O! when will princes learn to copy thee,
And leave mankind, as Heaven ordain'd them, free!

Haste, mighty chief, our injur'd rights restore,
Quick spread thy sails for Albion's longing shore!
Haste, mighty chief, ere millions groan enslav'd;
And add three realms to one already sav'd!
While Freedom lives, thy memory shall be dear,
And reap fresh honours each returning year;
Nations preserved shall yield immortal fame,
And endless ages bless thy glorious name!

Then shall my Ca'ndish, foremost in the field,
By justice arm'd, his sword conspicuous wield;
While willing legions crowd around his car,
And rush impetuous to the righteous war.
On that great day be every chance defied,
And think thy Russel combats by thy side;
Nor, crown'd with victory, cease thy generous toil,
'Till firmest peace secure this happy isle.

Ne'er let thine honest, open heart believe
Professions specious, forged but to deceive;
Fear may extort them, when resources fail,
But O! reject the baseless, flattering tale.

Think not that promises, or oaths can bind,
With solemn ties, a Rome-devoted mind;
Which yields to all the holy juggler saith,
And deep imbibes the bloody, damning faith.
What though the bigot raise to Heaven his eyes
And call the Almighty witness from the skies!
Soon as the wish'd occasion he explores,
To plant the Roman cross on England's shores,
All, all will vanish, while his priests applaud,
And saint the perjurer for the pious fraud."
Far let him fly these freedom-breathing climes,
And seek proud Rome, the fosterer of his crimes;
There let him strive to mount the Papal chair,
And scatter empty thunders in the air,
Grimly preside in Superstition's school,

And curse those kingdoms he could never rule.
Here let me pause, and bid the world adieu,
While Heaven's bright mansions open to my view!

Yet still one care, one tender care remains;
My bounteous friend, relieve a father's pains!
Watch o'er my son, inform his waxen youth
And mould his mind to virtue and to truth
Soon let him learn fair liberty to prize,
And envy him, who for his country dies;

In one short sentence to comprize the whole,
Transfuse to his the virtues of thy soul.

Preserve thy life, my too, too generous friend,
Nor seek with mine thy happier fate to blend!
Live for thy country, live to guard her laws,
Proceed, and prosper in the glorious cause;
While I, though vanquish'd, scorn the field to fly,
But boldly face my foes, and bravely die.

Let princely Monmouth courtly wiles beware,
Nor trust too far to fond paternal care;
Too oft dark deeds deform the midnight cell,
Heaven only knows how noble Essex fell!
Sidney yet lives, whose comprehensive mind
Ranges at large through systems unconfin'd;
Wrapt in himself, he scorns the tyrant's power,
And hurls defiance even from the tower,

With tranquil brow awaits the unjust decree,
And, arm'd with virtue, looks to follow me.

Ca'ndish, farewell! may Fame our names entwine! Through life I loved thee, dying I am thine; With pious rites let dust to dust be thrown, . And thus inscribe my monumental stonę. "Here Russel lies, enfranchised by the grave, "He prized his birthright, nor would live a slave.

"Few were his words, but honest and sincere, "Dear were his friends, his country still more dear; "In parents, children, wife supremely bless'd, "But that one passion swallow'd all the rest; "To guard her freedom was his only pride, "Such was his love, and for that love he died." "Yet fear not thou, when Liberty displays

"Her glorious flag, to steer his course to praise ; "For know, (whoe'er thou art that read'st his fate, "And think'st, perhaps, his sufferings were too great,)

"Bless'd as he was, at her imperial call,

Wife, children, parents-he resign'd them all; "Each fond affection then forsook his soul, "And AMOR PATRIE occupied the whole; "In that great cause he joy'd to meet his doom, "Bless'd the keen axe, and triumph'd o'er the tomb."

The hour draws near- -But what are hours to me?
Hours, days, and years hence undistinguished flee!
Time, and his glass unheeded pass away,
Absorb'd, and lost in one vast flood of day!
On Freedom's wings my soul is borne on high,
And soars exulting to its native sky!

WILLIAM WILKIE,

West Lothian, 1721,-1672.

Whatever nationality could do for a Poem, has been done for this writer's Epigoniad. Hume recommended it in the Critical Review, as one of the ornaments of our language, Smollett enumerated it among the glories of George the Second's reign, and he is called the Scottish Homer.All would not do, the fable is well invented, but it is dull, the verses respectable but dull, the author learned but dul, and dulness is the poetical sin, for which there is no redemption.

Wilkie wrote this poem as the most probable means of in

troducing himself to the notice of the Great. He composed an epick poem upon the speculation of getting preferment.

In person he was slovenly, dirty, and even nauseous, he abhorred nothing so much as clean sheets. One evening at Hatton, being asked by Lady Lauderdale to stay all night, he expressed an attachment to his own bed, but said, if her Ladyship would give him a pair of foul sheets, he would stay.

But there are more honourable traits in Wilkie's character i hiş talents made him the best farmer in his neighbour