To raise the exultant hymn for victory,
And join a nation’s joy with harp and voice,
Pouring the strain of triumph on the wind,
Glory to God, his song—deliverance to mankind!
Wake, lute and harp! &c. &c.’
Mr. Southey has not exactly followed the suggestion of an ingenious friend, to begin his poem with the appropriate allusion,
‘Awake, my sack-but!’
The following rhymes are the lamest we observed. He says, speaking of the conflict between the Moors and Spaniards,
‘Age after age, from sire to son,
The hallowed sword was handed down;