bably, the first tragedy ever written in this country. Many a bloody one had, however, been enacted from 1755 to 1761, as well as before that time, from Fort Duquesne to the plains of Abraham. The following extract from an ode of his, on friendship, is smooth, easy verse, and is not wanting in spirit. If the writer of such lines had lived, and continued his devotion to the muses, in the maturity of his judgement, we should have had something of note to show from his pen. What he has left is sufficient to give him a rank among the poets of that day. In his pieces, there is abundant evidence that he was acquainted with Dryden and Pope, and, probably, with other writers of the Augustan age of Queen Anne. All his lines are pure in their morality, and delicate in their sentiment; and this is no small matter in a poet; for, in that age, after the writings of Swift were diffused, we had not a few poets, of whom it might be said that "the muses were fond to inspire, but ashamed to avow." A PINDARICK ODE ON FRIENDSHIP. By Thomas Godfrey. FRIENDSHIP! all hail! thou dearest tie To blend our else unhappy lives with joy ; With thy true genuine fire, Clothed in pure empyrean light, For vulgar eyes thou shin'st too bright: Thy dazzling rays Dim their too feeble light. But souls uncloyed with sensual toys, Souls who seek true mental joys, O, G***! if now no charming maid That when her charms shall fade away, And her pleasing form decay- The stubborn heart To melt, and into love betray Dr. Franklin, whose literary and scientifick character we have mentioned elsewhere, would have no small claim to the reputation of a poet, had not his fame as a philosopher, politician, and prose writer, thrown, as it were, into the shade, his occasional offering to the muses. If there is no rhapsody in his inspirations, there is a sweet and beautiful flow of good sense and delicacy of feeling. His love of Addison is discovered in his poetry as well as in his prose. The deep solemnity of Addison was not in the nature and disposition of Franklin; nor had the latter a tithe of the classical information of the former; but a deeper knowledge of human nature, and of the business of life, certainly belonged to Franklin. In the maze of skepticism, Franklin lost, or never cherished, that solemn cast of thought which one so truly pious as Addison always has, and constantly infuses into all he says or writes. Benjamin Pratt was a scholar who was never fostered into notice, or fed by the flattery of the popular voice. He made his way by energy of mind and firmness of purpose. He was graduated at Harvard, in 1737. He was a first rate lawyer, and most admirable logician. His poetry, written while he was engaged in full practice, shows that he had a fine taste for this elegant accomplishment; for in his compositions are united depth of reasoning, force of illustration, and command of language, with rich imaginings. He died Chief Justice of New York, much admired for the powers of his understanding, and the extent of his information. His communion with the muses was by stealth; another proof of the sacrifice even a great man is under the necessity of making to public sentiment. The poetry on which his fame, as a writer of verse, is built, was found among his papers after his death, and few ever knew that he made these private devotions to the art. His poems on several subjects, are full of point and elegance, and have received the commendations of several judicious criticks. LECTURE X. And none are more exquisitely awake To nature's loveliness, than those who feel From her the glowing thoughts, that, as they steal Of nature, to whose shrine of beauty kneel, Within her, we may dread, or lovely call, NACH, THE events preceding and during the revolution, called out all the poetical talent of our country. I mean those talents which consist in catching at circumstances as they arise, and turning them to advantage. Songs, epitaphs by anticipation, and satire in every form, came flying all abroad, to cut up the tory, and warm up the patriot. Every nation, civilized or barbarous, has used song as an instrument of exciting a love of country, and urging the most popular motives for repelling a foe, and securing that fame which belongs to the brave. Many of these minor American poets have been swept into obscurity by time; and it is, perhaps, too late to rescue their names from oblivion; but there are others of a higher order, whose names will be preserved by the historian of our literature, as having filled their space in the revolution. Among others, Francis Hopkinson, who was born in 1738, was in the full maturity of his intellectual powers when the revolution began, and he brought all | of them in aid of the great cause. He was a member of congress/ from New-Jersey in 1776, and signed that memorable instrument, the Declaration of Independence. He was, afterwards, a judge of admiralty in Pennsylvania. Hopkinson was born for a satirist, and nature had left the most unequivocal marks of her intention in his physiognomy. The quick, twinkling eye, the small animated features, the thin lips and sharp nose, answered the rules of Lavater, for one "who sees quickly, and combines rapidly, and in such a manner as to produce novel and pleasing effects." His "Battle of the Kegs" was much admired for its wit; and even Sir William Howe, who was ridiculed in it, was said to have laughed heartily when it was read to him. Long after the revolutionary conflict was over, he brought his talent to bear occasionally upon the absurdities which are, and always will be, found in every society. Sometimes he turned it upon the follies of a city corporation, and sometimes upon the press itself; and so just, so keen, so powerful, was his satire upon the press, which was then indulging in extreme licentiousness, that, it is said, there was not for months after the publication of some of his satires, a scandalous article to be found in the columns of the newspapers of the day. Juvenal and Pope could not boast of having produced such an effect, with all their fame. It is much easier to "whip a rascal naked round the world," than to awe the conductors of the press, to keep within the pale of decorum, at any time. Hopkinson's poetical effusions were, after his death, collected and published, in three volumes, 8vo. in 1792. Lemuel Hopkins, a Connecticut poet, whose name and writings, from the similarity of name, are often confused with those of Francis Hopkinson, was several years junior to his brother poet of Pennsylvania. He was a physician, and commenced the practice of his profession in 1776. He was distinguished in his profession, and equally so for his dress and manners. He wrote several occasional pieces, which were much admired, and projected the Anarchiad, a work which was probably the joint production of some of the best poets of the day. The Anarchiad exhibits a thorough knowledge of events, a deep insight into the moving principles of the policy of the statesmen of that period, and an intimate acquaintance with the powers, caprices, and dispositions of the leaders in every party feud. In reading this work, at the present day, we admire the genius of the writers, although many of the points are lost, from our having suffered the minute history of the times when it was written, to escape from our memories, if they were ever treasured there. At the same time, when the afore-mentioned poets, Hopkinson and Hopkins, were throwing their shafts from vigorous bows, and annoying their enemies-(perhaps, earlier than either,) Trumbull appeared himself a host in this warfare. His M'Fingal, although modelled on Hudibras, is, in many things, superiour to it. The Tories were not to be met by argument; for they had many arguments drawn from their fears of the success of the American arms, which could not be readily answered; for no one could precisely foretell the issue of the conflict. They were to be conquered by ridicule; no other power could reach them. Wit alone drove them from the field; and the Tories felt a greater hatred to the poet who had made them ridiculous, than to the soldier who destroyed their ranks by hundreds. This poem was decried in England, for many years, but at last acknowledged to belong to the first order of sati rical poems. The foreign foe did not claim all the poet's attention; for he spared some of his leisure hours to attack a domestick foe~ one much to be dreaded in every age-ignorance. "The Progress of Dulness," did much to prevent the multiplication of those characters, sometimes found at the present day, in whose composition dulness is shielded by gravity of face, and ignorance covered by the affectation of piety. The author of M'Fingal is still living, and could now, perhaps, tell us what share the different authors took in the Anarchiad. It is to be hoped that he will do it. Such an intimation would gratify the curious, and injure no one. His co-adjutors in this work are gone, and the parties lashed have passed away; no harm could, therefore, come from such a disclosure. Humphreys, although he wrote less than many others, has no small claims to the character of a poet. His were mostly hasty pieces written in the hurry of a camp; but constantly abound in energy and patriotism, and must have warmed the soldiers' heart at the time. Some lines are truly poetick, and will hold a permanent place in the poetry of our country. It has certainly been asserted, and never denied, that he was one of the writers of the Anarchiad, and this is enough to give him a rank among "the tuneful brotherhood." In the latter part of his life, his muse, accustomed to camps, closed her wings and turned shepherdess: but on an oaten reed she could not play; the trumpet was her instrument. He was, at all times, an enthusiast in the glory and fame of his country, and poured out his prophesies profusely; and of him it must be said too, that he laboured to fulfil them. Alongside of Trumbull, Humphreys, and Barlow, walked one of a graver mien. His poetry was altogether devoted to learning and piety; and every song, hymn, or occasional verse, is full of pathos and religious dignity. The epick on which he rested his fame was not his happiest effort. He was constituted for epick grandeur, but his piety led him to seize a difficult subject for the trial of his skill. There was no novelty in the vengeance of heaven pouring its chastisements upon a wicked nation. Who can stand before Omnipotence! Who can question the doings of Israel's God! Of course there was no display of machinery; nothing which shows the master-hand of the poet in the invention of his fable; for here was no fable. We must see the mortal in every great work, to be struck with admiration. The lofty dome of St. Peters, the work of man, fills the mind of the beholder with more wonder, than the contemplation of this self-poised earth, wheeling its course, in the "void immense." The works of man are questioned, examined, and criticised, and often remodelled in the mind of the examiner; and his admiration settles at last on the great skill of the builder of an epick, or a |