See NORFOLK last, with BEDFORD roll, He of Bacchus’ favours proud, The sovereign mob most eloquent addressed; But soon he spied the mirth-inspiring bowl, Whose ruby treasures charmed his soul the best; They would have thought who heard him speak, ’Twas Falstaff, with his minions at his back, High primed with valour, turbulence, and sack, Aping the monarch to a wondr’ing crowd. While BEDFORD proud his lesson to rehearse, With studious labours urged the bold reply: Shouts of applause ran rattling through the sky: And he, the hero of the day, Right glad their servile suffrage to repay, Shook golden bounty from his swelling purse. O, England! heav’n-defended land! With power to “threaten and command,” Say, is thy former spirit broke, To crouch beneath a foreign yoke, And listen to the idiot strains Of slaves thy better sense disdains, As erst, in many an ardent hour, You awed an adverse haughty power. Thy lofty mind, to Freedom true, May well retain what then it knew. Where is thy former patriot soul, Above deceit, above controul? Arise! as in that happier time United, fearless, bold, sublime. ’Tis said, and I believe the tale, Thy efforts then could more avail, Could more true happiness dispense, With Order, Morals, virtue, Sense, Than all that fires with party rage This boastful philosophic age. Arise! with manly zeal advance, To curb the lawless power of France; O, bid her mad endeavours cease, And give the willing nations PEACE! —_Fabricius._ [Illustration] THE PASSIONS. _An Ode for Music._ WILLIAM COLLINS. When Music, heavenly maid, was young, While yet in early Greece she sung, The Passions oft, to hear her shell, Throng’d around her magic cell, Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, Possess’d beyond the Muse’s painting; By turns they felt the glowing mind, Disturb’d, delighted, rais’d, refin’d, Till once, ’tis said, when all were fir’d, Fill’d with fury, rapt, inspir’d, From the supporting myrtles round They snatch’d her instruments of sound, And, as they oft had heard apart Sweet lessons of her forceful art, Each, for Madness ruled the hour, Would prove his own expressive power. First Fear, his hand, its skill to try, Amid the chords bewilder’d laid, And back recoil’d, he knew not why, Even at the sound himself had made.