But Pye was the last Laureate who regularly wrote official odes, and, as literary curiosities, a New Year's Day Ode, and a Birthday Ode are inserted :

ODE FOR THE NEW YEAR, 1791.

BY HENRY JAMES PYE, ESQ.,

POET LAUREAT.

I.

"When from the bosom of the mine
The magnet first to light was thrown,
Fair commerce hail'd the gift divine,
And, smiling, claim'd it for her own.
'My bark (she said) this gem shall guide
Thro' paths of ocean yet untry'd,

While as my daring sons explore
Each rude inhospitable shore,

'Mid desert lands and ruthless skies,
New seats of industry shall rise.

And culture wide extend its genial reign,

Free as the ambient gale, and boundless as the main.'

II

"But Tyranny soon learn'd to seize,
The art improving Science taught,
The white sail courts the distant breeze,
With horror and destruction fraught ;
From the tall mast fell War unfurl'd
His banners to a new-found world;
Oppression, arm'd with giant pride,
And bigot Fury by her side;
Dire Desolation bath'd in blood,

Pale Av'rice, and her harpy brood,

To each affrighted shore in thunder spoke,

And bow'd the wretched race to Slav'ry's iron yoke.

III.

"Not such the gentler views that urge
Britannia's sons to dare the surge;

Not such the gifts her Drake, her Raleigh bore
To the wild inmates of th' Atlantic shore,
Teaching each drear wood's pathless scene
The glories of their virgin queen.

Nor such her later chiefs who try,

Impell'd by soft humanity,

The boist'rous wave, the rugged coast,
The burning zone, the polar frost,

That climes remote, and regions yet unknown,
May share a GEORGE's sway, and bless his patriot throne.

IV.

"Warm Fancy, kindling with delight,
Anticipates the lapse of age,

And as she throws her eagle's flight

O'er Time's yet undiscovered page,
Vast continents, now dark with shade,
She sees in verdure's robe array'd,
Sees o'er each island's fertile steep
That frequent studs the southern deep,
His fleecy charge the shepherd lead,

The harvest wave, the vintage bleed :

See Commerce springs of guiltless wealth explore,
Where frowns the western world on Asia's neighbouring shore.

Awful, as when the avenging blow
Suspending o'er a prostrate foe,

She snatch'd in vict'ry's moment, prompt to save,
Iberia's sinking sons from Calpe's glowing wave.

VI.

"Ere yet the tempest's mingled sound
Burst dreadful o'er the nations round,
What angel shape, in beaming radiance dight,
Pours through the severing clouds celestial light!
'Tis Peace before her seraph eye

The fiends of Devastation fly.

Auspicious, round our monarch's brow
She twines her olive's sacred bough;
This victory, she cries, is mine,

Not torn from War's terrific shrine;

Mine the pure trophies of the wise and good,
Unstained of woe, and undefil'd with blood,

BIRTHDAY ODE FOR THE YEAR 1800.

"God of our fathers rise,

And through the thund'ring skies

Thy vengeance urge

In awful justice red,

Be thy dread arrows sped,

But guard our Monarch's head,

God save great George.

"Still on our Albion smile,
Still o'er this favor'd isle,
O, spread thy wing!
To make each blessing sure,
To make our fame endure,
To make our rights secure,
God save our King!

"To the loud trumpet's throat,
To the shrill clarion's note,
Now jocund sing.

From every open foe,

From every traitor's blow,
Virtue defend his brow,

God guard our King!"

As Pye was a pleasant, convivial man, it was somewhat peculiar that the Laureate's annual perquisite of a tierce of canary from the Royal cellar, should, during his tenure of the office, have been commuted for an annual payment of £27.

Mr. Pye died at Pinner, on August 13, 1813, when the title of Laureate was conferred upon Robert Southey.

"BOB SOUTHEY! You're a poet-Poet Laureate,
And representative of all the race;

Although 'tis true that you turn'd out a Tory at
Last,-yours has lately been a common case,
And now, my Epic Renegade! what are ye at?
With all the Lakers, in and out of place?
A nest of tuneful persons, to my eye

Like 'four-and-twenty Blackbirds in a pie.'

"You, Bob! are rather insolent, you know,
At being disappointed in your wish
To supersede all warblers here below,
And be the only blackbird in the dish;
And then you overstrain yourself, or so,

And tumble downwards like the flying fish
Gasping on deck, because you soar too high, Bob!
And fall, for lack of moisture, quite a-dry, Bob!"

DON JUAN.

THIS learned man and voluminous author, who in his private capacity was one of the most amiable, moral, and conscientious of men, has been severely criticised for his political backslidings, his advocacy of the most intolerant measures, and his bigoted adherence to views he adopted,