ODE ON THE FATE OF TYRANNY. OPPRESSION dies: the Tyrant falls: JEHOVAH breaks th' Avenger's rod. Has run his raging race, has clos'd the scene of blood. He falls; and earth again is free. All Nature lifts the choral song. B B Tyrant! they cry, since thy fell force is broke, Our proud heads pierce the skies, nor fear the woodman's stroke. Hell, from her gulph profound, Rouses at thine approach; and, all around, Her shadowy Heroes all, Ev'n mighty Kings, the heirs of empire wide, What, dost thou join our ghostly train, Proud King! Corruption fastens on thy breast; Oh Lucifer! thou radiant star; Son of the Morn; whose rosy car Who saidst the distant poles shall hear me, and obey. He spake, he died. Distain'd with gore, Beside yon yawning cavern hoar, See, where his livid corse is laid. The aged Pilgrim passing by, Surveys him long with dubious eye; And muses on his fate, and shakes his reverend head, Is this poor heap of dust the King of Babylon? Is this the Man, whose nod Made the Earth tremble: whose terrific rod Till Nature groaning round, Saw her rich realms transformed to deserts dry; Grasping the keys of fate, Vain Man! behold thy righteous doom; No trophied arch, no breathing bust, For why, proud King! thy ruthless hand And crush'd the subject race, whom Kings are born to save: Eternal Infamy shall blast thy name, And all thy sons shall share their impious Father's shame. Rise, purple Slaughter! furious rise; Dart thy vindictive shafts around: No conquer'd nations call them Lord; Nor let their cities rise to curse the goodly ground. Thus saith the righteous Lord : My Vengeance shall unsheath the flaming sword; I'll spread the stagnant flood; And there the Bittern in the sedge shall lurk, While, sweeping o'er the plain, Yes, on mine holy mountain's brow, From Judah's neck the galling yoke Spontaneous falls, she shines with wonted state; Thus by MYSELF I swear, and what I swear is Fate. THOMAS WARTON was born at Basingstoke, Hampshire, in 1728. His father, who was vicar of that parish, was also a poet, and had been Professor of Poetry at Oxford; and his brother, Dr. Joseph Warton, was also advantageously known to the world as another "worshipper of the Muses." Warton entered at Trinity College, took his Master's degree in 1750, and was soon afterwards elected a Fellow. His first advantageous appearance before the public was in 1749, when he published "the Triumph of Isis," in answer to Mason, who had sent forth a poetical attack upon the loyalty of the university to which Warton belonged, and the principles to which he was attached. In 1747 he was appointed to the Professorship of Poetry, and, having taken holy orders, he successively held the livings of Kiddington in Oxfordshire, and Hill Farrance in Somersetshire. In 1785, upon the death of Whitehead, he received the Laureateship, and for the first time for a very long period the office was respectably filled. His successors have been as unworthy of it as his predecessors had been; until the laurel was bestowed upon the accomplished poet and excellent man who at present wears it, the name of Warton is the only one, during a century and a half, that rescues the title of Poet Laureate from contempt. He died of paralysis in 1790, within the walls of his College, where he was interred. His character was in every way that of a good man. His person is said to have been unwieldy and ponderous, and his countenance somewhat inert; but he was full of wit and humour, was "wont to set the table in a roar," and was pleasant and kindly to an extreme. His lofty mind delighted to unbend; he could be merry with children as well as grave with the wise. "He was," says one of his biographers, "a liberal scholar, an agreeable companion, a warm philanthropist, a disinterested Christian, and an amiable man." He was, however, happily circumstanced for a life of useful, profitable, and yet pleasant labour. Amid the silence of academic bowers he had leisure to think; and in the richly stored libraries of a dozen colleges he could give his thoughts weight. He was freed from all anxiety as to that care for the morrow-what they shall eat and what they shall put on-which presses so heavily upon less fortunate professors of literature. His fancy was never checked by prudence as to the everyday wants that must be supplied. His works are numerous, extensive, and embrace a vast variety of subjects,-Biography, Topography, Antiquities, and Criticism. As an historian, his reputation is founded on his "History of English Poetry," a work which will always be conspicuous for elegance of composition, acuteness of criticism, and depth of research. It is however of too dry a character to invite the general reader; treating, for the most part, of the darker ages of our poetry, and affording but little insight into the character of that with which acquaintance is more eagerly desired. The "History" is carried down no further than the reign of Elizabeth. We are here to consider him only as a poet, and are disposed to place him high among those who must be characterised by the equivocal distinction of MINOR. His compositions are numerous, but he undertook no subject of length. His mind was so saturated with learning, that its own wealth appears to have been lost amid the stores to which he had had access; if, however, we meet with little that is altogether ORIGINAL, we encounter nothing that is absolutely borrowed. The tone and character of our older and better poets pervade his writings; but this must be attributed to an over abundance of thought, the produce of reading and reflection, rather than to a poverty of invention. Like the great men of past ages among whom he lived, he was a most attentive and accurate observer of nature, and his descriptions of scenery have all the truth, and beauty, and vividness of the older bards. In 1777 he gathered his various poems, which had been scattered among several collections, and published them; and although he had previously established his character as a severe and searching critic, the publication did no injury to his fame. They are numerous, and embrace a vast variety of topics;-they are sentimental, humorous, descriptive, and panegyric. His Odes upon Royal Birth Days are, however, free from that over-strained praise which is usually satire in disguise. He lauds the king, as in duty bound, but he does not make him a Deity; he glorifies his country, as he ought, but he does not describe it as omnipotent and infallible. He had taste as well as genius; and in his personal character, as well as in the character of his writings, both of prose and poetry, may be compared with the poet by whom, in our day, the laurel is worn. BUT when mild Morn, in saffron stole, First issues from her eastern goal, Let not my due feet fail to climb |