The _Jacobin_ poet rejects all restriction in his feelings. _His_ love is enlarged and expanded so as to comprehend all human kind. The love of all human kind is without doubt a noble passion: it can hardly be necessary to mention that its operation extends to _freemen_, and them only, all over the world. The old poet was a warrior, at least in imagination; and sung the actions of the heroes of his country in strains which “made Ambition Virtue,” and which overwhelmed the horrors of war in its glory. The _Jacobin_ poet would have no objection to sing battles too—but _he_ would take a distinction. The prowess of Buonaparte, indeed, he might chant in his loftiest strain of exultation. _There_ we should find nothing but trophies and triumphs and branches of laurel and olive, phalanxes of Republicans shouting victory, satellites of despotism biting the ground, and geniuses of Liberty planting standards on mountain-tops. But let his own country triumph, or her allies obtain an advantage: straightway the “beauteous face of war” is changed; the “pride, pomp, and circumstance” of victory are kept carefully out of sight, and we are presented with nothing but contusions and amputations, plundered peasants, and deserted looms. Our poet points the thunder of his blank verse at the head of the recruiting serjeant, or roars in dithyrambics against the lieutenants of pressgangs. But it would be endless to chase the coy Muse of _Jacobinism_ through all her characters. _Mille habet ornatus._ The _Mille decenter habet_ is perhaps more questionable. For in whatever disguise she appears, whether of mirth or of melancholy, of piety or of tenderness; under all disguises, like _Sir John Brute_ in woman’s clothes, she is betrayed by her drunken swagger and ruffian tone. In the poem which we have selected for the edification of our readers and our own imitation this day, the principles which are meant to be inculcated speak so plainly for themselves, that they need no previous introduction. INSCRIPTION[8] _For the Apartment in Chepstow Castle, where Henry Marten, the Regicide, was imprisoned thirty years._