Their kindred bias he describ'd; For power inflames the mind with pride. He turn'd his thoughts to jovial pleasures. Be dinner serv'd, while it's worth eating: And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd, At length, with thirst and hunger overcome, Bring me the verdict, Sir!" he said, and left the room. Now sound the trumpets once again, A louder yet, and yet a louder strain. Break his bands of sleep asunder, And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder. Hark! hark! the sudden scream Has rais'd up his head: He awakes from a dream, And, in sentences dread, Protest! protest! he furious cries, See the Jacobins rise; Hear the speeches they make, How the Senate they shake, And the triumph that sits in their eyes: Behold the factious band, Each a Bill in his hand! These are groundless plaints-I've often nonsuited, Yet still again mooted, With vigour recruited; You'll vengeance rue Behold Behold how they toss their torches on high, And menace our Protestant temples with fate; way, To guide us in the fray, And, like another Calvin, rekindles holy fires. Not long ago, Could swell the soul to rage, and deeds of foul emprise And add some strength to solemn sounds, band. May base intriguers yield the prize, Nor more excite the Crown HORACE: A PARODY. MR. EDITOR, [From the same, Oct. 19.] HE EREWITH you have a version of Horace's short ode, "Persicos odi, puer, apparatus." The gentleman would willingly have put his name to it, but-for reasons-in short, you know the Secretary of the department "writes himself," and our modest clerk did not like to interfere-verbum sap. Yours, as usual, BIBLIOP. TRYPHON. HORACE, HORACE, LIB. 1. ODE 38. FREELY TRANSLATED BY A CLERK OF THE TREASURY. *Go, boy, tell the cook that I hate all nicknackeries, The curse of the clerks on the preaching old sinner, he With a cool pint of port, that is not very new, I shall dine, boy, as well as some Princes that we know, Who toast their Marchesas in strong Mareschino. The literal closeness of the version here cannot but be admired. The translator has added a long, erudite, and flowery note upon Roses, of which we can merely give a specimen at present. In the first place, he ransacks the Rosarium Politicum of the Persian poet Sadi, with the hopes of finding some political Roses to match the gentleman in the text-but in vain: he then tells us that Cicero accused Verres of reposing upon a cushion, "Melitensi rosa fartum," which, from the odd mixture of words, he supposes to be a kind of Irish bed of roses, like Lord Castlereagh's. The learned clerk next favours us with some remarks upon a well-known punning epitaph, and expresses a most loyal hope, that, if Rosa munda" mean "a * Persicos odi, puer, apparatus; Simplici myrtó nihil allabores --me sub areta Vite bibentem. "Areta" here means a small coffee-house pint. Rose with clean hands," it may be found to be applicable to the Right Honourable Rose in question. This naturally leads him to the "Rosa purgata" mentioned by Spartianus; and he then dwells at some length upon the Rosa aurea," which, though descriptive, ia one sense, of the old Treasury statesman, yet, as being consecrated and worn by the Pope, must, of course, not be brought into the same atniosphere with him. Lastly, in reference to the words "old Rose,” he winds up with the pathetic lamentation of the poet, "consenuisse rosas." The whole note indeed shows a knowledge of Roses that is quite edifying. THE LAMENTATIONS OF DR. B: OCCASIONED BY A RECENT OCCURRENCE AT DRURY LANG WH HERE many a classic greets th' admiring eyes, Where many a three-cock'd hat adorns the door, Thou sapient goddess, whose propitious fire Grub Street, and Grub Street authors, can inspire; Sing, heav'nly Muse, or say what thought profound, And vanquish Ilion with his floating brain; Or Or did he ruminate on mightier things, The fate of empires lost, the fall of kings; To new-created spheres, and worlds unknown before? Thrice he essay'd, but thrice in vain, to speak; "Alas, alas!" through London's streets rebounds, 66 Alas, alas!" on Drury's top resounds. "Is it for this I've fum'd my life away, Toil'd half the night, and all the livelong day? Is it for this I've ransack'd every page From dogg'rel Butler to the present age; Dress'd other's thoughts anew, and call'd them mine, Now beat my brains, now thoughtful gnaw'd my pen, Say, what is wealth or titled sound to me, A name |