_Lastly._ To my three brothers, Paul, Simon, and Dick, I leave my whole estate, as well real as personal (first paying the foregoing legacies) to be equally divided between them, share and share alike. And I do hereby make and constitute my said three brothers the Executors of this my LAST WILL; to see the same performed, according to its true intent and meaning, as far as in their power lies. PETER PORCUPINE. Witnesses present, Philo Fun, } Jack Jockus. } THE VISION OF LIBERTY. _Written in the manner of Spenser._ [As the virulent style of political writing prevalent ninety years ago is now but little known, the present edition of _The Poetry of the Anti-Jacobin_ seemed a convenient medium for giving some specimens of it which appeared in _The Anti-Jacobin Review and Magazine_, a work conducted on the same principles, but by different writers, and with the cognizance of the government. Two of them were by W. COBBETT, who, had he been less arrogant and contentious, and more consistent, would have been, in the words of Lord Dalling, “a very great man in the world; as it was he made a great noise in it”. (See pp. 311–319.) _The Vision of Liberty_ is by C. KIRKPATRICK SHARPE, an author and artist much esteemed by Scottish antiquarians, of which specimens only need be given. Of _The Anarchists_, the author is not known.] I. O wretched man, how long wilt thou refuse Thy Maker’s favour, and His mercy great? How long thy worldly happiness abuse, And growl and grumble at thy present state? Seeking accursed change both soon and late, And newest modes allured still to try— England, beware God’s wrath to aggravate, For foreign magic blinds thy charmed eye, And Liberty, sweet Liberty, is now the constant cry. II. As on my couch in slumber’s arms I lay, A vision did my senses entertain; Of late, me thought in France I miss’d my way, Amid a columnless deserted plain; No man or beast upon it did remain, Swept off by Discord’s wide destroying strife: Ne planted fence, ne field of waving grain, Marking the toiling farmer’s busy life, But ruined huts and castles, brent, were wondrous rife. III. Yet on this plain, most goodly to behold, Saw I a temple tow’ring to the sky, The dome where of was made of basest gold, Most false, but yet most lovely to the eye; And rotting pillars reareth it on high, Of ghastly human heads, and clotted gore, With dust, y’mixt the mortar doth supply, While foulest birds still round this temple soar, And filthy serpents hiss, and giant hyenas roar. IV.