‘In happy hour _doth_ he receive The Laurel, meed of famous bards of _yore_, Which Dryden and diviner Spenser wore, _In happy hour_, and well may he rejoice, Whose earliest task _must be_ To raise the _exultant_ hymn for _victory_, And _join_ a nation’s _joy_ with harp and voice, Pouring the strain of triumph on the wind, Glory to God, his song—deliverance to mankind! Wake, lute and harp! &c. &c.’ Mr. Southey has not exactly followed the suggestion of an ingenious friend, to begin his poem with the appropriate allusion, ‘Awake, my sack-but!’ The following rhymes are the lamest we observed. He says, speaking of the conflict between the Moors and Spaniards, ‘Age after age, from sire to _son_, The hallowed sword was handed _down_; Nor did they from that warfare cease, And sheath that hallowed sword in peace, Until the work was _done_.’ Indeed, if Mr. S. can do no better than this, in his drawing-room verses, he should get some contributor to the Lady’s Magazine to polish them for him. We have turned over the Ode again, which extends to twenty pages, in the hope of finding some one vigorous or striking passage for selection, but in vain. The following is the most likely to please in a certain quarter:— ‘Open thy gates, O Hanover! display Thy loyal banners to the day! Receive thy old illustrious line once more! Beneath an upstart’s yoke oppress’d, Long has it been thy fortune to deplore That line, whose fostering and paternal sway So many an age thy grateful children blest. The yoke is broken now!—a mightier hand Hath dash’d—in pieces dash’d—the iron rod. To meet her princes, the delivered land Pours her rejoicing multitudes abroad; The happy bells, from every town and tower, Roll their glad peals upon the joyful wind; And from all hearts and tongues, with one consent, The high thanksgiving strain is sent— Glory to God! Deliverance to mankind!’ In various stanzas, Bonaparte is called an upstart, a ruffian, &c. We confess, we wish to see Mr. Southey, like Virgil, in his Georgics, ‘scatter his dung with a grace.’ We do not intend to quarrel with our Laureat’s poetical politics, but the conclusion is one which we did not anticipate from the author. We have always understood that the Muses were the daughters of Memory! ‘And France, _restored_ and shaking off her chain, Shall join the Avengers in the joyful strain— Glory to God! Deliverance for mankind!’