LONDON, Printed by JOHN NICHOLS and SON,
at Cicero's Head, Red Lion Passage, Fleet Street;
where LETTERS are particularly requested to besent, POST-PAID.

And sold by J. HARRIS (Successor to Mrs. NEWBERY),
the Corner of St. Paul's Church Yard, Ludgate Street. 1808.

U

SUR L'ACCOMPLISSEMENT DE SON VOLUME LXXVIII.

RBAN, lumière de nos jours,
Ornement du siécle ou nous sommes,

Qui trouve des admirateurs toujours
Partout on il y a des hommes.
Guide cheri de nos beaux esprits,
Permet que j' ajoute à ton front,
Dont les recherches et les écrits
Vole sur les ailes du renom.
Je sçai très bien que l' attentat
Sur l' importance de ton Volume,
Ne peut rehausser son état,

De la foiblesse de ma plume :
Sinon pour montrer aux sçavans,
Que ton labeur est à l' epreuve
Du soin, du travail, et des ans,
Donnant chaque mois de nouvelle

preuve.

Vous prisez trop, j'ose le dire,
Des sentiments qui vous sont dus,
Lorsque la Verité m' inspire,
Pour rendre droit à vos vertues.

Pardonnez moi mon assurance,
Et permettez de vous écrire,
Je sçai la raison par avance,
C'est l' amitié qui vous fait lire.

Avec des touches du vrai genie,
Peint sur la ville et la campagne,
Votre ouvrage orne, sans flatterie,

Les FASTES de la Grande Bretagne.
Aux suffrages dont de l' univers,
On vous a vu pour près d' un age,
Recevoir l' honneur sincère,
Couronné heureux et sage.
En vain la stupide Ignorance
S' arme contre un ouvrage si beau;
Le prejugé et la médisance

Ne sont pas dans ce monde nouveau,
Mais q' importe à vous l'envie,
Malgré quelque gens l'appelle le ton,
Vous traite d' erreur ou de follie
Moissonnant avec Apollon.
Bravons leurs piquante froidure,
En produisant notre petit cayer,
Et lorsque gémit la Nature,
Urban, sachons nous égayer.
Aidé par le Dieu de la treille,
Echauffons les sobres plaisirs;
En buvant sa liqueur vermeille,
Ouvrons l'accés aux sage desirs.

HENRI LE MOINE.

TO SYLVANUS URBAN, GENT.
ON FINISHING HIS LXXVIIITH VOLUME.

FORWARD if we cast our eyes,

What prospect have we yet of Peace;
IBERIA still calls for supplies,

And Tyranny must not soon cease!
Fresh beneath the scythe of Time,
Could thy MAGAZINE relate,
He fell by War, and not by Crime,
The HANNIBAL of the Gallic state;
Joy and Commerce soon would spring,
And vessels every port should hail;
Rejoicing Commoners and King,

When return'd with prosperous sail.
The Tyrant Chief may Realms destroy,
And rob the Natives of their rights:

But whence can rise his future joy,
Who in oppression dire delights ?

Not so let BRITAIN still be found,
Asserter of the noblest cause,
And, safe within her watery bound,
Supporting only Honour's laws.

As Comets rise and disappear,

While erring Wonder marks their

way;

So some start up through blood to steer
For fell dominion, though astray.

Yet Providence, the eye o'er all,
Permits such Monsters to give rule;
And in sufficient time will call
To silence this sufficient fool.
Is not the cheering lamp the Sun
The work of his Omnipotence!
And why should we ask what He 'as done,
Or wonder at his Providence?

O would our Councils, wise indeed,
Stop the offensive arm of War;
Defensive only let to bleed,

To Foreign Foes a fatal bar.
Industry then should till the soil,
Plenty on every acre grow;
Riches reward the Peasant's toil,
And from every corner flow.
Friend URBAN, these would be great days,
Worthy your patriotic views;
But much I fear, mistakes, delays,
Will give us but indifferent news.
Yet HE who governs us and all

Knows better what he has to do;
Kingdoms and Empires have their fall,
And some on other terms renew.

"But what is all this to an Ode
Intended as a compliment,
Or is it written to explode

And banish that usual sentiment?"
No, no, Friend URBAN, while I live,
And you will print my worthless rhimes,
My best respects each year I 'll give,

In constant hope of better times.

But praises to a mind like yours

Should be most delicately writ;
Not like the staves of him who pours
His annual complimental wit.
My verse, I know, is wretched stuff,
Unconnected with good matter;
But for a Bookseller good enough,
Too good to lie, or yet to flatter.
H. LEMOINE.

PREFACE

TO THE SEVENTY-EIGHTH VOLUME.

ANOTHER, and yet another year succeeds; and the Trumpet of War still reverberates through Europe. The Destroying Angel, in the form of an Usurper, still continues to immolate tens of thousands at the shrine of his mad ambition. It becomes us to bow with awful reverence before that Almighty Being, who, for his own inscrutable purposes, suffers for a time Rapine, and Violence, and Disorder, to devastate Europe.

Happy Britain! whose Sons and Daughters view from a distance these sad spectacles; hitherto unvisited by the miseries which they compassionate, and anxiously and generously endeavour to alleviate-Happy Britain! whose shores roll back its formidable billows with scorn on those of its proud and insolent Invader; defying all his empty menaces, and chastising his vain and ineffectual attempts to interrupt her internal tranquillity

One thing is, however, certain :

"If there's a Power above-and that there is All Nature cries aloud throughout her worksHe must delight in Virtue."

We would not speak the language of presumption; but may it not be hoped, that the spirit of Religion, Morality, Loyalty, and Good Order, which, in the aggregate, characterizes Englishmen, may have been our shield and barrier against those calamities which have desolated the Nations around us?

It has been invariably our pride, and care, and study, to animate and encourage this principle by our example, and by the distinguished preference with which we have endeavoured to encourage its honest and faithful advocates.

No murmurs of Sedition, no voice of Faction, no maxims which tend to loosen the obligations of Moral Duty, have ever been permitted to contaminate our pages.

As

As such has been, such will ever be the rule of our conduct. We hope then, in common with our Countrymen, the great majority of whom we know to sympathize with us, that more auspicious. hours will come. In the mean time, let us exult at the prowess which our Armies on all occasions exhibit. Skulking in their harbours, the Fleets of the Enemy dare no longer encounter those of Britain, now riding triumphant in every Quarter of the World. With the glory of our immortal Conquerors on the Ocean before them, our brave Soldiers burn with impatience to win similar laurels.

They have already done so in Egypt, in Sicily, in Portugal. May the God of Battles go before them in Spain, and make them the deliverers of a gallant Nation, cruelly oppressed by an abominable host of rapacious Invaders! May they return in triumph; and hereafter, in the bowers of Peace, join with us in cultivating the olive of the Muses!

Our thanks are, in a peculiar manner, due to almost innumerable Friends, who, in one of the most dreadful visitations to which mortal beings are exposed, generously sympathized in our domestic sorrows.

Nor does it less become us, to tender our grateful acknowledgments for, we may venture to say, the progressively increasing encouragement of our literary labours of every denomination.

We promise on our parts, the only return we can presume to offer, the same indefatigable diligence, the same impartiality; in every department of our professional undertakings, the same spirit.

With these feelings, animated by the warmest gratitude, and with the kindest wishes to our public Patrons, regular Correspondents, and private Friends, we bid them alike heartily

Dee. 31, 1808.

FAREWELL!