Their kindred bias he describ'd;

For power inflames the mind with pride.
Softly sweet in cheerful measures,

He turn'd his thoughts to jovial pleasures.
Law, he said, was toil and trouble;
A Jury but an empty bubble;
Still inquiring, never ending,
Doubting still, the Crown defeating;
If to dine you are intending,

Be dinner serv'd, while it's worth eating:
A fine fat haunch shall be beside thee;
Take the fare that I provide thee:
The rabble here may stretch their hungry jaws
Let us but eat-the Devil take the cause.
The Judge, unable to conceal his pain,
Gaz'd on the men,
And bit his pen,

And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd,
Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again :

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
From the Catholic crew.

Behold

Behold how they toss their torches on high,
How they claim to be first in the state,

And menace our Protestant temples with fate;
While Princes applaud in contempt of their sires;
But Ex-officios are left to repress their desires;
Duigenan leads the

way, To guide us in the fray,

And, like another Calvin, rekindles holy fires.

Not long ago,
Ere Wisdom's stream was heard to flow,
And Virtue's voice was mute;
Intolerance, detested brute,
With sounding lies,

Could swell the soul to rage, and deeds of foul emprise
At length a brighter era's come-
May it avert the empire's doom!
To abler men commit our land;
Enlarge its Ruler's narrow bounds,

And add some strength to solemn sounds,
From patriot worth long prov'd, and honour's firmest

band.

May base intriguers yield the prize,

Nor more excite the Crown
To raise its minions to the skies,
To pull the nation down.

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,
Fricassees, vol-au-vents, puffs, and gimcrackeries-
Six by the Horse Guards!-old Georgy is late-
But come, lay the table-cloth-zounds! do not wait,
Nor stop to inquire, while the dinner is staying,
At which of his places old R-se is delaying.

The curse of the clerks on the preaching old sinner, he
Never again ought to share the good dinner he
Got (with his music to boot) from poor Ch-nn-ry.
Come-none of your kickshaws-a beef-steak will do,
And to that if you'll add a potatoe or two,

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;
Displicent nexa philyrâ coronæ.
litte sectari, Rosa quo locorum
Sera moretur.

Simplici myrtó nihil allabores
Sedulus curo.

--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:
AN HEROIC POEM.

OCCASIONED BY A RECENT OCCURRENCE AT DRURY LANG

WH

HERE many a classic greets th' admiring eyes,
And books o'er books in thick succession rise;
Where scarce a window lends its glimm'ring ray,
To light the gloom of darkness into day;

Where many a three-cock'd hat adorns the door,
And many an inkspot foul besmears the floor,
Fix'd as a monument, in pensive mood,
High o'er his desk, the mighty Crito stood.

Thou sapient goddess, whose propitious fire

Grub Street, and Grub Street authors, can inspire;
Thou by whose aid, o'er potent cups of ale,
Light-headed bards poetic fumes inhale;

Sing, heav'nly Muse, or say what thought profound,
What magic spell, the Reverend Doctor bound?
Say, did he wander on the Phrygian plain,

And vanquish Ilion with his floating brain;
Or, in some dream of meditation lost,
With great Æneas tread the Stygian coast:

Or

Or did he ruminate on mightier things,

The fate of empires lost, the fall of kings;
On eagle's wings, a second Newton soar

To new-created spheres, and worlds unknown before?
Ah, no!-not high-born Homer's classic themes,
Not Mantua's song, not Newton's airy schemes,
Not kingdoms lost, nor kingly fates are there,
To warp his lately placid brow with care.
Far other thoughts the lab'ring chief possess'd,
Far other thoughts his anxious soul oppress'd.
So Juno look'd, when, from Mount Ida driven,
Upwards she sought the starry gates of heaven;
So Juno look'd, when, for her slighted charms,
Mycænæ saw her hardy sons in arms—
So look'd the bard, when he o'er Conway's flood,
With hagard eyes, a streaming meteor stood;
So look'd the bard, when, with a prophet's fire
And prophet's hand, he swept his mournful lyre.

Thrice he essay'd, but thrice in vain, to speak;
From his clos'd lips no quivering accents break;
Thrice bit his lips, and then-" Alas!" he cries,
Alas, alas!" the vaulted roof replies;

"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,
Here poach'd a sentiment, and there a line;

Now beat my brains, now thoughtful gnaw'd my pen,
Curs'd my unlucky stars, and thought again!
Thus to behold my honours snatch'd away,
Due to the toils of many a well-fought day;'
Thus to behold my laurels idly spread,
O shame to justice! round another's head?

Say, what is wealth or titled sound to me,
A Doctor I at least, though noble he?
Vile stupid fools! prefer an empty name,
Our country, liberties, and rights, the same,

A name