Still like a Bur she clings and sticks; To Russia tho she grins and kicks, Holds by the fur, which yet may fail, For bears, alas, have got no tail.

HOLLAND.

Let Mynheer Vanderschoffeldt flout, And swear and rave for sour krout; Nay kick his frow with solemn phiz, To make her feel how goot it ish.

Yet after he has gorg'd his maw With puttermilks and goot olt slaw, Let him remember times are such, The French have Holland, not the Dutch.

GERMANY.

With roaring blunderbuss and thunder All Germany is torn asunder; How num'rous circles near and far Encircl'd in the arms of war; Her Hessian bullies one and all, Pay homage to the spurious Gaul; And John Bull's farm, a goodly station, Makes soup to please the Gallic nation.

_Norfolk Repos._, II-232, May 26, 1807, Dedham, Ma.s.s.

ON THE BATTLE OF HOHENLINDEN.

By T. CAMPBELL.

_Weekly Inspector_, II-272, June 20, 1807, N. Y.

[Thomas Campbell, _idem_.

Battle of Hohenlinden, Bavaria, was fought Dec. 3, 1800, between the Austrians under Archduke John and the French under General Moreau.]

THE SORROWS OF SWITZERLAND.

Helvetian vales! Where freedom fix'd her sway; And all the social virtues lov'd to stray; Soft blissful seats of undisturb'd repose, Rever'd for ages by contending foes, What envious demon, ranging to destroy, Has marr'd your sports, and clos'd your song of joy?

What horrid yells the affrighted ear a.s.sail!

What screams of terror load the pa.s.sing gale!

See ruffian hordes, with tiger rage advance, The shame of manhood, and the boast of France!

See trampled, crush'd and torn in l.u.s.tful strife The loathing virgin and indignant wife!

While wanton carnage sweeps each crowded wood, And all the mountain torrents swell with blood!

Lo! Where yon cliff projects its length of shade O'er fields of death, a wounded chief is laid!

Around the desolated scene he throws A look, that speaks insufferable woes: Then starting from his trance of dumb despair, Thus vents his anguish to the fleeting air: "Dear native hills, amidst whose woodland maze, I pa.s.s'd the tranquil morning of my days, On whose green tops malignant planets scowl, Where h.e.l.l hounds ravage, and the furies howl; Though chang'd, deform'd, still, still ye meet my view, Ye still are left to hear my last adieu!

My friends, my children, gor'd with many a wound, Whose mangled bodies strew the ensanguin'd ground, To parch and stiffen in the blaze of day, Consign'd to vultures, and to wolves a prey, Your toils are past; no more ye wake to feel l.u.s.t's savage gripe, or rapine's reeking steel!

And Thou, to whom my wedded faith was given, On earth my solace, and my hope in heaven, Approv'd in manhood, as in youth ador'd, Belov'd while living, as in death deplor'd, O stay thy flight! Around this dreary sh.o.r.e A moment hover, and we part no more-- On thy poor corpse, thy bleeding husband hangs, Counts all thy wounds, and feels thy ling'ring pangs-- O righteous fathers! Thou whose fostering care Sustains creation, hear my dying prayer!

Look down, look down on this devoted land, O'er my poor country stretch thy saving hand!

O let the blood that streaming to the skies, Still flows in torrents--let that blood suffice!

To thee the dreadful recompense belongs-- To thy just vengeance I consign my wrongs; O vindicate the rights of nation's sway, And sweep the monsters from the blushing day!"

_Weekly Inspector_, II-288, June 27, 1807, N. Y.

POETRY.

Original.

Gentlemen,

It has been remarked, that the poetick department of the Anthology abounds rather in selected than original productions; whether this be the result of choice or necessity, the following lines will not be considered inapplicable since they partake the nature of both characters, and hence, if in other respects worthy to appear, it is presumed they will not be rejected.

FROM THE RUNIC.

'The power of Musick is thus hyperbolically commemorated in one of the songs of the Runic Bards.'[45]

I know a Song, by which I soften and enchant the arms of my enemies, and render their weapons of no effect.

I know a Song, which I need only to sing when men have loaded me with bonds, for the moment I sing it, my chains fall in pieces, and I walk forth at liberty.

I know a Song, useful to all mankind, for as soon as hatred inflames the sons of men, the moment I sing it they are appeased.

I know a Song of such virtue, that were I caught in a storm, I can hush the winds and render the air perfectly calm.

_Mo. Anthology_, IV-602, Nov. 1807, Boston.

[Footnote 45: See G.o.dwin's _Life of Chaucer_.]

THE SONG OF A RUNIC BARD.

Imitated in English verse.

I.

I know a Song, the magick of whose power Can save the Warrior in destruction's hour; From the fierce foe his falling vengeance charm, And wrest the weapon from his nervous arm.

II.

I know a Song, which, when in bonds I lay, Broke from the grinding chain its links away.

While the sweet notes their swelling numbers rolled, Back flew the bolts, the trembling gates unfold; Free as the breeze the elastic limbs advance, Course the far field, or braid the enlivening dance.

III.

I know a Song, to mend the heart design'd, Quenching the fiery pa.s.sions of mankind; When lurking hate and deadly rage combine, To charm the serpent of revenge is mine; By heavenly verse the furious deed restrain, And bid the lost affections live again.

IV.

I know a Song, which when the wild winds blow To bend the monarchs of the forests low, If to the lay my warbling voice incline, Waking its various tones with skill divine, Hush'd are the gales, the spirit of the storm Calms his bleak breath, and smooths his furrow'd form, The day look up, the dripping hills serene Through the faint clouds exalt their sparkling green.

CAMBRIA.

_Mo. Anthology_, IV-602, Nov. 1807, Boston.

THE SQUEAKING GHOST.

A tale imitated from the German, according to the true and genuine principles of the horrifick.