But thou, O King! give me the Laurel!

_NUMBER VI._

[Though the following _Ossianade_ does not immediately come under the description of a _Probationary Ode_, yet as it appertains to the nomination of the _Laureat_, we cla.s.s it under the same head.

We must at the same time compliment Mr. _Macpherson_ for his spirited address to Lord Salisbury on the subject. The following is a copy of his letter:]

MY LORD,

I take the liberty to address myself immediately to your Lordship, in vindication of my poetical character, which, I am informed, is most illiberally attacked by the Foreign Gentleman, whom your Lordship has thought proper to select as an a.s.sessor on the present scrutiny for the office of Poet Laureat to his Majesty. Signor Delpini is certainly below my notice--but I understand his objections to my _Probationary Ode_ are two;--first, its conciseness; and next, its being in _prose_. For the present, I shall wave all discussion of these frivolous remarks; begging leave, however, to solicit your Lordship's protection to the following _Supplemental Ode_, which, I hope, both from its _quant.i.ty_ and its _style_, will most effectually do away the paltry, insidious attack of an uninformed reviler, who is equally ignorant of British Poetry and of British Language.

I have the honour to be, My Lord, Your Lordship's most obedient, and faithful servant, J. MACPHERSON.

THE SONG OF SCRUTINA,

_By_ MR. MACPHERSON.

Hark! 'Tis the dismal sound that echoes on thy roofs, O _Cornwall_; Hail! double-face sage! Thou worthy son of the chair-borne _Fletcher_!

The Great Council is met to fix the seats of the chosen Chief; their voices resound in the gloomy hall of Rufus, like the roaring winds of the cavern--Loud were the cries for _Rays_, but thy voice, O _Foxan_, rendered the walls like the torrent that gusheth from the Mountain-side. _Cornwall_ leaped from his throne and screamed--the friends of _Gwelfo_ hung their heads--How were the mighty fallen! Lift up thy face, _Dunda.s.so_, like the brazen shield of thy chieftain! Thou art bold to confront disgrace, and shame is unknown to thy brow--but tender is the youth of thy leader; who droopeth his head like a faded lily--leave not _Pitto_ in the day of defeat, when the Chiefs of the Counties fly from him like the herd from the galled Deer.--The friends of _Pitto_ are fled. He is alone--he layeth himself down in despair, and sleep knitteth up his brow.--Soft were his dreams on the green bench--Lo! the spirit of _Jenky_ arose, pale as the mist of the morn--twisted was his long lank form--his eyes winked as he whispered to the child in the cradle. Rise, he sayeth--arise bright babe of the dark closet! the shadow of the Throne shall cover thee, like wings of a hen, sweet chicken of the Back-stair brood! Heed not the Thanes of the Counties; they have fled from thee, like Cackling Geese from the hard-bitten Fox: but will they not rally and return to the charge? Let the host of the King be numbered; they are as the sands of the barren sh.o.r.e.--There Is _Powno_, who followeth his mighty leader, and chaceth the stall-fed stag all day on the dusty road.--There is _Howard_, great in arms, with the beaming star on his spreading breast.--Red is the scarf that waves over his ample shoulders--Gigantic are his strides on the terrace, in pursuit of the Royal footsteps of lofty _Georgio_.

No more will I number the flitting shades of Jenky; for behold the potent spirit of the black-browed _Jacko_.--'Tis the _Ratten Robinso_, who worketh the works of darkness! Hither I come, said _Ratten_--Like the mole of the earth, deep caverns have been my resting place; the ground _Rats_ are my food.--Secret minion of the Crown, raise thy soul! Droop not at the spirit of _Foxan_. Great are thy foes in the sight of the many-tongued war.--Shake not they knees, like the leaves of the Aspen on the misty hill--the doors of the stairs in the postern are locked; the voice of thy foes is as the wind, which whistleth through the vale; it pa.s.seth away like the swift cloud of the night.

The breath of _Gwelfo_ stilleth the stormy seas.----Whilst thou breathest the breath of his nostrils, thou shalt live for ever.

Firm standeth thy heel in the Hall of thy Lord. Mighty art thou in the sight of _Gwelfo_, ill.u.s.trious leader of the friends of _Gwelfo_!

great art thou, O lovely imp of the interior closet! O lovely Guardian of the Royal Junto!

NUMBER VII.

MR. MASON having laid aside the more n.o.ble subject for a Probationary Ode, viz. the Parliamentary Reform, upon finding that the Rev. Mr.

_Wyvil_ had already made a considerable progress in it, has adopted the following.--The argument is simple and interesting, adapted either to the harp of _Pindar_, or the reed of Theocritus_,_ and as proper for the 4th of June, as any day of the year.

It is almost needless to inform the public, that the University of Oxford has earnestly longed for a visit from their Sovereign, and, in order to obtain this honour without the fatigue of forms and ceremonies, they have privately desired the Master of the Staghounds, upon turning the stag out of the cart, to set his head in as straight a line as possible, by the map, towards Oxford:--which probably, on some auspicious day, will bring the Royal Hunt to the walls of that city. This expedient, conceived in so much wisdom, as well as loyalty, makes the subject of the following,

IRREGULAR ODE,

_By_ MR. MASON.

I.

O! green-rob'd G.o.ddess of the hallow'd shade, Daughter of Jove, to whom of yore Thee, lovely maid, _Latona_ bore, Chaste virgin, Empress of the silent glade!

Where shall I woo thee?--Ere the dawn, While still the dewy tissue of the lawn Quivering spangles to the eye, And fills the soul with Nature's harmony!

Or 'mid that murky grove's monastic night, The tangling net-work of the woodbine's gloom, Each zephyr pregnant with perfume---- Or near that delving dale, or mossy mountain's height, When _Neptune_ struck the scientific ground.

II.

From _Attica_'s deep-heaving side, Why did the prancing horse rebound, Snorting, neighing all around, With thund'ring feet and flashing eyes-- Unless to shew how near allied Bright science is to exercise!

III.

If then the _horse_ to wisdom is a friend, Why not the _hound_? why not the _horn_?

While low beneath the furrow sleeps the corn, Nor yet in tawny vests delight to bend!

For Jove himself decreed, That DIAN, with her sandal'd feet, White ankled G.o.ddess pure and fleet, Should with every Dryad lead, By jovial cry o'er distant plain, To _England_'s Athens, _Brunswick_'s sylvan train!

IV.

_Diana_, G.o.ddess all discerning!

_Hunting_ is a friend to learning!

If the stag, with hairy nose, In Autumn ne'er had thought of love!

No buck with swollen throat the does With dappled sides had tryed to move---- Ne'er had _England_'s King, I ween, The Muse's seat, fair _Oxford_, seen.

V.

Hunting, thus, is learning's friend!

No longer, Virgin G.o.ddess, bend O'er _Endymion_'s roseate breast;---- No longer, vine-like, chastly twine Round his milk-white limbs divine!---- Your brother's car rolls down the east-- The laughing hours bespeak the day!

With flowery wreaths they strew the way!

Kings of sleep! ye mortal race!

For _George_ with _Dian_ 'gins the Royal chace!

VI.

Visions of bliss, you tear my aching sight, Spare, O spare your poet's eyes!

See every gate-way trembles with delight, Streams of glory streak the skies: How each College sounds, With the cry of the hounds!

How _Peckwater_ merrily rings; Founders, Prelates, Queens, and Kings-- All have had your hunting-day!-- From the dark tomb then break away!

Ah! see they rush to _Friar Bacon_'s tower, Great _George_ to greet, and hail his natal hour!

VII.

_Radcliffe_ and _Wolsey_, hand in hand, Sweet gentle shades, there take their stand With _Pomfret_'s learned dame; And _Bodely_ join'd by Clarendon, With loyal zeal together run, Just arbiters of fame!

VIII.

That fringed cloud sure this way bends-- From it a form divine descends-- _Minerva_'s self;--and in her rear A thousand saddled steads appear!

On each she mounts a learned son, Professor, Chancellor, or Dean; All by hunting madness won, All in _Dian_'s livery seen.

How they despise the tim'rous _Hare_!

Give us, they cry, the furious _Bear_!

To chase the Lion, how they long, Th' _Rhinoceros_ tall, and _Tyger_ strong.

Hunting thus is learning's prop, Then may hunting never drop; And thus an hundred _Birth-Days_ more, Shall Heav'n to _George_ afford from its capacious sh.o.r.e.

_NUMBER VIII._

ODE,

_By_ THE ATTORNEY-GENERAL.