ONCE more, his Patrons to revisit,
And with a glad and grateful spirit,
To greet them on this joyful day,
The faithful News-Boy speeds his way.
For him, no muse will strike the lyre,
Nor lend him her poetic fire;
Her tuneful shores he dare not rifle
Then pray accept this merest trifle;
And if tis neither rhyme nor reason,
It bids you all a cheerful season.
Your eyes to hostile Europe turn,
Where rae and mad amibition burn;
Where savage fury rears her crest,
And ghastly murder stands confest;
Where the fierce warrior steels his soul
Against soft Pity's mild control;
Nor innocense, nor youth, nor age,
Can check the torrent of his rage.
See where, with dark and murd'rous eye,
The bold USURPER sits on high!
Wields with stern hand the iron rod,
While millions tremble at his nod!
Aloft the bloody standard rears
And bathes one half the world in tears!
Yet, tyrant, tremble! Know that heav'n
Hath to thy reign a period iv'n;
That thou, the curse of all mankind!
Shall rule no more with hellish mind.
Say, hear'st thou not the dying sighs
Of murder'd troops, at Jaffa, rise?
Say, hear'st thou not brave D'Engbein's groan
For vengeance plead at heav'ns high throne?
Does Pichegru's dread ghost appear,
And strike thy gugilty soul with fear?
Say, when you lay down to rest,
Do fearful dreams invade your breast,
Wild terrors through your bosom creep,
And wake you from your transient sleep?
Does not the tender mother's sigh,
And helpless infant's mournful cry,
Your boasted fortitude disarm,
And fill your breast with new alarm?
So ever be the monster's fears,
Who laws of God, nor man, revere!
Say, shall an alien longer stain
The ancient throne of Charlemagne?
No. Frenchmen rise! your standard wave,