Come, ye Bands inur'd to plunder,
Come, and find a narrow bed;
Vengeance soon shall point her thunder
On your Despot's guilty head.
Sure the ghost of many a Hero,
Wand'ring o'er the Syrian plains,
Murder'd by this modern Nero,

Of your faithless Chief complains.
Hear the bloody Foe declaring

Rome's fam'd motto now his own; Hear him vow, with front all daring,

Carthage must be overthrown.

Rise, ye Britons! every mother,

Spouses, Sisters, Daughters call:' Rise, each Husband, Father, Brother, Nor live to weep your Country's fall. Times.

THE SWISS EMIGRANT. FAREWELL, farewell, my native land, A long farewell to life and thee! On thy last rock I lingering stand,

Thy last rude rock how dear to me! Once more I view thy rallies fair,

But dimly view with tearful eye; Once more I breathe thy healthful air, But breathe it in how deep a sigh! Ye vales with downy verdure spread, Ye groves that drink the sparkling

stream,

As bursting from the mountain's head

Its foaming waves in silver gleam.

Ye lakes that catch the golden beam That floods with fire yon peak of

snow,

As evening vapours bluely steam

And stilly roll their volumes slow; Scenes, on this bursting heart impress'd

By ev'ry thrill of joy, of woe;
The bliss of childhood's vacant breast,

Of warmer youth's impassion'd
glow;

The tears by filial duty shed,

Upon the low, the peaceful tomb; Where sleep, too blest, the rev'rend dead,

Unconscious of their country's doom. Say! can Helvetia's patriot child, A wretched exile, bear to roam, Nor sink upon the lonely wild,

Nor die to leave his native home? His native home!--no home has he He scorns in the vile yoke to how, He scorns the land no longer free,

Alas-he has no country now! Ye snow-clad Alps whose nightly mound,

Great NATURE'S adamantine wall, In vain opposed your awful bound

To check the prone-descending Gaul. What Hunter now with daring leaps

Shall chase the Ibex o'er your rocks, Who clothe with vines your craggy steeps,

Who guard from wolves your rambling flocks?

While low the free-born sons of toil

Lie sunk amid the slaughter'd brave,. To freedom true, the stubborn soil

Shall pine, and starve the puny slave. Spoilers, who pour'd your rav'ning bands

To gorge on Latium's fertile plains, And fill'd your gold-rapacious hands From regal domes and sculptured

fanes,

What seek ye here? our niggard earth, Nor gold, nor sculptur'd trophies

owns;

Our wealth was peace, and guileless mirth,

Our trophies are our tyrants bones! Burst not my heart, as dimly swell

MORAT's proud glories on my view; Heroic scenes a long farewell,

I fly from madness and from you!
Be-

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
drew,

This heart must ever beat for thee,
In absence near-in misery true!

BRAVURA SONG. Written by Mr. CROSS of the Royal Circus, and sung in the Burletta Spectacle of John Bull and Bonaparte.

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
King George.

A Tyrant leads the impious horde,
The slaves! defeat's decreed 'em,

A King belov'd, a God ador'd!

We serve! our cause is freedom!

On children spoilt and naughty; So we a rod in pickle keep

For thee, oh! BONAPARTE. And tho' the Tree of Freedom die, Thy Laurels lose their hue, We have a Gard'ner to supply Enough of Rue for you.

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!

Ia

1

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 as of each blessing:

These from our hearths by force to tear (Which long we're learn'd to cherish)

Our frantic foes shall vainly dare;

We'll keep 'em, or we'll perishAnd 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 scyt
ythes 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;
And weep o'er those who uobly fell,

Their country's battle fighting-And ever thence our song shall be, "'Tis Valour leads to Victory.",

Anti-Jacabin.