Beyond the dread Atlantic deep, One gleam of comfort shines for me; There shall these bones untroubled sleep, And press the earth of Liberty. Wide, wide, that waste of waters rolls, And sadly smiles that distant land, Yet there I hail congenial Souls, And Freemen give the Brother's hand. COLUMBIA hear the Exile's prayer! To him thy fostering love impart, So shall he watch with patriot care, So guard thee with a filial heart. Yet O! forgive, with anguish fraught, If sometimes start th' unbidden tear, As tyrant Memory wakes the thought, Still, still, I am a stranger here." Thou vanquish'd land, once proud and free, Where first this fleeting breath I This heart must ever beat for thee, BRAVURA SONG. Written by Mr. CROSS of the Royal Circus, and sung in the Burletta Spectacle of John Bull and Bonaparte. THE British Lion's rous'd! his growl, Appals the sons of plunder, Biting the dust, with hideous howl, Their knells we'll knoll in thunder! With the dangers that threaten our efforts shall tally, Temerity's legions indignant we'll scourge, And while round the standard imperial we rally! Cry, God for us, for England, and A Tyrant leads the impious horde, A King belov'd, a God ador'd! Inflated with rage, from their ports let them sally, Temerity's legions indignant we'll scourge, And while round the standard imperial we rally, Cry, God for us, for England, and GARLAND FOR BONAPARTE. TO rear the Tree of Liberty In vain have Frenchmen tried, Unfit, ungenial, was the soil, Th' exotic droop'd and died. A Laurel next they thought upon, made For Bonaparte's head. To those who would this plant assail, He promises no quarter; But we may laugh his threat to scorn, His Laurels die in water. Grieve not, thou Corse, should fortune frown, Or leave thee in the lurch; Thy laurels here may be supply'd By wholesome British Birch. This plant is fraught with magic pow'r On children spoilt and naughty; So we a rod in pickle keep For thee, oh! BONAPARTE. And tho' the Tree of Freedom die, Morning Post. BRITONS STRIKE HOME. HARK! the devoted foe's afloat! Hark! 'twas the cannon's brazen throat, And the shrill clarion's piercing note, That struck mine ear! In Whilst ev'ry Briton's song shall be, "O give us Death--or Victory!" Long had this favour'd Isle enjoy’d True comforts, past expressing, When France her hellish arts employ'd To rob us of each blessing: These from our hearths by force to tear (Which long we've learn'd to cherish) Our frantic foes shall vainly dare; We'll keep 'em, or we'll perish― And ev'ry day our song shall be, O give us Death-or Victory!" Let France in savage accents sing Her bloody Revolution; We prize our Country, love our King, Adore our Constitution: For these we'll every danger face, And quit our rustic labours; Our ploughs to firelocks shall give place, Our scythes be chang'd to sabres. And clad in arms, our song shall be, "O give us Death-or Victory!" Soon shall the proud Invaders learn, When bent on Blood and Plunder, That British bosoms nobly burn, To brave their cannon's thunder: Low lie those heads, whose wily arts Have plann'd the World's undoing! Our 'vengeful blades shall reach those hearts Which seek our Country's ruin; And night and morn our song shall be, "O give us Death—or Victory!" When, with French blood our fields manur'd, The glorious struggle's ended, We'll sing the dangers we've endur'd, The blessings we've defended : O'er the full bowl our feats we'll tell, Each gallant deed reciting; Their country's battle fighting- ""Tis Valour leads to Victory." Anti-Jacabin. VOL. I. THE ANTI-GALLICAN. NUMBER V. ODE TO MY COUNTRY, Lightnings thwart the livid sky; Thron'd upon the winged storm, Drive, my sons, the storm amain! Where Piety and Order reign, And Freedom dares maintain her stand. Have you not sworn, by night and hell, These from the earth for ever to expell? Rush on, resistless, to your destin'd prey, Death and rapine point the way." Britons! stand firm! with stout and dauntless heart For your lov'd hearths and altars to engage, Turn the bright historic page! Have taught proud Gallia's bands to yield. Are not WE the sons of those Whose steel-clad sires pursued the insulting foes Kings in modest triumph led, Graced the SABLE VICTOR's arms; † The lion heart soft pity knows, To raise with soothing cares his prostrate foes; Nor shunn'd to succour the distrest. Spirit of great ELIZABETH! inspire High thoughts, high deeds, worthy our ancient fame : Kindled at Freedom's ever hallow'd flame; Baffled and scorn'd, the Iberian tyrant found, Arm'd with her people's love, the "Invincible" array.|| The BOLD USUR PER§ firmly held The sword, by splendid treasons gain'd; And Gallia's fiery genius quell'd, And Spain's presumptuous claims restrain'd: When lust of sway by flattery fed, To vent'rous deeds the youthful Monarch** led, Britain check'd his power and pride, To the great Batavian's name *+* Live in songs of grateful praise. Thy turrets, Blenheim, glittering to the sun, And ye fam'd Heroes, late retir'd to heaven, Avert your long-defended country's doom. Names embalm'd in honour's shrine, In breathing arts or pictur'd lays: O! tread with awe the sacred gloom ** Where Glory, on the trophied tomb Joys their merit to repeat; r-hand. There CHATHAM lies, whose master-] Guided, through seven bright years, the mighty band Her brand accurs'd when civil discord hurl'd, *+* Rodney his fortune-favour'd sails unfurl'd, And led three nation's chiefs to Thames's flood. Smiling in scorn he sees the glittering bands Heirs or partners of their toils, From the leagued nations won. On their high prows they proudly stand |