ommence the bright campaign.

There, only by their glorious deeds Our chiefs and gallant bands are
known; There, often have they met their foes, And victory was all their
own: There, hostile ranks, at our approach, Prostrate beneath our feet
shall bow; There, smiling conquest waits to twine A laurel wreath round
every brow.

Adieu, my pretty turf-built hut * Adieu, my little garden, too! I made, I
deck'd you all myself, And I am loth to part with you: But since my arms
I must resume, And leave your comforts all behind, Upon the hostile
frontier soon My tent shall flutter in the wind.

My pretty fowls and doves, adieu! Adieu, my playful cat, to thee! Who
every morning round me came, And were my little family. But thee, my dog,
I shall not leave No, thou shalt ever follow me, Shalt share my toils,
shaft share my fame For thou art called VICTORY.

But no farewell I bid to you, Ye prams and boats, which, o'er the wave,
Were doom'd to waft to England's shore Our hero chiefs, our soldiers
brave. To you, good gentlemen of Thames, Soon, soon our visit shall be
paid, Soon, soon your merriment be o'er 'T is but a few short hours
delay'd.

* During the long continuance of the French encampment at Boulogne the
troops had formed, as it were, a romantic town of huts. Every but had a
garden surrounding it, kept in neat order and stocked with vegetables and
flowers. They had, besides, fowls, pigeons, and rabbits; and these, with
a cat and a dog, generally formed the little household of every soldier.

As I am writing on the subject of poetical agents, I will also say some
words of our poetical flatterers, though the same persons frequently
occupy both the one office and the other. A man of the name of Richaud,
who has sung previously the glory of Marat and Robespierre, offered to
Bonaparte, on the evening preceding his departure for Strasburg, the
following lines; and was in return presented with a purse full of gold,
and an order to the Minister of the Interior, Champagny, to be employed
in his offices, until better provided for.

STANZAS

ON THE RUMOUR OF A WAR WITH AUSTRIA

Kings who, so often vanquish'd, vainly dare
Menace the victor that has laid you low--
Look now at France--and view your own despair
In the majestic splendour of your foe.

What miserable pride, ye foolish kings,
Still your deluded reason thus misleads?
Provoke the storm--the bolt with lightning wings
Shall fall--but fall on your devoted heads.