’Tis THINE a subtler mischief to pursue, And drag a deeper, darker, plot to view; Whate’er its form, still ready to engage, Detect its malice, or resist its rage; Whether it whispers low, or raves aloud, In sneers profane, or blasphemies avow’d;[118] Insults its King, reviles its Country’s cause, And, ’scaped from Justice, braves the lenient Laws: Whate’er the hand in desperate faction bold, By native hate inspired, or foreign gold; Traitors absolved, and libellers released, The recreant Peer, or renegado Priest;[119] The _Sovereign-people’s_ cringing, crafty slave, The dashing fool, and instigating knave, Each claims thy care; nor think the labour vain— VERMIN HAVE SUNK THE SHIP THAT RULED THE MAIN. ’Tis THINE, with Truth’s fair shield to ward the blow, And turn the weapon back upon the foe: To trace the skulking fraud, the candid cheat, That can retract the falsehood, yet repeat; To wake the listless, slumb’ring as they lie, Lapt in th’ embrace of soft security; To rouse the cold, re-animate the brave, And shew the cautious all they have to save. Erect that standard ALFRED first unfurl’d, Britain’s just pride, the wonder of the world; Whose staff is Freedom’s spear, whose blazon’d field Beams with the CHRISTIAN CROSS, the REGAL SHIELD; That standard which the PATRIOT BARONS bore, Restored, from RUNIMEDE’S resounding shore; Which since consign’d to WILLIAM’S guardian hand, Waved in new splendour o’er a grateful land; Which oft in vain by force or fraud assail’d, Has stood the shock of ages—and prevail’d. Yes! the BRIGHT SUN OF BRITAIN yet shall shine— The clouds are earth-born, but his fire divine; That temperate splendour, and that genial heat, Shall still illume, and cherish Empire’s Seat; While the red Meteor, whose portentous glare Shot plagues infectious through the troubled air; Admired, or fear’d no more, shall melt away, Lost in the radiance of HIS BRIGHTER DAY! [Illustration: '_DESIGN] LINES. _Written under the Bust of Charles Fox at the Crown and Anchor._ I’ll not sell Uncle NOLL, Charles Surface cries;— I’ll not sell CHARLEY FOX, John Bull replies: Sell him, indeed! who’ll find me such another?— Fox is above all price; so hold your pother. _Morning Post, Feb. 6._ To make our readers some amends for this miserable doggrel, we will present them, in our turn, with some lines written _under a bust_, NOT _at the Crown and Anchor_, by an ENGLISH TRAVELLER just returned from Petersburgh. We believe they are more just; we are certain they are more poetical.