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What can rival the sweets which our gardens
disclose, The lilac, syringa, the jasmine and rose ? Wherever, &c.
4 Some countries may boast, which are nearer the
line, The ample, the fragrant, the brisk tasted pine, The orange and citron afford their sweet juice, But fine are the fruits which our gardens
produce; With those may the gage, and the pippin
compare, The strawberry, the cherry, the peach or the
pear, Wherever, &c.
5 Tho' France boast the joys of her brisk spark
ling wines, And Italy, Portugal, Spain their rich vines, Tho' Madeira be fam'd for its high-flavour'd
grape, And we traffic afar for the too-luscious cape: Yet Britain can boast what her malt can produce, The currant’s and gooseberry's gay sparkling
juice : Wherever, &c.
Thy sheep and thy kine o'er thy pastures that
graze, Each fowl o'er thy fields, or thy homestalls
that strays, Each fish in thy rivers that wantonly glides, Or those yearly brought to thy shores by the
These all for delight and advantage are giv'n, Show'r'd down by the bounty of all-forming
Ileav'n. Wherever, &c.
Where else is mankind in more civiliz'd state,
Then, Britain! reflect with the fondest concern The duties demanded from thee in return; With blessings thus gifted, acknowledge the hand That still hath protected thy high-favour'd land;
Be religion and morals thy first-ONLY care, And Heav'n's high protection thou ever wilt
share : Then thy sons and thy prospects will still wear
one smile, O Britain, my country, my dear native Isle.
Tune: The Race Horse. By Dibdin.
Exulting in strength, how majestic's the Horse, His neck cloth'd with thunder, he gallops his
course; His nostrils a glory tremendously shew, In the valley he paweth, unmoy'd meets the foe; With fierceness and rage how he swalloweth the
ground, Ha! Ha! Hark he saith, while the hoarse trum
In the battle, in thunder, i'th shout he gains force, How noble in nature, resistless the Horse !*
2 He, train'd to the road, draws the carriage along, Is true to his work ’mid the hubbub and throng, You would scarce think that aught hung be
hind at his heels, So swift, you discern not the spukes of the
* Job xxxix. 19–25. See a Criticism on this passage in The Guardian, No. 86.
Contrary to the opinion of a poetical Friend, I have ventured to retain the Sacred Writer's image of the horse's neck “ clothed with thunder.” He suggested that the present idea of thunder is merely that of the noise which follows the flash of lightoing. But the original idea of thunder includes cither the one, or the other, or both. We have the following definition in Johnson :
1. “ Thunder is a most bright flame rising on a sudden, moving with great violence, and with a very rapid velocity, through the air, according to any atermination, upwards from the earth, borizontally, obliqueiy, downwards in a right line, or in several right lines, as it were in serpentine tracts, joined at various angles and commonly ending with a loud noise or rattling."
2. “ In popular and poetic language, thunder is commonly the noise, and lightning the flash ; though thunder is sometimes taken for both.”
The comparing the full, long, curled and flowing mane of a borse, with the light glancing upon it, to thunder, “ Hast thou given the horse strength ? hast thou clothed his neck with thunder ?" appears to me to be an image peculiarly appropriate and sublime,
Now, led, meek and mild, whence he stood, at
the rack, See, saddled, his master mounts feebly his back, With health waning fast to his aid hath recourse, Both a friend and physician he owns in bis Horse.
Behold the heap'd waggon pull'd thro' the deep
road, He takes the hard collar, and tugs on his load, From morning to night, from the night to the
morn, With short seasons of rest is the hard burden
Or view him again, with firm pace, drag the
plow, Or drawing the Harvest Home quick to the
mow, O long might one make him a theme of dis
course, How noble! How useful! the tractable Horse !
Ah why do we then oft behold him abus'd,
with pain, Ah! fatal mistake! to hope thus to make gain!