Ye hills fall prostrate, and ye vales arise!
Through faction's wilderness prepare the way;
Prepare, ye listening senates, to obey;
The idol of the mob, behold him stand,
The alpha and omega of the land!

Methinks I hear the bellowing demagogue
Dumb-sounding declamations disembogue;
Expressions of immeasurable length,

Where pompous jargon fills the place of strength;
Where fulminating, rumbling eloquence,

With loud theatric rage, bombards the sense;
And words, deep rank'd in horrible array

Exasperated metaphors convey.

With these auxiliaries, drawn up at large,

He bids enraged sedition beat the charge;
From England's sanguine hope his aid withdraws,
And lists to guide in Insurrection's cause.
And lo! where, in her sacrilegious hand,
The parricide lifts high her burning brand:
Go, while she yet suspends her impious aim,
With those infernal lungs arouse the flame!
Though England merits not her least regard,
Thy friendly voice gold boxes shall reward.
Arise, embark, prepare thy martial car,
To lead her armies and provoke the war!

Rebellion wakes, impatient of delay,

The signal her black ensigns to display.*

To thee, whose soul, all steadfast and serene,
Beholds the tumults that distract our scene,

And, in the calmer seats of wisdom placed,
Enjoys the sweets of sentiment and taste;
To thee, O Marius! whom no factions sway,
The impartial Muse devotes her honest lay.

Luca Pitt continued at Florence, presuming upon his late alliance, and the promises which Pietro had made him. . . . But amongst all the changes that ensued upon this revolution, nothing was more remarkable than the case of Luca Pitt, who soon began to experience the difference betwixt prosperity and adversity, betwixt living in authority and falling into disgrace. His house, which used to be crowded with swarms of followers and dependants, was now as unfrequented as a desert; and his friends and relations were not only afraid of being seen with him, but durst not even salute him if they met him in the street; some of them having been deprived of their honours, others of their estates, and all of them threatened.

The magnificent palaces which he had begun to build were abandoned by the workmen; the services he had formerly done to any one were requited with injuries and abuse; and the nonours he had conferred, with infamy and taunts. Many who had made him valuable presents, now came to demand them again, as only lent; and others, who before used to flatter and extol him to the skies, in these circumstances, loaded him with contumely, and reproaches of ingratitude and violence; so that he heartily repented, though too late, that he had not followed Nicolo Soderini's advice, and preferred an honourable death to a ife of ignominy and contempt.-Mach. Hist. Flor.

In her fond breast no prostituted aim,

Nor venal hope, assumes fair friendship's name.
Sooner shall Churchill's feeble meteor-ray,
That led our foundering demagogue astray,

Darkling to grope and flounce in error's night,
Eclipse great Mansfield's strong meridian light,
Than shall the change of fortune, time, or place,
Thy generous friendship in my heart efface!
O! whether wandering from thy country far,
And plunged amid the murdering scenes of war;
Or in the blest retreat of virtue laid,

Where contemplation spreads her awful shade;
If ever to forget thee I have power,

May Heaven desert me at my latest hour!
Still satire bids my bosom beat to arms,

And throb with irresistible alarms.

Like some full river charged with falling showers, Still o'er my breast her swelling deluge pours.

But rest and silence now, who wait beside,

With their strong flood-gates bar the impetuous tide.

A POEM

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS
FREDERIC PRINCE OF WALES.

FROM the big horror of war's hoarse alarms,
And the tremendous clang of clashing arms,
Descend, my Muse! a deeper scene to draw
(A scene will hold the listening world in awe)*
Is my intent: Melpomene inspire,

While, with sad notes, I strike the trembling lyre!
And may my lines with easy motion flow,

Melt as they move, and fill each heart with woe;
Big with the sorrow it describes, my song,
In solemn pomp, majestic, move along.
O bear me to some awful silent glade
Where cedars form an unremitting shade;
Where never track of human feet was known;
Where never cheerful light of Phoebus shone;
Where chirping linnets warble tales of love,

By awe, here, is meant attention.

And hoarser winds howl murmuring through the grove Where some unhappy wretch aye mourns his doom, Deep melancholy wandering through the gloom; Where solitude and meditation roam,

And where no dawning glimpse of hope can come.
Place me in such an unfrequented shade,

To speak to none but with the mighty dead;
To assist the pouring rains with brimful eyes,
And aid hoarse howling Boreas with my sighs.
When winter's horrors left Britannia's isle,
And spring in blooming verdure 'gan to smile;
When rills, unbound, began to purl along,
And warbling larks renew'd the vernal song;
When sprouting roses, deck'd in crimson dye,
Began to bloom, .

Hard fate! then, noble Frederic, didst thou die:
Doom'd by inexorable fate's decree,

The approaching summer ne'er on earth to see;
In thy parch'd vitals burning fevers rage,
Whose flame the virtue of no herbs assuage;
No cooling medicine can its heat allay,
Relentless destiny cries, "No delay."

Ye powers, and must a prince so noble die.
Whose equal breathes not under the ambient sky?
Ah! must he die, then, in youth's full-blown prime,
Cut by the scythe of all-devouring time?