When the fierce female tyrant of the north

Claim'd every realm her conquering arms could gain, .
When Difcord, red with flaughter iffuing forth

Saw Albert struggling with the victor's chain.
The ftorm beat high, and fhook the coaft,
Th' exhausted treasures of the land
Could scarce fupply th' embattled hoft,
Or pay th' infulting foe's demand.
What then could beauty do? † She gave
Her treafur'd tribute to the brave,
To her own foftnefs join'd the manly heart,
Suftain'd the foldiers drooping arms,
Confided in her genuine charms,

And yielded every ornament of art.
-We want them not. Yet, O ye fair,
Should Gallia, obftinately vain,
To her own ruin urge despair,

And brave th' acknowledg'd master of the main
Should the through ling'ring years protract her fall,
Through feas of blood to her deftruction wade,
Say, could ye feel the generous call,

And own the fair example here pourtray'd?
Doubtless ye could. The royal dame
Would plead her dear adopted country's cause,
And each indignant breaft unite its flame
To fave the land of liberty and laws.

Margaret de Waldemar, commonly called the Semiramis of the North. In the year 1395, the ladies of Mecklenburg, to fupport their Duke Albert's pretenfions to the crown of Sweden, and to redeem him when he was taken prifoner, gave up all their jewels to the public; for which they afterwards received great emoluments and privileges, particularly the right of fucceffion in fiefs, which had before been appropriated to males only.

Sacred

Sacred to Me that month fhall rife,
Whatever contests shake the skies
To give that month a name :
Her April buds let Venus boaft,
Let Maia range her painted hoft;
But June is Juno's claim.

Antiftrophe.

And, Goddefs, know, in after times
(I name not days, I name not climes)
From Nature's nobleft throes

A human flow'r fhall glad the earth,
And the fame month disclose his birth,
Which bears the blushing rose.
Nations fhall bless his mild command,
And fragrance fill th' exulting land
Where'er I fix his throne.".
Britannia liften'd as she spoke,
And from her lips prophetic broke,
The flower fhall be my own!
Epode.

O goddess of connubial love,

Thou fifter, and thou wife of Jove,
To thee the fuppliant voice we raise !
We name not months, we name not days,
For, where thy fmiles propitious fhine,
The whole prolific year is thine.
Accordant to the trembling ftrings,
Hark, the general chorus fwells!
From every heart it fprings,

On every tongue it dwells.

Goddefs of connubial love,
Sifter Thou, and wife of Jove,

Bid the genial powers that glide

On æther's all-pervading tide,

Or from the fount of life that stream

Mingling with the folar beam,
Bid them here at Virtue's fhrine,
In chastest bands of union join,

'Till many a GEORGE, and many a CHARLOTTE prove
How much to Thee we owe, queen of connubial love!

Alluding to the contention between the goddeffes in Ovid's Fafti, about naming the month of June.

Extracted

Extracted from Mr. W. Whitehead's CHARGE to the POETS.

TIME was when poets play'd the thorough game,
Swore, drank and blufter'd, and blafphem'd for fame.
The first in brothels with their punk and Mufe;
Your toast, ye bards? Parnaffus and the stews!'
Thank heav'n, the times are chang'd; no Poet now
Need roar for Bacchus, or to Venus bow.

'Tis our own fault if Fielding's lash we feel,
Or, like French wits, begin with the Baftile.
Ev'n in thofe days fome few efcap'd the fate,
By better judgment, or a longer date,
And rode, like buoys, trumphant o'er the tide.
Poor Otway, in an ale houfe dos'd, and dy'd!
While happier Southern, tho' with fports of yore,
Like Plato's hov'ring fpirits, crufted o'er,
Liv'd every mortal vapour to remove,
And to our admiration, join'd our love.

Light lie his funeral turf!---For you, who join
His decent manners to his art divine,

Would ye (whilft, round you, tofs the Proud and Vain
Convuls'd with feeling, or with giving pain)
Indulge the Mufe in innocence and ease,
And tread the flow'ry path of life in peace?
Avoid all authors,---" What! th' illuftrious Few,
Who fhunning Fame have taught her to pursue
Fair Virtue's heralds ?"--Yes, I fay again,
Avoid all authors, 'till you've read the men.
Full many a peevish, envious, flandering elf,
Is in his works, Benevolence itself.

For all mankind, unknown, his bofom heaves,
He only injures those with whom he lives.
Read then the Man: Does truth his actions guide,
Exempt from petulance, exempt from pride?
To focial duties does his heart attend,

As fon, as father, hufband, brother, friend?

Do those who know him love him? if they do,
You've my permiffion, you may love him too.

But chief avoid the boift'rous roaring sparks,

The fons of fire!-you'll know them by their marks.
Fond to be heard they always court a croud,
And, tho' 'tis borrow'd nonsense, talk it loud.

One epithet supplies their conftant chime,

Damn'd bad, damn'd good, damn’d low, and damn'd fublime !

But

But most in quick fhort repartee they fhine
Of local humour; or from from plays purloin
Each quaint ftale fcrap which every fubject hits,
'Till fools almost imagine they are wits.

Hear them on Shakespear! there they foam, they rage!
Yet tafte not half the beauties of His page,
Nor fee that Art, as well as Nature, Atrove
To place him foremost in th' Aonian grove.
For there, there only, where the fifters meet,
His Genius triumphs, and the work's compleat.

Or would ye fift more near these sons of fire,
'Tis Garrick, and not Shakespear, they admire,
Without his breath, infpiring every thought,
They ne'er perhaps had known what Shakespear wrote,
Without his eager, his becoming zeal,

To teach them, tho' they scarce know why, to feel,
A crude unmeaning mafs had Johnfon been,

And a dead letter Shakespear's noblest scene.

I'm no enthusiast, yet with joy can trace
Some gleams of fun-fhine, for the tuneful race.
If Monarchs liften when the Muses woo,
Attention wakes, and nations liften too.

The Bard grows rapturous, who was dumb before,
And every fresh plum'd eagle learns to foar!
Friend of the finer arts, when Egypt faw

Her fecond Ptolemy give fcience law,
Each genius waken'd from his dead repose,
The column fwell'd, the pile majestic rofe,
Exact proportion borrow'd ftrength from ease,
And ufe was taught by elegance to please,
Along the breathing walls, as fancy flow'd,
The fculpture foften'd, and the picture glow'd,
Heroes reviv'd in animated ftone,

*

The groves grew vocal, and the Pleiads fhone!
Old Nilus rais'd his head, and, wond'ring, cry'd,
Long live the king! my patron! and my pride!
Secure of endless praife, behold, I bear

My grateful fuffrage to my fovereign's ear.
'Tho' war fhall rage, tho' time fhall level all,
Yon colours ficken, and yon columns fall,
Tho' art's dear treasures feed the wasting flame,
And the proud volume finks, an empty name;

• The seven poets patronised by Ptolemy Philadelphus, are usually called by the name of that conftellation.

Tho'

Tho' Plenty may defert this copious vale,

My ftreams be fcatter'd, or my fountains fail,
Yet Ptolemy has liv'd: The world has known
A king of arts, a patron on a throne,

Ev'n utmoft Britain shall his name adore,

"And Nile be fung when Nile fhall be no more."
One rule remains. Nor fhun nor court the great:
Your truest center is that middle state,

From whence with ease th' obferving eye may go
To all which foars above, or finks below,
'Tis yours all manners to have try'd, or known,
T'adopt all virtues, yet retain your own:

To ftem the tide, where thoughtless crouds are hurl'd,
The firm fpectators of a bustling world!

Thus arm'd, proceed: The breezes court your wing:
Go range all Helicon, tafte every fpring;

From varying nature cull th' innoxious spoil,

And, whilft amusement fooths the generous toil,
Let puzzled critics with fufpicious spite
Defcant on what you cân, or cannot write;
True to yourselves, not anxious for renown,

Nor court the world's applause, nor dread its frown.
Guard your own breafts, and be the bulwark there,
To know no envy, and no malice fear.

At laft you'll find, thus ftoic-like prepar'd,

That verfe and virtue are their own reward,

The Defcent to the Vault in Clerkenwell; from the GHOST; a Poem. By Mr. Churchill.

D

ARK was the night; it was that hour,
When terror reigns in fulleft pow'r,

When as the learn'd of old have faid,
The yawning grave gives up her dead,
When Murder, Rapine by her fide,
Stalks o'er the earth with Giant stride;
Our Quixotes (for that Knight of old
Was not in truth by half to bold,
Though Reafon at the fame time cries,

Our Quixotes are not half fo wife,
Since they with other follies boast
An expedition 'gainst a Ghost)

Through the dull deep furrounding gloom
In close array tow'rds Fanny's tomb
Adventur'd forth---Caution before
With heedful step the lanthorn bore,

3

Pointing