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DEHOLD, my friend, o'er Europe's hapless land,
Almighty vengeance stretch its iron hand;

Its impious agent ev'ry realm enthral,

And with wide wasting carnage cover all.

The human fiend, each day, each hour he lives,

Still to the world some baleful evil gives.

Oh, when he dies, what shouts shall shake the sphere!
New suns shall shine and double moons appear;

Death thro' the world one holiday shall make,
And hell get drunk with sulphur for his sake!
His throne a pile of human sculls sustains,
And bones that fell on those unhappy plains,
Where pale Toulon lay prest beneath her dead,
Where Lodi fought and fell Marengo bled.
Professing ev'ry faith, he mocks his God,
And virtue trembles underneath his nod.
The nations, crouching round, his pomp adorn;
Britannia sits apart, and smiles in scorn;
Calm and unharm'd amidst his impious ire,
While trembling millions from the strife retire.
So round some cliff when now the tempest roars,
And the weak Linnet downward turns her oars,
The royal Eagle, from his craggy throne,
Mounts the loud storm majestic and alone,
And steers his plumes athwart the dark profound,
While roaring thunders replicate around!
But now, rous'd slowly from her opiate bed,
Lethargic Europe lifts the heavy head;
Feels round her heart the creeping torpor close,
Aud starts with horror from her dire repose,
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Favour'd

* Favour'd by heaven, let Britons bend the kuce,
And thank that awful Pow'r who keeps us free;
Own Him our strength, on Him repose our all,
Sedate in triumph, and resign'd to fall.

THE HORRORS OF WAR:

A POETICAL TRANSLATION OF A LETTER OF A CERTAIN GREAT PERSONAGE TO THE KING OF FRUSSIA.

From Dr. Thornton's Temple of Flora.

To Frederick the Great, king of Prussia,

HILE conquest seats you on the throne of fame,

your name,

On burnish'd arms while glory brightly beams,
And fields victorious fill the monarch's dreanis;
Trembling I view whence all that glory springs
Which crowns the awful brows of hero-kings;
Shock'd I behold the source whence dart those
rays
Which shine on victors, and round conqu❜rors blaze;
And, fondly anxious praises to bestow,
Reluctant swell the stream of general woe;
For e'en those laurels which your brows entwine,
Your triumphs crown, and bid your conquests shine,
Meant as immortal trophies to adorn,

Were from my country's bleeding bowels torn.
While in what's truly brave, and greatly bold,
You outstrip heroes dignify'd of old;

My native Mecklenburgh, a prey to arms,

In desolation finds her ruin'd charms:

No more her plains their plenteous verdure yield,
No longer Ceres decks the golden field;

Through

* Favour'd by heaven, let Britons bend the knee.]—I think I may say (but meekly let me say it, and with awful reverence), that Providence watches over this empire with an eye of peculiar regard. England seems to be solemnly selected and delegated to interpose a barrier between partial subversion and universal anarchy: to punish the punishers of nations; to heal the wounds of agonizing Europe, and to sit like a wakeful nurse, watching at her side, and administering to her lips the medicine of salvation. We stand on a noble, but a dreadful elevation; responsible in ourselves for the future happiness of the human race. We have a spirit, a constitution, and a religion: unrivalled, unparalleled, unprecedented. From these sources I draw my politics, and these tell me, we shall triumph. The red right hand of Providence is every where visible. Even at this moment it is performing the promised work of Papal Extirpation. Per severe then, Britons, in the mighty task before yon. To recede from it were ruin. Be firm, and you triumph-fear, and you fall.

+ Then princess of Mecklenburg, now Queen of England, imploring relief from the ⚫ppressions or the military then quartered on the Mecklenburg territory.

Through all her bounds dark scenes of horror rise,
Despair's loud yell, and sorrow's frantic cries.

Conscious I am, great sire, the patriot's theme
In my weak sex may unbecoming seem;
For, in an age so viciously refin'd,
By folly blinded, to caprice resign'd,
Perhaps you deem the very name of arms,
The thought of rapine, and of war's alarms,
Of slaughter by contending armies made,
Of burnish'd swords in deathful feats display'd,
Of mourning widows, and of bleeding swains,
Of burning towns, and desolated plains,-
Perhaps you deem such themes were ne'er design'd
To occupy the tender female mind;
Ordain'd to study only how to please,
And court the prospect of domestic ease:
Yet oh! forgive, while patriot virtue fires,
And soft humanity the strain inspires:
Forgive, great sire, if sorrowing I unfold
Each dismal scene which my sad eyes behold;
And, while the natives of my country bleed,
The cause of suff'ring wörth I dare to plead.

The radiant sen rolls on its swift career,
But not remote beam'd forth that joyful year,
When o'er proud Mecklenburgh's belov'd domain
Fair plenty smil'd on every fertile plain:
The placid months serenely fled away,

The fields were fruitful and the groves were gay.
But now, alas! my streaming sorrows flow,
Now, my dear country is one scene of woe;
Depopulation makes a frightful void,
The peasant flies, or lingering is destroy'd:
Where'er, in anguish, roll my aching eyes,
All the dire horrors of the war arise;
The devastations of the martial train,
With streaming gore empurple ev'ry plain:
With native blood the swollen rivers glide,
And to the ocean roll a crimson tide;
While into camps the fertile fields are made,
And thickest woods can scarce from danger shade;
Woods where afflicted families retire,

To shun the slaught'ring sword or raging fire.
In vain they seek their weary eyes to close;
Or if exhausted strength induce repose,
Oppressive terrors agitate the soul,
And fancy hears the battle's thunder roll.
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A famish'd

A famish'd child lifts up its streaming eyes,
"Food, food! I perish!" the pale infant cries;
The fainting mother ready to expire,

Replies with tears, and supplicates the sire:
The sire, unable to afford relief,

Stands a distracted monument of grief;

With blended sighs they mourn their hapless doom,
And envy their lov'd babe the shelt'ring tomb.
Now, wing'd by fear, no husbandman remains,
By culture to restore the ravag'd plains;
No gentle shepherd tends his fleecy care,
Both rush to war, the rage of battle dare;
And soldiers grown, ob! dire reverse of fate,
Destroy those fields their labours till'd so late!
With anguish'd hearts the women sit and wail,
As fears for husbands, or for sons prevail:
Perchance a warrior here and there is found,
Debarr'd the field by many a rankling wound;
Round him the curious children fondly swarm,
Hang on his tongue, and at his tale grow warm;
The hist'ry of each aching wound desire,
Devour each word, and catch congenial fire;
And while the hero, in impressive strain,
Recites the wonders of the bloody plain,
The steed's loud neighing, and the clank of arms,
The thund'ring drum that beats to war's alarms,
The clanging trumpet and the cannon's roar,
The dying groans, and fields of streaming gore,
The little audience high erect their crests,
While martial ardours warm their glowing breasts.
To us our friends, as fatal as our foes,
These also swell the torrent of our wees;
Advancing or retreating squadrons spread
Unbounded ravage, where their footsteps tread.
To you, great sire, we make our fond appeal,
Whose justice only can our suff'rings heal;
To you e'en helpless females may complain,
Nor shed their tears, nor plead their cause in vain;
And trembling babes, 'inidst many a heartfelt sigh,
With confidence lift up th' imploring eye.
To you whose kind humanity stoops down,
From all the dazzling grandeur of a crown,
To shield the peasant in his lowly shed,
To raise misfortune from her painful bed,
To guard the meanest who for justice press,
And grant the humblest supplicant redress,
To you a nation's pray'rs united rise;
Act like the great vice-gerent of the skies;

Relieve

Relieve our suff'rings, WAR's dire rage restrain,
And o'er our grateful hearts for ever reign.

THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP *.

A BALLAD.

By Mr. Moore, the Translator of Anacreon.

[From the Stranger in America.]

HEY made her a grave too cold and damp

"THE

"For a soul so warm and true:

"And she's gone to the Lake of the DISMAL SWAMP,
"Where all night long, by a fire-fly lamp †,

"She paddles her white canoe.

"And her fire-fly lamp I soon shall see,
"And her paddle I soon shall hear;
"Long and loving our life shall be

“ —And I'll hide the maid in a cypress-tree,
"When the footstep of Death is near ‡."

Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds--
His path was rugged and sore,

Thro' tangled juniper beds of reeds,
Thro' many a fen where the serpent feeds,
And man ne'er trod before.

And when on the earth he sunk to sleep,
If sleep his eyelids knew,

He lay where the deadly vines do weep
Their venomous tears-and nightly steep
The flesh with blistering dew.

And near him the she-wolf stirr'd the brake,
And the rattle-snake breath'd in his ear,
Till he starting cried-from his dream awake,
"Oh! when shall I see the dusky lake,
"And the white canoe of my dear?"

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In Norfolk, Virginia, which is said to extend 250 square miles.

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"The fire-fly is an insect common in this part of the country. In its flight, at short intervals, it sheds a beam of apparent fire, or lightning-brighter than the glowworm. It is so perfectly harmless, that children amuse themselves in following and catching it."

This is the supposed exclamation of a maniac upon the death of a lady to whom be paid his addresses, and whose loss deprived him of his reason.

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