  THE ANARCHISTS.—An Ode.[A Parody on Collins’s Ode to the Passions.] —Numero plures, virtute et honore minores, Indocti stolidique et depugnare parati.—Hor. When Anarchy, sworn foe to Kings, O’er Gallia wav’d her crimson wings, Ere yet she spoil’d with iron hand Fair Europe’s desolated land; Her offspring here, a spurious brood, In faction nurs’d, inur’d to blood, Elate with Hope, perplex’d with Fear, Would often raise the listening ear; And all their mother’s wonders tell, And throng around her secret cell, Ranting, bribing, whispering, trembling, Urging, boasting, and dissembling. By turns they felt the Gallic mind Enlarg’d, unprejudic’d, refin’d; Till once, by all the goddess fir’d, Beyond Discretion rapt, inspir’d; Seditious, false, and prone to ill, They eager snatch’d the grey-goose quill. And as they oft had heard apart The wonders of Sedition’s art, Each, for Madness rul’d the hour, Would prove his own subversive power. First Paine his Rights of Man display’d, But could no more—for falsely cross’d Ev’n by the friends himself had made, Enraged he fled to Gallia’s coast. Next Priestley tried, to whom ’twas given Mankind’s free-agency to tell; Ordain’d to point the road to heaven, In pure free will he points—to hell! With meagre visage Thelwall came, In lectures told his sufferings sore; Till purple tyrants blush’d with shame And crowds the suffering saint adore. But thou, O Godwin! meek and mild; Speak thy metaphysic page: Now it cheer’d a laggard age, When tyrant Kings shall be no more, When human wants and wars shall fail, And sleep and death shall quit the hallow’d shore. ’Twas thus he strove to sap the throne. With borrow’d arts and weapons not his own, While Gallia clapp’d her hands, and hail’d her favourite child. And longer had he sung—but, strange to say, Wakefield, the dragon-fly, rush’d on; Eager he sought the bold rebellious fray, And burst with anger and disdain The web of sophistry in twain Which Godwin, patient sage! had spread To catch the fluttering insects of the land. Treason upreared her arm to strike, Rebellion grasped the murd’rous pike, And though, sometimes, each maddening pause between, Soft Discretion, joined with Fear, Whisper’d her councils in his ear, Still Anarchy upheld the busy scene, And raised her shield of brass to guard her vot’ry’s head. Next Holcroft vowed in doleful tone No more to fire a thankless age, Oblivion marked his labours for her own, Neglected from the press and damn’d upon the stage. See! faithful to their mighty dam, Coleridge, Southey, Lloyd, and Lamb, In splay-foot madrigals of love. Soft moaning like the widowed dove, Pour side by side their sympathetic notes. Of equal rights and civic feasts And tyrant Kings and knavish Priests Swift through the land the tuneful mischief floats. And now to softer strains they struck the lyre, They sung the beetle, or the mole, The dying kid, or ass’s foal, By cruel man permitted to expire. But O, how altered was the sprightlier hour! When Fox, the Parthian hero, rose to view; He o’er the rest high-towering like a steeple Leagued with a “Corresponding” crew, Pledged in large floods of wine “their Majesties—the People”. The royal tribe accept the proffered power. Kings from the forge, dictators from the plough, Peeping from forth their allies low, Before the fallen arch-seceder bow; Lepaux bade Gallia hail his name, But old St. Stephen bowed his head for shame. See Norfolk last, with Bedford roll, He of Bacchus’ favours proud, The sovereign mob most eloquent addressed; But soon he spied the mirth-inspiring bowl, Whose ruby treasures charmed his soul the best; They would have thought who heard him speak, ’Twas Falstaff, with his minions at his back, High primed with valour, turbulence, and sack, Aping the monarch to a wondr’ing crowd. With studious labours urged the bold reply: Shouts of applause ran rattling through the sky: And he, the hero of the day, Right glad their servile suffrage to repay, Shook golden bounty from his swelling purse. O, England! heav’n-defended land! With power to “threaten and command,” Say, is thy former spirit broke, To crouch beneath a foreign yoke, And listen to the idiot strains Of slaves thy better sense disdains, As erst, in many an ardent hour, You awed an adverse haughty power. Thy lofty mind, to Freedom true, May well retain what then it knew. Where is thy former patriot soul, Above deceit, above controul? Arise! as in that happier time United, fearless, bold, sublime. ’Tis said, and I believe the tale, Thy efforts then could more avail, Could more true happiness dispense, With Order, Morals, virtue, Sense, Than all that fires with party rage This boastful philosophic age. Arise! with manly zeal advance, To curb the lawless power of France; O, bid her mad endeavours cease, And give the willing nations PEACE! —Fabricius. THE PASSIONS.An Ode for Music. Wil
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