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No:----tread the path which erst your

fathers trod :
The learn'd and pious sons of pray’r

From foes protect, with grateful care-
Foes to your King, your Country, and your God!

Shall wc, whom Wedlock's bands entwinc,
With dastard souls our wives resign;

While Love and Honour 66 blow War's blast;"
And Memory lives to paint endearments past?
No:--tread the path which erst your fathers trod :

Guard female worth, and female charms.

Guard wedded love, from foes in arms:-
Foes to your King, your Country, and your God !

Shall we, who've fondly watch'd each grace
That seem'd to mark our infant race,

Now prematurely fix their doom,
While murderous rites pollute the victim's tomb?
No:---tread the path which erst your fathers trod :

Like them th' ensanguin'd battle dare :

The foes nor child nor matron spare :
Foes to your King, your Country, and your God!

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The trumpet sounds ! Ye British host,
On British ground defend your coast :

In every clime you ’ve tam’d their pride,
When Kings their rulers--Sanctity their guide!
Now tread the path which erst your fathers trod :

United brave the impending storm!

One dreadful phalany, Britons, form:
Friends to your king, your Country, and your God!

EPODE

On the Siege of Acre, and British Triumphs in the East.

By Mr. Bowles.

FLY,

I.
son of Terror, fly!

Back o'er the burning desert he is fled !
In heaps the gory dead

Gash'd in the trenches lie!
Jlis dazzling files no more
Flash on the Syrian sands,
As when from Egypt's ravag'd shore,
Aloit their gleaming falchions swinging,
Alond their victor-pæans singing

Their

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Theft onward way the Gallic legions took,
Despair, dismay, are on his alter'd look,

Yet hate indignant low'rs;
Whilst high on Acre's fuming tow'rs
The shade of English Richard seems to stand ;

And frowning far, in dusky rows,

A thousand archers draw their bows !
They join the triumph of the British band,
And the rent watch-tow'r echoes to the cry,
Heard o'er the rolling surge,-“ They ily, they fly!”

II.
66 Winds of the wilderness sweep o'er their bands,

“ And may their bones whiten the desart wide!”
The Mam’luc said, as on red Egypt's sands,

Gnashing, he clench'd his scymitar, and died !
The war trump answer'd: O'er the slain,
Yea the proud chief took up his taunting strain,

66 Victors of the world we tread-
“ From yonder monuments* the dead
« Our glorious march survey
“ To Acre--India !--- In the sky

" Let the banner invincible fly,
“ And our triumphs the trumps to the wilderness bray !"

Shall Acre's+ fecble citadel,
Victor, thy shatter'd hosts repel ?
Insulting chief, despair-
A Briton meets thee there!
See beneath the burning wall
In reeking heaps th' assailants fall!
Now the hostile fires decline,
Now through the smoke's deep volumes shine !
Now above the bastions gray
The clouds of battle roll away;
Where, with calm, yet glowing mien,
Britain's victorious Youth is seen;

He lifts his eye,
His country's ensigns wave through smoke on high,
Whilst the long-mingl'd shout is heard, “ They fly, they fly.”

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III.

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Ancient Kishon, $ prouder swell,

On whose banks they bow'd, they fell
The mighty ones of yore, whilst, with pale dread,
Inglorious Sisera fled !
3 M 4

Hoary
* Pyramids.
+ Acre, situated near Kishon and Carmel.

Sir Sydney Smith. Ś See Song of Deborah:-" The river Kishon, that ancient river: Oh, my soul thou hast trodden down strength.

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Hoary Carmel, witness thou,
And lift in conscious pride thy brow;
As when, upon thy cloudy plain,
Baal's prophets cry'd in vain!
They gash'd their flesh, and leap'd, and cry'd,
From morn till ling’ring even-tide.
Then stern Elijah on his foes,
Strong in the might of Heav'n, arose !
They died:He, on the altars rent,
As the blackning clouds and rain

Came sounding from the western main,
Stood, like the Lord of fate, alone and eminent,

IV.
What triumphs yet remain ?
Was it a groan?-a hero* fell.

On Egypt's plain
More loud the shouts of battle swell!

Host meet host with direr crash,
Anothert pours the red vindictive flash
Of battle. Mourn, proud Gallia, mourn

Thy distant sons scatter'd or slain ;
Whilst from their gory grasp is torn

The ensign haild " invincible,” in vain!
What mystic monument I, to day restor'd,
Is wrested from the mosque's oblivious gloom?

It is thy hallow'd tomb,
Scander S, the conqueror of the world, ador'd
A God to farthest Caucasus : the son
Of Ammon, who the crown of glory won,

Immortal, who the seas subdu'd ;
And said, (when on the sandy solitude
The hew-form'd city's gleamy turrets rose)

“ Roll commerce here, till time shall close
66 The scene of things.” Their course long ages keep ;
Another** bears the sceptre of the deep!

O'er wider seas
The sails of commerce catch the breeze;
Thy city's battlements are rent,

And Sir Ralph Abercrombie. + Lord Hutchinson,

Among the Egyptian antiquities now in the British Museum, there is a most singular monument, of the rarest and most valuable marble, the green Brechja, rescued, by the activity of Mr. Clark, the celebrated traveller, from the French; and supposed by him, for many cogent reasons, to be the tomb of the founder of Alesandija. Fiis arguments have great weight; but whether they are well founded of not, the circumstance is, at least, highly poetical,

The Arabic name of Alexander. lli Alexandria, ** England,

And Britain's plain:
Ilolds of thy greatness, thy poor last remain-

Thy awful moment.
May she the paths of thy best* fame explore,
Till pyramids are dust, and time shall be no more.

THE WITCII OF LAPLAND.

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Written before a late storm. Partly in Imitation of Grey's

" Descent of Odin."

By Mr. Boyd.
U

PROSE the fiend of Gaul with speed,

And seiz'd his fiery-footed steed,
And over sea and land he flew,
Till near the witches den he drew.
The lofty rock, the gloomy cave,
Echoed to Finland's roaring wave;
And far within the fiend's abode
That rules the blasts, and vex the flood,
6 Give me a wind," the demon cry'd,
“ To sweep the broad Atlantic side,
And drive away the British train,
That block our ports, and guard the Main.
A storm, a storm, to scour the sea,
And claim a noble gift from me!
Grant me a storm, and name your price,
My pupil gives me large supplies.”

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

DEMON.
66 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 renegado's soul;
And if you to my prayer incline,
That soul-benumbing plant is thine,
Grafted on the Cyrneant yew,
Fostered with Tartarian 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.

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And

* Alexander's maritime renown.
† Ancient name of Corsica,

And here it is on vellum fair,
In letters blue, his backward prayer,
When his dire spells the Magian hurl'd
Against the guardian of the world.
This scarf is dyed in infants' blood,
Shed by its sirc in furious mood;
When robb’d by Gaul, with phrenzy 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 Gaul's enfuriate chace,
She chose the water's cold embrace.
And see what Gallic love bestows,
Impartial boon to friends and foes,
Those scules that weigh with even poise,
Plagues, that is, blessings in disguise.

WITCI.
“ Give me all thy plundered 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 battle lost,
Alone can free your cumber'd coast;
And you the precious bones must find,
Wherever borne by wave or wind.
This charmed hand must be my prize,
Spreading to gigantic size; -
And, nerved anew by magic Jays,
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 reply'd, 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 shattered arm he found,
And bore to Lapland's stormy bound.

The Crone her crimson flag unfurl’d,
Dread signal to the vap'ry world;
And soon her elves, with sullen tune,
Drew a dim balo round the moon.

Loud

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