That Work begun at morn, and closed at eve, Foul work, that years of Peace may not retrieve. What time the stricken Tents, at peep of day Vanish, like snow, before the solar ray,

there continue, as at present, to shift with the wind; nor would their occupation, nor their residence, undergo any very material change, as their hand would still be against every man, and their Head Quarters-The Fleet!

Again-as abortions usually give more pain than vigorous and healthy births, so it is extremely possible that some of our modern Rhimers take more pains to write ill, than a Gray or a Shakespeare took to write well. My plan would not only exempt them from these pains, but would snatch them from that purgatory and hell of Authors, Publication, and Criticism.

Publication indeed may be compared to Matrimony; those who think the most lightly of it before-hand, are usually those who have cause to think the most seriously of it afterwards. Those who publish in haste commonly repent at leisure. The very Pen which now furnishes the precept, may in all proba bility hereafter supply the example. "In Utrumque paratus." I shall conclude this note with a short quotation from Gibbon, on the state of Genius and Literature, during the decline and fall of the Roman Empire; leaving the application of this passage to the good sense of my Readers. "The beauties of the Poets and Orators, instead of kindling a fire like their own, inspired only cold and servile imitations or if any ventured to deviate from those models, they deviated at the same time from good sense and propriety. The Provincials of Rome, trained by an uniform, artificial, foreign education, were engaged in a very unequal competition with those bold ancients, who by

And axe of Pioneer alarms the wood,

Whose Oaks descending instant span * the flood!
While Flocks and Herds in wild confusion run,
And headlong speed, the march of War to shun;
Scared by the banners red, and clarions shrill,
And bugles, answered quick from hill to hill!
Both far and near they fly the gathering din,
Ere the confronting Legions close them in.

Yon heights reflecting far the Horsemen's † mail,
Yon steel-bright forest, winding through the vale,
Yon magic Arch, the work of hands unseen,
Their Midnight task, that strides the deep Ravine,
That Roar from signal-gun! that sullen sound
Of ponderous iron wheels,§ that shake the ground,
That dusty Whirlwind from the Charger's hoof,
These warn the Sons of Peace-to stand aloof.
With horrid haste while distant Nations fly
But to behold each other, and to die!

expressing their genuine feelings in their native tongue, had already occupied every place of honour. The Name of Poet was almost forgotten, that of Orator was usurped by the Sophists. A Cloud of Critics, of Compilers, of Commentators, darkened the face of learning, and the decline of Genius was soon followed by the corruption of Taste."

*To make the Military Bridges.

Cuirassiers, who are enveloped in armour.
To facilitate the passage of Artillery.

The Tumbrils.

What time each Column, at the Rocket's blaze With rapid wheel the lengthening Line displays!

Now doubt and confidence, and hope and fear, By turns proclaim defeat, or conquest, near, And Fate, 'twixt both suspends her awful screen, And in mysterious grandeur clouds the scene! Is there, that solemn pause who cannot feel? O envy not the wretch his heart of steel; Sure one fond thought of all he left behind, Might, for that moment, melt the sternest mind! But-Charge! that fear and doubt-dispelling word, That sound to British Heroes dear, is heard! Eager, as Coursers from the goal, their Foes They seek, and soon with weapons crossed, they close.

Earth feels the sudden shock, while shouts resound, And groans, half heard, in din of battle drowned. Steeds answering Steeds, with smoking breath, from

far,

Swell the rough concert, and provoke the war.
See now the broken line of battle reel,
See front to front opposed, and steel to steel;
As when the blast drives Euxine's maddened wave,
The Danube's † strength, by Torrents swollen, to
brave!

* In modern warfare I am informed it is usual to come up in columns, and at the firing of a Rocket, or some other signal, to deploy or to wheel instantaneously into line.

This is far from being an unequal conflict. The Danube

Now Discord plays the direful Game of Kings, And roused by Trumpet, flaps her vulture wings; Here with convulsive grasp, the Youth,* retains Though fallen! the standard that his life-blood stains,

While Veterans mark their favourite's dying groan, And to revenge his wounds, forget their own.

There, swift as Hurricanes, with flowing rein,

And crimson spur, the Squadrons † sweep the plain, Through smouldering clouds they meet, with thundering crash,

While Sabres dart the lightning's fatal flash! Fierce, plunging into death, the wounded Horse Drags through the routed ranks,the trampled Corse;

is fed by sixty navigable Rivers, and one hundred ond twenty smaller streams; and it discharges itself with such rapidity into the Euxine, that the current of its waters is sensibly observed for several miles. Speaking of the Rhine, and the Danube, Gibbon observes, "The latter of those mighty streams, which rises at the distance of only thirty miles from the former, flows above thirteen hundred miles, for the most part to the South. east, collects the tribute of sixty navigable rivers, and is at length through six mouths received into the Euxine, which appears scarcely equal to such an accession of Waters."

* Can it be necessary to mention here the name of Walsh ?

Notwithstanding the superior euphony and power of the greek language, yet I have often thought that even Homer, when he has indulged in an attempt to make the sound an echo to the sense, has never surpassed that line of Virgil's "Quadrupedante putrem sonitu quatit Ungula Campum."

Crushed 'neath his hoof, both spear and scymitar
Bestrew the field with steel,-the wreck of War;
With sulph'rous cloud, while Cannon cloke the Sun,
In red eclipse, till their fell work be done;
In yawning furrows plough the channel'd mead,
And sow the ravaged Earth with iron seed!
Seed, that manured with blood, and wet with tears,
No reaper gladdens, and no harvest bears.

Now bursting bombs, those winged Volcanoes, rake

Th' advancing Phalanx, and its firmness shake;
In fiery curve, display from rear to van,

*

The hell-born ingenuity of man!

Man wise to shorten life, but not prolong,
To give it feeble, but to take it strong.

And close behind-the Phantom Glory treads, And o'er the fallen her flimsy mantle spreads; Ah! can her tinselled Vestment, wove by Pride, That hideous wreck, her disinal triumph, hide?

*Milton attributes the invention of Gunpowder to the Devils. Have the commentators found no allegory here? When Milton informs us that Sin was born in heaven, we are instructed to admire the address and sagacity of the Poet, who takes this method of reminding us that every Vice is the excess of some Virtue! But what shall we say of Falshood, Cruelty, Ingratitude, Brutality, Blasphemy, et cæt? These are cer. tainly Vices, but I am at a loss to know of what Virtues they

are the excess.