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Ye partisans of innovations,
How matchless is your glory!
France, as the model of all nations,
Shall raise you high in story.
Yet let us give the honour due

To those who'll share your fame;
For Premier Turgot, and his crew,
Divided honours claim.

Nor to our king the praise refuse,
Which justly we should pay,
Who votes himself a mere abuse,

And flings his crown away.
His sense of rectitude how great!
Was e'er such talent shewn!
His kingdom thus to abdicate,
And kick away his throne!

EPIGRAM

On a Musician and Dancing-Master, who decamped with Cash subscribed for a Musical Publication.

His time was quick, his touch was fleet;

Our gold he nimbly finger'd :

Alike alert with hands and feet,

His movements have not linger'd.
Where lies the wonder of the case?
A moment's thought detects it:
His practice has been thorough-bass,
A chord will be his exit.

Yet, while we blame his hasty flight,
Our censure may be rash:

A traveller is surely right

To change his notes for cash!

THE WITCH OF LAPLAND,

BY THE REV. HENRY BOYD,

TRANSLATOR OF DANTE.

UPROSE the fiend of Gaul with speed,
And seiz'd his fiery-footed steed,
And over sea and land he flew,
"Till near the Witch's den he drew :
The lofty rock, the gloomy cave,
Echo'd to Finland's roaring wave,
And far within the fiends' abode,
That rule the blasts and vex the flood.
"Give me a wind!" the Demon cried,
"To sweep the broad Atlantic tide,
And drive away the British train,
That block our ports, and guard the main!
A storm! a storm! to scour the sea,
Then claim a noble gift from me!

Grant me a storm, and name your price;
My pupil gives me large supplies!"

WITCH.

"Tell me what my reward shall be, Before my whirlwinds scourge the sea."

DEMON.

"Phials of tears I will bestow,
By matrons shed in deepest woe;
And cinders swept from burning towns;
And jewels reft from plunder'd crowns;

A trampled cross, a sacred bowl,
Pledge of a renega lo's soul;
And if you to my prayer incline,
That soul-benumbing plant is thine,
Grafted on the Cyrnean yew,
Foster'd with Tartarean dew:
Nay, if you the blast unbind,
A nobler gift shall soothe your mind,
A mitre by a Prelate worn,

Who gave his creed to public scorn,
And here it is on vellum fair,

In letters blue, his backward pray'r—
When his dire spells the Magian hurl'd
Against the Guardians of the World.
This scarf is dy'd in infants' blood,
Shed by its sire in furious mood,
When robb'd by Gaul, with frenzy wild,
Famine to shun, he stabb'd his child.
The maiden that this girdle wore
Lies pale and stiff on Weser's shore;
To shun the Gauls' enfuriate chace,
She chose the water's cold embrace-
And see what Gallic love bestows,
Impartial boon to friends and foes,
Those scales that weigh with even poise
Plagues, that are blessings in disguise."

WITCH.

"Give me all thy plunder'd store,
That cross and kerchief stain'd with gore-
But somewhat still you must resign
Before the hurricane be thine.
A warrior's hand I must obtain,
Unmatch'd in combats of the main-

This martial hand in battles lost,
Alone can free your cumber'd coast,
And you the precious boon must find,
Wherever borne by wave or wind.

This charmed hand, when made my prize,
Spreading to gigantic size,

And nerv'd anew by magic lays,
The anchor's magnitude can raise.
Fate and France the boon demand,
"Tis Neptune's gift-'tis Nelson's hand,"
"I know the hand, I hate the name,"
The fiend replied, with eyes of flame;
And seaward soon he took his flight;
Borne on the dragon-wing of night,
And oft he search'd the sea-wolf's jaw,
And oft the shark's voracious maw;
At length a shatter'd arm he found,
And bore to Lapland's stormy bound,

The Crone her crimson flag unfurl'd,
Dread signal to the vapoury world;
And soon her elves, with sullen tune,
Drew a dim halo round the moon.
Loud and long the tempest blew;
Uptackle ran the gallant crew;
The navy furl'd her sail in haste,
Half yielding to the furious blast;
But mightier powers had render'd vain
The compact of the hellish train;
And soon like eagles, scatter'd far
By the rude rage of windy war,
The squadrons rallied to their post,
Lining with fate their trembling coast.
Storming with rage, the Demon finds
The grey commandress of the winds,

And loud with furious banns assail'd,
Demanding why her magic fail'd.
"Alas!" the Beldam cried, and shook
Her sides with laughter, as she spoke,
"My friend, you've quite mistook my meaning,
Dead fingers from the ocean gleaning-
The hand I meant is active still :
And HE that baffles all our skill,
Defends from ev'ry chance of war,
That member with peculiar care.
But for the spoils you and your chief
Gave me, a treasure past belief,
They shall be paid (by hell, I vow)
With tenfold usury below."

EPITAPH

Requested for Mr. Garrick's Monument in Litchfield Cathedral, but not used,

WHILE o'er this marble bends the pensive eye,
Here, Genius, breathe the tributary sigh;
Beneath these groves your Garrick nurs'd his art,
That reign'd resistless o'er each feeling heart;

And here those virtues dawn'd, whose power benign
Bids Hope for him celestial garlauds twine:
Oft has his bounty, with pervading ray,

Chas'd the dark cloud from Want's tempestuous day;
And oft his SILENCE, generous as his aid,

Hid from the world the noblest part he play'd.

ANNA SEWARD,

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