The yoke is broken now!—a mightier hand
Hath dash'd—in pieces dash'd—the iron rod.
To meet her princes, the delivered land
Pours her rejoicing multitudes abroad;
The happy bells, from every town and tower,
Roll their glad peals upon the joyful wind;
And from all hearts and tongues, with one consent,
The high thanksgiving strain is sent—
Glory to God! Deliverance to mankind!"
In various stanzas, Bonaparte is called an upstart, a ruffian, &c. We confess, we wish to see Mr. Southey, like Virgil, in his Georgics, "scatter his dung with a grace."
We do not intend to quarrel with our Laureat's poetical politics, but the conclusion is one which we did not anticipate from the author. We have always understood that the Muses were the daughters of Memory!
"And France, restored and shaking off her chain,
Shall join the Avengers in the joyful strain—
Glory to God! Deliverance for mankind!"
The poem has a few notes added to it, the object of which seems to be to criticise the political opinions of the Edinburgh Reviewers with respect to Spain, and to prove that the author is wiser after the event than they were before it, in which he has very nearly succeeded.
Mr. Southey announces a new volume of Inscriptions, which must furnish some curious parallelisms.
DOTTREL-CATCHING.
TO THE EDITOR OF THE MORNING CHRONICLE.
SIR,
The method of taking this bird is somewhat singular, and is described in an old book in the following terms:
"The Dottrel is a foolish bird of the crane species, very tall, awkward, and conceited. The Dottrel-catcher, when he has got
