  Dec. 25, 1797. We have been favoured with a translation of the Latin verses inserted in our last Number. We have little doubt that our readers will agree with us, in hoping that this may not be the last contribution which we shall receive from the same hand. Parent of countless crimes, in headlong rage, War with herself see frantic Gallia wage, Till worn and wasted by intestine strife, She falls—her languid pulse scarce quick with life. But soon she feels through every trembling vein, New strength collected from convulsive pain: Onward she moves, and sounds the dire alarm, And bids insulted nations haste to arm; Spreads wide the waste of war, and hurls the brand Of civil discord o’er each troubled land, While desolation marks her furious course, And thrones subverted bow beneath her force. Behold! she pours her Monarch’s guiltless blood, And quaffs with savage joy the crimson flood; Then, proud the deadly trophies to display Unaw’d by justice, unappall’d by fear, And runs with giant strength her mad career. Where’er her banners float in barbarous pride, Where’er her conquest rolls its sanguine tide, There, the fair fabric of establish’d law, There social order, and religious awe, Sink in the general wreck; indignant there Honour and Virtue fly the tainted air; Fly the mild duties of domestic life That cheer the parent, that endear the wife, The lingering pangs of kindred grief assuage, Or soothe the sorrows of declining age. Nor yet can Hope presage th’ auspicious hour, When Peace shall check the rage of lawless Power; Nor yet th’ insatiate thirst of blood is o’er, Nor yet has Rapine ravaged every shore. Exhaustless Passion feeds th’ augmented flame, And wild Ambition mocks the voice of Shame; Revenge, with haggard look and scowling eyes, Surveys with horrid joy th’ expected prize; Broods o’er each remnant of monarchic sway, And dooms to certain death his fancied prey. For midst the ruins of each falling state, One favour’d nation braves the general fate— One favour’d nation, whose impartial laws Of sober Freedom vindicate the cause; Her simple manners, midst surrounding crimes, Proclaim the genuine worth of ancient times; The rights her valour gain’d she dares uphold; Still with pure faith her promise dares fulfil, Still bows submission to th’ Almighty will. Just Heav’n! how Envy kindles at the sight! How mad Ambition plans the desperate fight! With what new fury Vengeance hastes to pour Her tribes of rapine from yon crowded shore! Just Heav’n! how fair a victim at the shrine Of injured Freedom shall her life resign, If e’er, propitious to the vows of hate, Unsteady Conquest stamp our mournful fate, If e’er proud France usurp our ancient reign, And ride triumphant o’er th’ insulted main! · · · · · Far hence th’ unmanly thought—the voice of Fame Wafts o’er th’ applauding deep her Duncan’s name. What though the Conqueror of th’ Italian plains Deem nothing gain’d, while this fair isle remains; Though his young breast with rash presumption glow, He braves the vengeance of no vulgar foe: Conqueror no more, full soon his laurel’d pride Shall perish—whelm’d in Ocean’s angry tide; His broken bands shall rue the fatal day, And scatter’d fleets proclaim Britannia’s sway. |
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