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Scarce 'scaped with life, proscribed, deserted, poor,
Unfriended exiles on a foreign shore,
Did he not basely from his purse supply
Those dogs, nor leave them in the streets to die?
Patience would fail, a Hessian's heart would swell,
Ere half the devilish tricks my pen could tell,
The arts, the cheats, the perjuries and plots,
Conspiracies, and murders, and what nots,
Accomplish'd by that powerful band of strife-
By prisoner Louis and his prisoner wife :
For since the tribe of murderers first began,
To make their inroads on the life of man,
Full well they knew no artifice or flood,
Can hide the guilt, or wash the stain of blood.

O cursed thirst of absolute controul,
The youngest offspring of Hell's fiery hole!
Sworn friend to tyrants, emperors and kings,
Thy smiles coquettish are most dangerous things.
By thee betray'd we lose the narrow way,
From virtue swerve, and far from duty stray,
And like Dupont, the pious, brave, and good,
Hurl bold defiance to the arm of God,
His altars raze, his holy temples burn,
And hold Religion up to public scorn.
For nought the sacred Majesty can please,
But what conduces to his creatures' ease;
And France has proved, that what mankind abhor,
Fire, murder, rapine, Jacobins and war,
Are far more useful, than that truth and peace,
Should bid the jarring world from slaughter cease.

N

By laws promulged upon this novel plan,
These heroes fought t'assert the rights of man-
By laws like these the royal Louis tried,
And villains batten'd while their sovereign died.

'Tis said by some that since the great Navarre,
That pride of peace, that soul and strength of war,
France has not seen a king so mild and good
As the last Louis-yet they've shed his blood
Granted—but then pray what does all this prove ?
Are they at all events obliged a king to love ?
Must they who've nobly burst through every tie,
And bravely dared each sacred law defy,
Drench'd Paris' streets with waves of human blood,
Spuru’d at religion and blasphem'd their God
Shall souls like these at length be forced t’ obey,
And basely crouch beneath a mortal's sway?
No-France, like Titan's sons, shall boldly rise,
And claim equality in yonder skies.
Suppose a hundred rogues grown old in evil,
And all, but one poor scoundrel, beat the devil-
Must we that sneaking fellow love?-no, no,
Send him to hell and let him better grow.
Besides beyond a doubt this Louis knew
Where the Bastile, that human stable, grew;
Why did he not that dreadful place destroy,
Where chains and famine murdered human joy,
Where many an honest man has wasted life,
Torn from his bed, his children and his wife,
While power's stern voice has bade him rise, be gone,
With scarcely time to pull his breeches on?

In short I think 'tis proved, as clear as lead,
That Louis Capet ought to lose his head.
And that upon his neck, for ours unfit,
The crown of martyrdom will nicely sit.
And let calumniators recollect,
That 'tis a greater mark of true respect,
That a mild king, for reasons wise and good,
Should thus be tapp'd and lose a little blood,
Than vile Egalite, that monster fell,
That scourge cf man, that inmate fit of hell,
That prince of robbers and his equal clan
Should bid him off at four pence to a man.*

* The Echo acknowledges that there is a subl'me obscurity in this part of the text, which it is difficult to comprehend, but in responding it literally its beauties will at least be faithfully transmitted to the public ear. Portrait of Philip Egalite, ci-devant Duke of Orleans, taken from a Lon

“The life of this man has been the scandal of his age. A swin. dler and debauchee, in early youth he corrupted and destroyed his brotherin-law the Prince de Lambelle, and afterwards accused and caused to be assassinated the Princess his wife, whom he had before contrived to plunder of the greatest part of her fortune. He carries in his bosom the pestilential germ of corruption, and after dishonouring his own bed he dishonours that of another, and blasts what little remains of the family of the celebrated Buffon, whose daughter he made the instrument of his debauchery. In his attempt to build the Palais Roval he plurged thousands of families into ruin, who had entrusted him with their property, by a fraudulent bankruptcy, which he committed with the most cynical impudence. His treasures and his fortune have been employed to pay the crimes of the tenth of August, second of September, the fifth of October and the twenty-first of January. Thus has heaven been lavish of its favours only to render vice more conspi.

He was educated in dignity, that his villainy might be more prom. inent ; he was rich and powerful only that his vices might be more numerous and despised; he was stationesl near the throne only to overturn it with more public disgrace, and thus offer a terrible lesson to nations and to kings.-His friends and his agents were homogeneal with himself. La Clos, the author of Les Liaisons Dangereuses, Sillery de Genlis, a man the most

don paper.

cuous.

And let each heir of this auspicious land, Where infant FREEDOM led her daring band, With grateful bosoms call to mind the hour, When generous Louis raised an arm of power, Stretch'd forth his hand a sinking world to save, And snatch'd its honours from an early grave. deeply depraved of any of the present age, figured in his councils in conjunction with that execrable and atheistical priest, who at the end of the eigh. teenth century disgraces the name of Perigord. To these we may add that villain La Touche, and Biron, enlarged from an English prison, to appear at the head of the armies of the revolution. Such were the colleagues of Phi. lip Egalite: such were his coadjutors in that series of guilt which wanted nothing to its completion but calling in to his assistance the butcher Le Gendre, Robespierre, the nephew of Damiens, and the malefactors of every eountry. Such were his secretaries, his directors, his chancellors, his familiars and his bosom friends."

By thee accused, &c. The following beautiful and pathetic lines upon the unfortunate Princess de Lambelle, who was barbarously murdered by a ferocious populace on the memorable second of September, 1792, are extracted from the New-Years' Verses for the American Mercury for 1793, and are the production of a much regretted friend, as estimable for the virtues of his heart, as distinguished for his literary talents, who in the fatal fever of 1798 in New York, fell a victim to his active benevolence in the exercise of his professional duties, and his humane attention to an unfortunate foreigner of distinguished literary acquirements. Some passages in a few of the earlier Echoes were likewise furnished by the same hand.

“ Rage, Rapine, Horror stalk around ;
The palace thunders to the ground;
Babes, parents, patriots glut the grave;
Nor could imperial beauty save
Thy form where long she joy'd to dwell,
Loved, lost, unfortunate Lambelle !"

ECHO.....NO. XIII.

THE text of this Echo was a publication under the signature of “ MIRABEAU," which appeared in one of the Pliladelphia papers in the spring of 1793. This was a virulent attack on the Federal Printers in the Eastern States, particularly those of Hartford, and contained many illiberal general reflections. The Echo itself was nearly completed when some circumstances induced the authors to lay it aside, and it was never after resumed. As specimens of the manner in which it was written the following passages are given; the first being an Echo of the writer's attack on New-England, and the second the portrait of a conspicuous public character in our national councils.

WELL may the name of sycophant agree
With all opposed in sentiment to me;
And chief New England's sons deserve that name,
Those foes of primal right and native claim,
Who think that sober government should bind
In vile restraint the passions of mankind,
And that e'en legal justice has a claim
On those inspired with Freedom's holy fiame.

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