At thy name, though Compaffion her nature refign, Though in Virtue's proud mouth thy report be a stain, My care, if the arm of the mighty were mine,

Would plant thee where yet thou might'st bloffom again. Vain with! Yet misdeem not that vainly I grieve

When Vengeance has quitted her grafp on thy frame, My pity thy children and wife shall reprieve

From the dangers that wait round the dwelling of fhame, MORTIMER.

THE CELL OF THE ATHEIST.

[From the fame.]

N the worst den of human mifery,

IN

Behold the hopeless and forfaken wretch,
Who on the humid pavement naked lies,
Tearing his burning fiefh! Then afk thy heart,
O little greatnefs! and let Nature's voice,
Piercing the adamantine fhield of Pride,
Tell thee, thy victim is thy fellow, man!
Once Nature's darling, now a maniac wild!
His intellectual treasures fcatter'd wide,
By Perfecution's ftrong and ruthless arm,
While he, an atom, fhrinking from the storm,
Flies to an unblefs'd grave! Was it for this
His youth was pass'd in toil-in mental toil—
The hardeft labour? Did the claffic fount,
Such as Athenian fages taught to flow,
For him diffuse its renovated streams,
The Mufes bind his brow, the Virtues grace
His bland, instinctive mind, to bow the flave
Of barb'rous Ignorance? Did Fancy smile,
And bid his fingers fmite th' Horatian lyre,
His pulfes throb with the fine fervour ftrong,
His depth of thought explore the wondrous page
Which made Longinus live, himself to die
Unbleft, neglected, indigent, and mad?
Did he, for this, with Newton climb the stars,

And traverse worlds unknown? Or did the thrill

Of heav'n-born Poefy through ev'ry vein

06

Dart

Dart the electric fire, whofe vivid glow
Illum'd the darken'd fenfe of Britain's bard*
With full Promethean blaze, while at his touch
Immortal themes, imbodied, burst to view,
Angels, and all the mighty hofts of Heav'n,
Rang'd in tremendous glory?-Pow'r Supreme!
Where is thy juftice? Victims fuch as thefe
Make reafon ftagger; roufe the thinking foul;
And, in the frenzied agony of wrongs,
Prefent fuch fceptical and daring thoughts,
That man difowns his Maker! Guilty Pride,
The crime is thine, not his; thy lofty rage,
Infulting tyranny, and cold difdain,

Pour'd fell oppreffion's torrent o'er his fenfe,
Madden'd his shrinking brain, and whelm'd his foul!

TE

ODE TO SUPERSTITION.

[From the Morning Chronicle.]

ERRIFIC fiend, thon monfter fell,
Why leave thy fitteft manfion-hell?
Thou tyrant of the heart,

Thy vifionary fpells can bind

The ftrongeft paffions of the mind,

And raise each lovely thought which Virtue can impart !

Soon as thy fatal birth was known,
Uprifing from his venom'd throne,
The fiend pale Error fprung:
Thy hideous form the Sorc'rer prest
With kindred fondness to his breast,

While through th' infernal fhades exulting clamours rung!

When thy ufurping fangs affail,

The facred bonds of Nature fail-
Affection fues in vain ;

The frantic fuff'rer fpurns relief,
Feeds on the luxury of grief,

At thy command exults, and triumphs in his pain!

Milton.

Thy

Thy favage voice mankind obey!-
The untam'd Indian owns thy fway;
His limbs, with gore imbued,

Are mangled with the pointed blade!
In vain kind Pity leuds her aid,

And groaning Nature mourns, and weeps with tears of blood!

The mother bends with hagard eye,
And fcarcely deigns to heave a figh
Before the flame's bright blaze;

Thy dead'ning touch has fteel'd her breaft,
And, in her fatal error bleft,

Of her dear babe fhe views, unmov'd, the parting gaze!

Ah! hapless parent, gaze no more —

His tranfitory scene is o'er,

The gufhing life-blood flows;

For, loft amid the rolling fires,

Thine agonizing child expires,

While Superftition fmiles, and mocks the mother's throes!

IGNOTOS.

THE POPE AND THE PONEY.

A LAMENTABLE, YET TRUE STORY.

MR. EDITOR,

[From the fame.]

THE Abbé Barruel, from whom we derive all our religion, and who has taught us to be reconciled to Popery, and make an honest woman of the We of Babylon, has collected together fo many causes for the late revolutions in Europe, that it would be a cruel infult to the patience of the public to affign one more, were it not that that one happens to be worth all the reft. The Abbé talks big of Plots and Conspiracies, Philofophers, Illuminators, and every fpecies of intrigue tending to overthrow the Holy See; but his reverend Worship is quite mistaken—

It was all done by a poney; and I'll tell you the story:

It was the custom on the eve of the day of St. Peter and St. Paul, to prefent a white poney in great pomp to the Pope, which was the homage the King of Naples paid to the See of Rome. The late Pius had received the poney in due form for his firft two years. In 1777 the poney came with these words: "As a teftimony only of the devotion of the Court of Naples to St. Peter and St. Paul;" just as if dead Saints were to be mounted on white ponies. But the Pope, not willing to lofe the compliment, replied; " We accept the poney as a feudal homage of the Crown of Naples."

Well, Sir, the next year the poney appeared with the fame words; and with great difficulty the Court of Naples was induced to fend another in the year 1780. Great reforms were now in agitation; but a reconciliation was adjusted between the two parties. The poney was fent in 1781, and the mendicant friars were reduced from 16,000 to 2800. Did you ever know fuch a poney?

Every year in the fame manner the poney was the fubject of renewed alarm: the Court of Naples continued the fuppreffion of monafteries, and (what every true Anti-jacobin must regret) destroyed the Inquifition! ftill the poney trotted to Rome till the year 1788. In that year no poney appeared; and none has appeared fince.

Now, Mr. Editor, did you ever hear a prettier story of a poney? I dare fay the plot-stitching Abbé knew all this very well; but he did not choose to tell us that the decline of the Holy See was more owing to the withholding of Neapolitan ponies than the propagation of French principles. Ye Voltaires, D'Alemberts, Diderots, hide your diminished heads; or, if you dare to look up, look at your four-footed ally in the

anti

anti-christian confpiracy, that does more than all of you put together.

But let us hope for better times for the restoration of all things-of Popes and of ponies: of Popes to whom homage is paid by ponies, and of Kings who will not refuse to prop the Holy See by a poney, even if they should have the trouble of fending to Shetland for it.

I am Sir, yours,

AN ANTI-JACOBIN.

THE OLD HOUSE.

[From the fame.]

I

MR. EDITOR,

WILL make my ftory as fhort as poffible. I am a furveyor or builder, and live near Pimlico. Some days ago a perfon whom I did not know called upon me, and told me he had a job which he wished me to execute. As there is nothing that we furveyors like better than a good job, I handed him one of my best chairs, and stirred the fire up into a comfortable blaze.

"The fact is, Sir," fays he, "about ten years ago there was a great riot in that part of the country where I live, about the price of corn and fo forth; and, although at the time I had really very little concern with that article, I could not prevent a mob from rifing and destroying my house. It fo happened, that, when I wished to take poffeffion, a dispute was started about the title-deeds, which, although the eftate had been in our family for many years, had never been properly examined, and I coming to it by my grandfather's death, thought myself fecure enough till the above affair happened. However, Sir, to make my story as fhort as poffible, I have now a clear prospect

of