oh weep! but thy tears cannot number the dead:
For a merciless sword on Culloden shail wave,
Culloden, that reeks with the blood of the brave.

LOCHIEL.

Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer!
Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear,
Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight,
This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright.

WIZARD.

Ha! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn?
Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn !
Say, rush'd the bold eagle exultingly forth,

From his home, in the dark rolling clouds of the north!
Lo! the death-shot of foemen outspeeding, he rode
Companionless, bearing destruction abroad:
But down let him stoop from his havoc on high!
Ah! home let him speed-for the spoiler is nigh.
Why flames the far summit? Why shoot to the blast
Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast?
'Tis the fire-show'r of ruin, all dreadfully driven
From his cyrie, that beacons the darkness of heaven.
Oh, crested Lochiel! the peerless in might,
Whose banners arise on the battlements' height,
Heav'n's fire is around thee, to blast and to burn;
Return to thy dwelling! all lonely return!

For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood,
And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing brood.

LOCHIEL.

False wizard, avaunt! I have marshall'd iný clán :
Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one!
They are true to the last of their blood and their breath,
And like reapers descend to the harvest of death. ;,
Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock!
Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock!
But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause,
When Albion her clay more indignantly draws;
Wheft her bonnetted chieftains to victory crowd,
Clanranald the dauntless, and Moray the proud;
All plaided and plum'd in their tartan array—

WIZARD.

-Lochiel, Lochiel, beware of the day!

For,

For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal,
But man cannot cover what God would reveal:
'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore,
And coming events cast their shadows before.
I tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring
With the bloodhounds, that bark for thy fugitive king.
Lo! anointed by Heaven with the vials of wrath,
Behold, where he flies on his desolate path!

Now, in darkness and billows, he sweeps from my sight:
Rise! Rise! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight.

"Tis finish'd. Their thunders are hush'd on the moors; Culloden is lost, and my country deplores:

But where is the iron-bound prisoner? Where?

For the red eye of battle is shut in despair.

Say, mounts he the ocean wave, banish'd forlorn,

Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and torn?
Ah no! for a darker departure is near ;

The war-drum is muffled, and black is the bier;
His death-bell is tolling: Oh! mercy, dispel
Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell!
Life flutters convuls'd in his quivering limbs,
And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims.
Accurs'd be the faggots, that blaze at his feet,

Where his heart shall be thrown, ere it ceases to beat,
With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale-

LOCHIEL.

-Down, soothless insulter! I trust not the tale :

For never shall Albin a destiny meet,

So black with dishonour, so foul with retreat.

Tho' my perishing ranks should be strew'd in their gorė,
Like the ocean weeds heap'd on the surf-beaten shore,
Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains,

While the kindling of life in his bosom remains,

Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low,

With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe!
And, leaving in battle no blot on his namë,

Look proudly to Heav'n from the death-bed of fame.

THE BEECH TREE'S PETITION.

By THO. CAMPBELL, Esq.

H! leave this barren spot to me→

Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree.

Though shrub or flow'ret never grow

My dark unwarming shade below;

Nor

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