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What can rival the sweets which our gardens

disclose, The lilac, syringa, the jasmine and rose ? Wherever, &c.

4 Some countries may boast, which are nearer the

line, The ample, the fragrant, the brisk tasted pine, The orange and citron afford their sweet juice, But fine are the fruits which our gardens

produce; With those may the gage, and the pippin

compare, The strawberry, the cherry, the peach or the

pear, Wherever, &c.

5 Tho' France boast the joys of her brisk spark

ling wines, And Italy, Portugal, Spain their rich vines, Tho' Madeira be fam'd for its high-flavour'd

grape, And we traffic afar for the too-luscious cape: Yet Britain can boast what her malt can produce, The currant's and gooseberry’s gay sparkling

juice : Wherever, &c.



Thy sheep and thy kine o'er thy pastures that

graze, Each fowl o'er thy fields, or thy homestalls

that strays, Each fish in thy rivers that wantonly glides, Or those yearly brought to thy shores by the


These all for delight and advantage are giv'n, Show'r'd down by the bounty of all-forming

Heav'n. Wherever, &c.


Where else is mankind in more civiliz'd state,
Or where equal laws so protect poor and great,
Where virtue with beauty more often combine,
Or where manly courage as splendidly shine ?
Where else is religion so purely profest,
Where each left to cherish the wish of his breast?
Wherever, &c.


Then, Britain! reflect with the fondest concern The duties demanded from thee in return; With blessings thus gifted, acknowledge the hand That still hath protected thy high-favour'd land;

Be religion and morals thy first-ONLY care, And Heav'n's high protection thou ever wilt

share : Then thy sons and thy prospects will still wear

one smile, O Britain, my country, my dear native Isle.

J. P.



Tune: The Race Horse. By DIBDIN.


Exulting in strength, how majestic's the Horse, His neck cloth'd with thunder, he gallops his

course, His nostrils a glory tremendously shew, In the valley he paweth, unmoy'd meets the foe;

With fierceness and rage how he swalloweth the In the battle, in thunder, i'th shout he gains force, How noble in nature, resistless the Horse !*

ground, Ha! Ha! Hark he saith, while the hoarse trum

pets sound,

2 He, train’d to the road, draws the carriage along, Is true to his work ’mid the hubbub and throng, You would scarce think that aught hung be

hind at his heels, So swift, you discern not the spukes of the Now, led, meek and mild, whence he stood, at


* Job xxxix. 19—25. See a Criticism on this passage in The Guardian, No. 86.

Contrary to the opinion of a poetical Friend, I have ventured to retain the Sacred Writer's image of the horse's neck “ clothed with thunder.” He suggested that the present idea of thunder is merely that of the noise which follows the flash of ligbtoing. But the original idea of thunder includes either the one, or the other, or both. We have the following definition in Johnson :

1. “ Thunder is a most bright flame rising on a sudden, moving with great violence, and with a very rapid velocity, through the air, according to any determination, upwards from the earth, horizontally, obliqueiy, downwards in a right line, or in several right lines, as it were in serpentine tracts, joined at various angles and commonly ending with a loud noise or rattling.”

2. “ In popular and poetic language, thunder is commonly the noise, and lightning the flash; though thunder is sometimes taken for both."

The comparing tbe full, long, curled and flowing made of a borse, with the light glancing upon it, to thunder, “ Hast thou, given the horse strength ? hast thou clothed his neck with thunder ?" appears to me to be an image peculiarly appropriate and sublime,

the rack, See, saddled, his master mounts feebly his back, With health waning fast to his aid hath recourse, Both a friend and physician he owns in his Horse.


Behold the heap'd waggon pull'd thro' the deep


He takes the hard collar, and tugs on his load, From morning to night, from the night to the

morn, With short seasons of rest is the hard burden

borne ; Or view him again, with firm pace, drag the

plow, Or drawing the Harvest Home quick to the

mow, O long might one make him a theme of dis

course, How noble:! How useful! the tractable Horse !

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Ah why do we then oft behold him abus'd,
Ill fed, overwork’d, and his Sabbath refus'd,
Back galld and knees broken, sides panting

with pain, Ah! fatal mistake! to hope thus to make gain!

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