III.

The foe advance. In firm array We’ll rush o’er Albion’s sands— Till the red sabre marks our way Amid their yielding bands! Then as they lie in death’s cold grasp, We’ll cry, “OUR CHOICE IS MADE! These hands the sabre’s hilt shall clasp, Your hearts shall feel the blade”.

Thus Britons guard their ancient fame, Assert their empire o’er the sea, And to the envying world proclaim, One nation still is brave and free—

Resolv’d to conquer or to die, True to their KING, their LAWS, their LIBERTY: No barb’rous foe finds here an easy prey— _Un-ransom’d_ ENGLAND spurns all foreign sway.[25]

The following poem has been transmitted to us, without preface or introduction, by a gentleman of the name of IRELAND.[26] We apprehend from the peculiarities of the style, that it must be the production of a remote period. We are likewise inclined to imagine, that it may contain allusions to some former event in English history. What that event may have been, we must submit to the better judgment and superior information of our readers, from whom we impatiently expect a solution of this interesting question. The editor has been influenced solely by a sense of its poetical merit.

[JA’FAR SON OF ’ULBAH, OF THE BANU-L-HÂRITH.

The Poet, with two companions, went forth to plunder the herds of ’Ukail, a neighbour-tribe, and was beset on his way back by detached

## parties of that tribe in the valley of Sahbal, whom he overcame and

reached home safely.

That even when under Sahbal’s twin peaks upon us drave the horsemen troop after troop, and the foemen pressed us sore— They said to us—“Two things lie before you: now must ye choose— the points of the spears couched at you, or, if ye will not, chains”. We answered them—“Yea, this thing may fall to you after fight, when men shall be left on ground, and none shall arise again; But we know not, if we quail before the assault of Death, how much may be left of life: the goal is too dim to see”. We strode to the strait of battle: there cleared us a space around the white swords in our right hands which the smiths had furbished fair. To them fell the edge of my blade on that day of Sahbal dale, and mine was the share thereof whereover my fingers closed. ED.]

THE DUKE AND THE TAXING-MAN.[27]

Whilome there liv’d in fair Englonde A Duke of peerless wealth, And mickle care he took of her Old Constitution’s health. Full fifty thousand pounds and more To him his vassals paid, But ne to King, ne Countree, he Would yield th’ assessment made. The taxing-man, with grim viságe Came pricking on the way; The taxing-man, with wrothful words, Thus to the Duke did say: “Lord Duke, Lord Duke, thou’st hid from me, As sure as I’m alive, Of goodly palfreys _seventeen_, Of varlets _twenty-five_”. Then out he drew his gray goose quill, Ydipp’d in ink so black, And sorely to SURCHARGE the Duke, I trowe, he was ne slack. Then ’gan the Duke to looken pale, And stared as one astound, Twaie coneynge Clerks[28] eftsoons he spies Sitting their board around. “O woe is me,” then cried the Duke, “Ne mortal wight but errs! I’ll hie to yon twaie coneynge Clerks, Yclept Commissioners.” The Duke he hied him to the board, And straight ’gan for to say, “A seely[29] wight I am, God wot, Ne ken I the right way. “These varlets twenty-five were ne’er _Liveried in white and red_; Withouten this, what signifie Wages, and board, and bed? “And by St. George, that stout horseman, My palfreys _seventeen_, For two years, or perchance for three, I had forgotten clean.” “Naie,” quoth the Clerk, “both horse and foot To hide was thine intent, Ne seely wight be ye, but didst With good advisament.[30] “Surcharge, surcharge, good Taxing-man, Anon our seals we fix, Of sterling pounds, Lord Duke, you pay Three hundred thirty-six.”[31]

EPIGRAM ON THE PARIS LOAN,[32] CALLED THE LOAN UPON ENGLAND.

The Paris cits, a patriotic band, Advance their cash on British freehold land. But let the speculating rogues beware— They’ve bought the _skin_, but who’s to kill _the bear_?

No. IX.

Jan. 8, 1798.

ODE TO ANARCHY.

BY A JACOBIN.

(BEING AN IMITATION OF HORACE, ODE XXXV. BOOK I.)

_O Diva, gratum quæ regis Antium!_

Goddess, whose dire terrific power Spreads from thy much-loved Gallia’s plains Where’er her blood-stain’d ensigns lower, Where’er fell Rapine stalks, or barb’rous Discord reigns!

Thou, who canst lift to fortune’s height The wretch by truth and virtue scorn’d, And crush with insolent delight, All whom true merit rais’d, or noble birth adorn’d!

Thee, oft the murd’rous band implores, Swift darting on its hapless prey: Thee, wafted from fierce Afric’s shores, The Corsair Chief invokes to speed him on his way.

Thee, the wild Indian Tribes revere; Thy charms the roving Arab owns; Thee, kings, thee tranquil nations fear, The bane of social bliss, the foe to peaceful thrones.

For, soon as thy loud trumpet calls To deadly rage, to fierce alarms, Just Order’s goodly fabric falls, Whilst the mad people cries, “To arms! to arms!”

With thee Proscription, child of strife, With Death’s choice implements, is seen, Her Murderer’s gun, Assassin’s knife, And, “last not least in love,” her darling _Guillotine_.

Fond Hope is thine,—the hope of Spoil, And Faith,—such faith as ruffians keep: They prosper thy destructive toil, That makes the Widow mourn, the helpless Orphan weep.

Then false and hollow friends retire, Nor yield one sigh to soothe despair; Whilst crowds triumphant Vice admire, Whilst Harlots shine in robes that deck’d the Great and Fair.

Guard our famed Chief to Britain’s strand! Britain, our last, our deadliest foe: Oh, guard his brave associate band! A band to slaughter train’d, and “nursed in scenes of woe”.

What shame, alas! one little Isle Should dare its native laws maintain! At Gallia’s threats serenely smile, And, scorning her dread power, triumphant rule the main.

For this have guiltless victims died In crowds at thy ensanguined shrine! For this has recreant Gallia’s pride O’erturned Religion’s Fanes, and braved the Wrath Divine!

What Throne, what Altar, have we spared To spread thy power, thy joys impart? Ah! then, our faithful toils reward! And let each falchion pierce some loyal Briton’s heart.

[THE FOLLOWING IS A TRANSLATION, BY DUNCOMBE, OF HORACE’S ODE TO FORTUNE, _Of which the above Ode is a parody_.

O Goddess, whose propitious sway Thy Antium’s favourite sons obey; Whose voice from depth of woe recalls The wretch, and triumphs turns to funerals;

From Thee, rich crops the needy swain Implores. Thee, sovereign of the main, The mariner invokes, who braves In a Bithynian bark the Cretan waves;

Thee, Scythians, wandering far and near, And unrelenting Dacians, fear: The warlike sons of Italy; Cities, and realms, and empires, worship Thee.

Mothers of barbarous monarchs dread, And purple tyrants, lest thou tread With spurning foot, and scatter round The sculptured column on th’ encumbered ground;

And lest the fickle crowd should break Their bonds; and with loud clamours wake The peaceful to assert their right By force of arms, and quell usurping might.

Ruthless necessity prepares The way for Thee; and ever bears Huge nails in her strong hands of brass The wedge, the hook, and lead’s hot molten mass.

Thee Hope and white robed Faith, adore, So rarely found!—She, when no more Thou smil’st, attends the fallen great Stript of his gay attire and stately seat.

But venal crowds and harlots fly: And, if the flowing casks are dry, When to the dregs the wine they drink, From friendship’s yoke the false associates shrink.

Thy aid for Cæsar Rome implores, Conduct him safe to Britain’s shores, The limits of the world; and lead Our new-raised bands against the trembling Mede.

Alas! we mourn our crimes, our scar And brethren slain in civil wars: How oft have Roman youth embrued Their savage hands in streams of social blood!

What has this Iron Age not dared? What Gods revered? What Altars spared? O! point again the blunted steel, And let the Massagete our vengeance feel!—ED.]

* * * * *

The following Song is recommended to be sung at all _Convivial_ Meetings, convened for the purpose of opposing the Assessed-Tax Bill. The correspondent who has transmitted it to us informs us that he has tried it with great success among many of his well-disposed neighbours, who had been at first led to apprehend that the 1–20th part of their income was too great a sacrifice for the preservation of the remainder of their property from French Confiscation.

You have heard of REWBELL,[33] That demon of hell, And of BARRAS, his brother Director; Of the canting LEPAUX, And that scoundrel MOREAU, Who betray’d his old friend and protector.

Would you know how these friends, For their own private ends, Would subvert our Religion and Throne?— Do you doubt of their skill To change Laws at their will?— You shall hear how they treated their own.

’Twas their pleasure to look, In a little blue book, At the Code of their famed legislation, That with truth they might say, In the space of one day They had broke every Law of the Nation.

The first law that they see, Is “_the Press shall be free_!” The next is “_the Trial by Jury_”: Then, “_the People’s free Choice_”; Then, “_the Members’ free Voice_”— When REWBELL exclaim’d in a fury—

“On a method we’ll fall For infringing them all— We’ll seize on each Printer and Member: No period so fit For a desperate hit, As our bloody month of _September_.

“We’ll annul each election Which wants our correction, And name our own creatures instead. When once we’ve our will, No blood we will spill, (But let CARNOT be knock’d on the head).

“To _Rochefort_ we’ll drive Our victims alive, And as soon as on board we have got ’em, Since we destine the ship For no more than one trip, We can just make a hole in the bottom.

“By this excellent plan, On the _true Rights of Man_, When we’ve founded our _fifth Revolution_, Though _England’s_ our foe, An army shall go To _improve_ HER corrupt Constitution.

“We’ll address to the Nation A fine Proclamation With offers of friendship so warm: Who can give BUONAPARTE A welcome so hearty As the friends of a THOROUGH REFORM?”

[Illustration]

No. X.

Jan. 15, 1798.

For the two following poems we are indebted to unknown correspondents. They could not have reached us at a more seasonable period.

The former, we trust, describes the feelings common to every inhabitant of this country. The second, we know too well, is expressive of the sentiments of our enemies.

LINES, WRITTEN AT THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR 1797.

Loud howls the storm along the neighbouring shore; BRITAIN indignant hears the frantic roar: Her generous sons pour forth on every side, Firm in their country’s cause—their country’s pride! See wild Invasion threats this envied land: Swift to defend her, springs each Social Band: Her white rocks echoing to their cheerful cry, “GOD AND OUR KING!”—“ENGLAND AND VICTORY!”

Yes! happy BRITAIN, on thy tranquil coast No trophies mad Philosophy shall boast! Though thy disloyal sons, a feeble band, Sound the loud blast of treason through the land; Scoff at thy dangers with unnatural mirth, And execrate the soil which gave them birth; With jaundiced eye thy splendid triumphs view, And give to FRANCE the palm to BRITAIN due: Or,—when loud strains of gratulation ring,[34] And lowly bending to the ETERNAL KING, Thy SOVEREIGN bids a nation’s praise arise In grateful incense to the fav’ring skies— Cast o’er each solemn scene a scornful glance, And only sigh for ANARCHY and FRANCE.

Yes! unsupported _Treason’s_ standard falls, _Sedition_ vainly on her children calls, While Cities, Cottages, and Camps contend, Their King, their Laws, their Country to defend.[35]

Raise, BRITAIN, raise thy sea-encircled head; Round the wide world behold thy glory spread; Firm as thy guardian oaks thou still shalt stand, The dread and wonder of each hostile land; While the dire fiends of discord idly rave, And, mad with anguish, curse the severing wave.

QUEEN of the OCEAN, lo! she smiles serene, ’Mid the deep horrors of the dreadful scene; With heartfelt piety to Heav’n she turns— From Heav’n the flame of British courage burns— She dreads no power but HIS who rules the ball, At whose “great bidding” empires rise and fall; In HIM, on peaceful plain, or tented field, She trusts, secure in HIS protecting shield— GALLIA, thy threats she scorns—BRITAIN SHALL NEVER YIELD. AN ENGLISHWOMAN.

TRANSLATION OF THE NEW SONG OF THE “ARMY OF ENGLAND”.

WRITTEN BY THE CI-DEVANT BISHOP OF AUTUN.[36]

WITH NOTES BY THE TRANSLATOR.

Good Republicans all, The Directory’s call Invites you to visit JOHN BULL; Oppress’d by the rod Of a King, and a God,[37] The cup of his misery’s full.

Old JOHNNY shall see What makes a man FREE; Not parchments, nor Statutes on Paper; And stripp’d of his riches, Great Charter, and breeches, Shall cut a FREE Citizen’s caper.

Then away, let us over To _Deal_, or to _Dover_— We laugh at his talking so big; He’s pamper’d with feeding, And wants a sound bleeding— _Par Dieu!_ he shall bleed like a pig!

JOHN, tied to the stake, A grand baiting will make, When worried by mastiffs of France; What REPUBLICAN FUN, To see his blood run, As at _Lyons_, _La Vendée_, and _Nantz_![38]

With grape-shot discharges, And plugs in his barges, With _National Razors_ good store, We’ll pepper and shave him, And in the _Thames_ lave him— How sweetly he’ll bellow and roar!

What the villain likes worse, We’ll vomit his Purse, And make it the guineas disgorge; For your RAPHAELS and RUBENS We would not give two-pence; Stick, stick to the PICTURES OF GEORGE.

No Venus of stone, But of good flesh and bone, Will do for a true Democrat; When weary with slaughter, With JOHN’S Wife and Daughter, We’ll join in a little _chit-chat_.

The Shop-keeping hoard, The Tenant and Lord, And the Merchants,[39] are excellent prey: At our cannon’s first thunder, _Rape_, _pillage_, and _plunder_ The _Order_ shall be _of the day_.

French fortunes and lives, French daughters and wives, Have _five honest men_ to defend ’em! And BARRAS and Co. When to _England_ we go, Will kindly take JOHN’S _in commendam_.

[Illustration]

No. XI.

Jan. 22, 1798.

We have said in another part of our paper of this day, “that though we shall never begin an attack, we shall always be prompt to repel it”.

On this principle, we could not pass over in silence the EPISTLE TO THE EDITORS OF THE _Anti-Jacobin_, which appeared in the _Morning Chronicle_ of Wednesday, and from which we have fortunately been furnished with a motto for this day’s paper.

We assure the author of the epistle, that the answer which we have here the honour to address to him, contains our genuine and undisguised sentiments upon the merits of the poem.

Our conjectures respecting the authors and abettors of this performance may possibly be as vague and unfounded as theirs are with regard to the EDITORS of the _Anti-Jacobin_. We are sorry that we cannot satisfy their curiosity upon this subject—but we have little anxiety for the gratification of our own.

It is hardly to be expected, that the character of the epistle should be taken on trust from the editors of this volume; it is thought best, therefore, to subjoin the whole performance as it originally appeared—a mode of hostility obviously the most fair, and in respect to the combatants in the cause of Jacobinism, by much the most effectual. They are always best opposed by the arms which they themselves furnish. Jacobinism shines by its own light.

To the respectable names which the author of the following address has thought proper to connect with the “ANTI-JACOBIN,” no apology is made for thus preserving this otherwise perishable specimen of dulness and defamation. He who has been reviled by the enemies of the “ANTI-JACOBIN,” must feel that principles are attributed to him, of which he need not be ashamed: and when the abuse is conveyed in such a strain of feebleness and folly, he must see that those principles excite animosity only in quarters of which he need not be afraid.

It is only necessary to add, what is most conscientiously the truth, that this production, such as it is, is _by far the best_ of all the attacks that the combined wits of the cause have been able to muster against the “ANTI-JACOBIN”.

EPISTLE TO THE EDITORS OF THE ANTI-JACOBIN.[40]

_Hic Niger est; hunc tu, Romane, caveto!_

To tell what gen’rals did, or statesmen spoke, To teach the world by truths, or please by joke; To make mankind grow bold as they peruse, Judge on existing things, and—weigh the news; For this a PAPER first display’d its page, Commanding tears and smiles through ev’ry age!

Hail, justly famous! who in modern days With nobler flight aspire to higher praise; Hail, justly famous! whose discerning eyes At once detect MISTAKES, MIS-STATEMENTS, LIES;[41] 10 Hail, justly famous! who with fancy blest, Use fiend-like virulence for sportive jest; Who only bark to serve your private ends— Patrons of Prejudice, Corruption’s friends! Who hurl your venom’d darts at well-earned fame— Virtue your hate, and Calumny your aim!

Whoe’er ye are, all hail!—whether the skill Of youthful CANNING guides the ranc’rous quill; With powers mechanic far above his age, Adapts the paragraph and fills the page; 20 Measures the column, mends whate’er’s amiss, Rejects THAT letter, and accepts of THIS; Or HAMMOND,[42] leaving his official toil, O’er this great work consume the midnight oil— Bills, passports, letters, for the Muses quit, And change dull business for amusing wit:— His life of labour at one gasp is o’er, His books forgot—his desk beloved no more! Proceed to prop the Ministerial cause; See consequential MORPETH[43] nods applause; 30 In ev’ry fair one’s ears at balls and plays The gentle GRANVILLE LEVESON[44] whispers praise: Well-judging Patrons, whom such works can please; Great works, well worthy Patrons such as these!

Who heard, not raptured, the poetic Sage Who sung of Gallia in a headlong rage, And blandly drew with no uncourtly grace The simple manners of our English race— Extoll’d great DUNCAN, and, supremely brave, Whelm’d BUONAPARTE’S pride beneath the wave? 40 I swear by all the youths that MALMESBURY[45] chose, By ELLIS’[46] sapient prominence of nose, By MORPETH’S gait, important, proud, and big— By LEVESON GOWER’S crop-imitating wig, That, could the pow’rs which in those numbers shine, Could that warm spirit animate my line, Your glorious deeds which humbly I rehearse— Your deeds should live immortal as my verse; And, while they wonder’d whence I caught my flame, Your sons should blush to read their fathers’ shame! 50

Proceed, great men!—your office is not done; Proceed with what you have so well begun: Load FOX (if you by PITT would be preferr’d), With ev’ry guilt that KENYON ever heard— Adult’rer, gamester, drunkard, cheat and knave, A factious demagogue and pension’d slave! Loose, loose your cry—with ire satiric flash: Let all the Opposition feel your lash; And prove them to these hot and partial times, A combination of the worst of crimes! 60

But softer numbers softer subjects fit: In liquid phrases thrill the praise of PITT; Extol in eulogies of candid truth The Virgin Minister—the Heav’n-born Youth; The greatest gift that fate to England gave, Created to support and born to save; Prompt to supply whate’er his country lacks— Skilful to GAG, and knowing how to TAX! With him companions meet in order stand— A firm, compact, and well-appointed band; 70 Skill’d to advance or to retreat, DUNDAS,[47] And bear thick battle on his front of brass; GRENVILLE with pond’rous head, which match’d we find By equal ponderosity behind.——

But hold, my Muse; nor farther these pursue!— Great Editors, we have digress’d from you; From you, to whom our trivial lays belong, From you, the sole inspirers of our song! Proceed:—urge on the same vindictive strain, To gain the applauses of great MALMESBURY’S train; 80 With jaundiced eyes the noblest patriot scan: Proceed—be more opprobrious if you can; Proceed—be more abusive ev’ry hour; To be more stupid is beyond your power.

TO THE AUTHOR OF THE EPISTLE TO THE EDITORS OF THE ANTI-JACOBIN.

_Nostrorum sermonum candide judex!_

Bard of the borrow’d lyre! to whom belong The shreds and remnants of each hackney’d song; Whose verse thy friends in vain for wit explore, And count but _one good line_ in eighty-four! Whoe’er thou art, all hail! Thy bitter smile Gilds our dull page, and cheers our humble toil!

For _yet_—though firm and fearless in the cause Of pure Religion, Liberty, and Laws,— Though TRUTH approved, though fav’ring VIRTUE smiled, Some doubts remained: WE _yet_ were _unreviled_. 10

Thanks to thy zeal! those doubts at length are o’er! Thy suffrage crowns our wish!—WE ask no more To stamp with sterling worth each honest line, Than Censure, cloth’d in vapid Verse like thine!

But say—in full blown honours dost thou sit ’Midst BROOKES’S ELDERS[48] on the BENCH OF WIT, Where HARE,[49] chief-justice, frames the stern decree, While with their learned brother, sages three, FITZPATRICK,[50] TOWNSHEND,[51] SHERIDAN, agree?

Or art thou One—THE PARTY’S flattered fool,[52] 20 Train’d in _Debrett’s_, or _Ridgway’s_ civic school— One, who with rant and fustian daily wears, Well-natured RICHARDSON![53] thy patient ears;— Who sees nor Taste nor Genius in these times, Save PARR’S[54] _buzz_ prose,[55] and COURTENAY’S[56] kidnapp’d rhymes?[57] Or is it he,—the youth,[59] whose daring soul With _half a mission_ sought the Frozen Pole;— And then, returning from the unfinish’d work, Wrote _half a letter_,—to demolish BURKE? Studied Burke’s manner,—aped his forms of speech; 30 Though when he strives his metaphors to reach, One luckless slip his meaning overstrains, And loads the blunderbuss with BEDFORD’S brains.[60]

Whoe’er thou art—ne’er may thy patriot fire, Unfed by praise or patronage, expire! Forbid it, Taste!—with Compensation large Patrician hands thy labours shall o’ercharge![61] BEDFORD and WHITBREAD shall vast sums advance, The _Land_ and _Malt_ of Jacobin Finance!

Whoe’er thou art—before thy feet we lay, 40 With lowly suit, our _Number of to-day_! Spurn not our offering with averted eyes! Let thy pure breath revive the extinguished _Lies_! _Mistakes, Mis-statements_, now so oft o’erthrown, Rebuild, and prop with nonsense of thy own! Pervert our meaning, and misquote our text— And _furnish us a motto for the next_!

[Illustration: _LORD LONGBOW, the Alarmist, discovering the Miseries of IRELAND.——with the puffing out of the little farthing Rush-light, & ye story of Moll Coggin._]

ODE TO LORD MOIRA.