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Alike the bondage and the licence suit,
The brute made ruler and the man made brute !
But, oh my FORBEs! while thus, in flowerless song,
I feebly paint, what yet I feel so strong,
The ills, the vices of the land, where first
Those rebel fiends, that rack the world, were nurst!
Where treason's arm by royalty was nerv'd,
And Frenchmen learn'd to crush the throne they

Thou, gently lull'd in dreams of classic thought,
By bards illumin’d and by sages taught,
Pant'st to be all, upon this mortal scene,
That bard hath fancied or that sage hath been!
Why should I wake thee? why severely chace
The lovely forms of virtue and of grace,
That dwell before thee, like the pictures spread
By Spartan matrons round the genial bed,
Moulding thy fancy, and with gradual art
Brightening the young conceptions of thy heart !
Forgive me, Forbes—and should the song destroy
One generous hope, one throb of social joy,
One high pulsation of the zeal for man,
Which few can feel, and bless'd that few who can!
Oh! turn to him, beneath whose kindred eyes
Thy talents open and thy virtues rise,
Forget where nature has been dark or dim,
And proudly study all her lights in him!
Yes, yes, in him the erring world forget,
And feel that man may reach perfection yet!

Astronomy should leave the skies, To learn her lore in ladies' eyes ! Oh no!-believe me, lovely girl, When nature turns your teeth to pearl, Your neck to snow, your eyes to fire, Your yellow locks to golden wire, Then, only then, can heaven decree, That you should live for only me, Or I for you, as night and morn, We've swearing kiss'd, and kissing sworn! And now, my gentle hints to clear, For once, I'll tell you truth, my dear! Whenever you may chance to meet A loving youth, whose love is sweet, Long as you're false and he believes you, Long as you trust and he deceives you, So long the blissful bond endures; And while he lies, his heart is yours : But, oh! you've wholly lost the youth The instant that he tells you truth!

The wreath you wove, the wreath you wove

Is fair—but oh! how fair,
If Pity's hand had stolen from Love

One leaf to mingle there !
If every rose with gold were tied,

Dim gems for dew-drops fall,
One faded leaf where love had sigh'd

Were sweetly worth them all !
The wreath you wove, the wreath you wove

Our emblem well may be ;
Its bloom is yours, but hopeless love

Must keep its tears for me!

I FILL'p to thee, to thee I drank,

I nothing did but drink and fill;
The bowl by turns was bright and blank,

'Twas drinking, filling, drinking still ! At length I bid an artist paint

Thy image in this ample cup, That I might see the dimpled saint

To whom I quaff'd my nectar up. Behold how bright that purple lip

Is blushing through the wave at me! Every roseat drop I sip

Is just like kissing wine from thee! But, oh! I drink the more for this ;

For, ever when the draught I drain, Thy lip invites another kiss,

And in the nectar flows again! So, here's to thee, my gentle dear!

And may that eye for ever shine Beneath as soft and sweet a tear

As oathes it in this bowl of mine!


Che con le lor bujie pajon divini.

Mauro d'Arcano.

I do confess, in many a sigh,
My lips have breath'd you many a lie,
And who, with such delights in view,
Would lose them for a lie or two?
Nay-look not thus, with brow reproving;
Lies are, my dear, the soul of loving !
If half we tell the girls were true,
If half we swear to think and do,
Were aught but lying's bright illusion,
The world would be in strange confusion !
If ladies' eyes were, every one,
As lovers swear, a radiant sun,

TO'S PICTURE. Go then, if she whose shade thou art

No more will let thee soothe my painYet tell her, it has cost this heart

Some pangs, to give thee back again! Tell her the smile was not so dear,

With which she made thy semblance mino, As bitter is the burning tear,

With which I now the gift resign! Yet go—and could she still restore,

As some exchange for taking thee, The tranquil look which first I wore,

When her eyes found me wild and free: Could she give back the careless flow,

The spirit which my fancy knewYet, ah! 'tis vain-go, picture, go

Smile at me once, and then-adieu !


O'er Nature's form to glance the eye,

And fix, by mimic light and shade,

Her morning tinges, ere they fly,
Blest infant of eternity!

Her evening blushes, ere they fade! Before the day-star learn'd to move,

These are the pencil's grandest theme, In pomp of fire, along his grand career,

Divinest of the powers divine Glancing the beamy shafts of light

That light the Muse's flowery dream,
From his rich quiver to the farthest sphere,

And these, oh Prince ! are richly thine !
Thou wert alone, oh Love!
Nestling beneath the wings of ancient night Yet, yet, when Friendship sees thee trace,
Whose horrors seem'd to smile in shadowing thee !

In emanating soul express'd,

The sweet memorial of a face
No form of beauty sooth'd thine eye,

On which her eye delights to rest;
As through the dim expanse it wander'd wide;
No kindred spirit caught thy sigh,

While o'er the lovely look serene,
As o'er the watery waste it lingering died.

The smile of Peace, the bloom of youth, Unfelt the pulse, unknown the power,

The cheek, that blushes to be seen, That latent in his heart was sleeping;

The eye, that tells the bosom's truth; Oh Sympathy! that lonely hour

While o'er each line, so brightly true, Saw Love himself thy absence weeping!

Her soul with fond attention roves, But look what glory through the darkness beams !

Blessing the hand, whose various hue Celestial airs along the water glide:

Could imitate the form it loves; What spirit art thou, moving o'er the tide

She feels the value of thy art, So lovely? Art thou but the child

And owns it with a purer zeal, Of the young godhead's dreams,

A rapture, nearer to her heart,
That mock his hope with fancies strange and wild ? Than critic taste can ever feel !

Or were his tears, as quick they fell,
Collected in so bright a form,
Till, kindled by the ardent spell

Of his desiring eyes,
And all impregnate with his sighs,

TO A LAMP WHICH WAS GIVEN HIM BY LAIS. They spring to life in shape so fair and warm! 'Tis she!

Dulcis conscia lectuli lucernu. Psyche, the first born spirit of the air !

Martial, Lib. xiv. Epig. 39. To thee, oh Love ! she turns, On thee her eye-beam burns :

“ Oh ! love the Lamp (my mistress said) Blest hour of nuptial ecstacy!

The faithful Lamp that, many a night,
They meet-

Beside thy Lais' lonely bed
The blooming god-the spirit fair-

Has kept its little watch of light Oh! sweet, oh heavenly sweet !

“ Full often has it seen her weep, Now, Sympathy, the hour is thine ;

And fix her eyes upon its flame, All nature feels the thrill divine,

Till, weary, she has sunk to sleep, The veil of Chaos is withdrawn,

Repeating her beloved's name! And their first kiss is great Creation's dawn!

" Oft has it known her cheek to burn

With recollections, fondly free,
And seen her turn, impassion'd turn,

To kiss the pillow, love! for thee,

1 It was not very difficult to become a philosophe THE DUKE OF MONTPENSIER, amongst the ancients. A moderate store of learning, will

a considerable portion of confidence, and wit enough to proON HIS PORTRAIT OF THE LADY ADELAIDE P-RB-S.

duce an occasional apophthegm, were all the necessary Donington Park, 1802.

qualifications for the purpose. The principles of moral

science were so very imperfectly understood, ibat the founTo catch the thought, by painting's spell,

der of a new sect, in forming his ethical code, might consult Howe'er remote, howe'er refin'd,

either fancy or temperament, and adapt it to his own pas. And o'er the magic tablet tell

wions and propensities; so that Mahomet, with a little more

learning might have fourished as a philosopher in those The silent story of the mind;

days, and would have required but the polish of the schools

to become tho rival of Aristippus in morality. In the science 1 Love and Psyche are here considered as the active and of nature too, though they discovered some valuable truths, passive principles of creation, and the universe is supposed yet they seemed not to know they were truths, or at least io have received its first harmonizing impulse from the were as well satisfied with errors; and Xenophanes, who asnuptial sympathy between these two powers. A marriage serted that the stars were igneous clouds, lighted up every is generally the first step in cosmogony. Timæus held Form night and extinguished again in the morning, was thought to be the father, and Matter the mother of the world; Elion and styled a philosopher, as generally as he who anticipated and Berouth, I think, are Sanchoniatho's first spiritual Newton in developing the arrangement of the universe. lovers, and Manco-capac and his wife introduced creation For this opinion of Xenophanes, ser Plutarch de Placit. amongst the Peruvians. In short, Harlequin seems to have Philosoph. lib. ii. cap. 13. It is impossible to read this treatise studied cosmogonies, when he said “tutto il mondo è fatio of Plutarch, without alternately admiring and smiling at the come la nostra famiglia."

genius, the absurdities of the philosophers

And, in a murmur, wish thee there,

I'll tell thee, as I trim thy fire, That kiss to feel, that thought to share !

“ Swift the tide of being runs,

And Time, who bids thy flame expire, “ Then love the Lamp-'will often lead

Will also quench yon heaven of suns!"
Thy step through learning's sacred way;
And, lighted by its happy ray,

Oh! then if earth's united power
Whene'er those darling eyes shall read

Can never chain one feathery hour; of things sublime, of Nature's birth

If every print we leave to-day Of all that 's bright in heaven or earth,

To-morrow's wave shall steal away; Oh! think that she, by whom 'twas given,

Who pauses, to inquire of Heaven Adores thee more than earth or heaven !"

Why were the fleeting treasures given,

The sunny days, the shady nights, Yes—dearest Lamp! by every charm

And all their brief but dear delights, On which thy midnight beam has hung ;'

Which Heaven has made for man to use, The neck reclin'd, the graceful arm

And man should think it guilt to lose ? Across the brow of ivory flung;

Who, that has cull'd a weeping rose,

Will ask it why it breathes and glows, The heaving bosom, partly hid,

Unmindful of the blushing ray, The sever'd lip's delicious sighs,

In which it shines its soul away; The fringe, that from the snowy lid

Unmindful of the scented sigh, Along the cheek of roses lies :

On which it dies and loves to die? By these, by all that bloom untold,

Pleasure ! thou only good on earth!' And long as all shall charm my heart,

One little hour resign'd to theeI'll love my little Lamp of gold,

Oh! by my Lars' lip, 'tis worth, My Lamp and I shall never part !

The sage's immortality! And often, as she smiling said,

Then far be all the wisdom hence, In fancy's hour, thy gentle rays

And all the lore, whose tame control Shall guide my visionary tread

Would wither joy with chill delays ! Through poesy's enchanting maze!

Alas! the fertile fount of sense,

At which the young, the panting soul Thy flame shall light the page refin'd,

Drinks life and love, too soon decays ! Where still we catch the Chian's breath,

Where still the bard, though cold in death, Sweet Lamp! thou wert not form’d to shed Has left his burning soul behind !

Thy splendour on a lifeless pageOr, o'er thy humbler legend shine,

Whate'er my blushing Lais said Oh man of Ascra's dreary glades !?

Of thoughtful lore and studies sage To whom the nightly-warbling Nine

'Twas mockery all—her glance of joy A wand of inspiration gave,*

Told me thy dearest, best employ !?
Pluck'd from the greenest tree that shades
The crystal of Castalia's wave.

And, soon as night shall close the eye
Then, turning to a purer lore,

Of Heaven's young wanderer in the west, We'll cull the sages' heavenly store,

When seers are gazing on the sky, From Science steal her golden clue,

To find their future orbs of rest; And every mystic path pursue,

Then shall I take my trembling way, Where Nature, far from vulgar eyes

Unseen, but to those worlds above, Through labyrinths of wonder flies !

nostra rapiuntur fluminum more ; quicquid vides currit cum "Tis thus my heart shall learn to know

tempore.' Nihil ex his quæ videmus manet. Ego ipse, dum The passing world's precarious flight,

loquor mutari ipsa, mutatus sum," etc. Where all, that meets the morning glow,

i Aristippus considered motion as the principle of happi

ness, in which idea he differed from the Epicuroans, who Is chang'd before the fall of night!

looked to a state of repose as the only true voluptuousness, and avoided even the too lively agitations of pleasure, as a

violent and ungraceful derangement of the senses. I The ancients bad their locerno cubiculariæ, or bed- 2 Maupertuis has been still more explicit than this phi chamber lamps, which, as the Emperor Galienus said, "ni! losopher, in ranking the pleasures of sense above the sublicras meminere; and with the same commendation of mest pursuits of wisdom. Speaking of the infant man, in secrecy, Praxagora addresses her lump, in Aristophanes, his production, he calls him, “une nouvelle creature, qui Exmans. We may judge bow fanciful they were, in the use pourra comprendre les choses les plus sublimcs, et ce qui und einbellishment of their lamps, from the famous symbolic est bien au-dessus, qui pourra goûter les mêmes plaisirs. Lucerna which we find in the Romanum Museum, Mich. See his Vénus Physique. This appears to be one of the Ang. Causei, p. 127.

efforts at Fontenelle's gallantry of manner, for which the 2 Hesiod, who tells us in melancholy terms of his father's learned President is so well ridiculed in the Akakia of flight to the wretched village of Ascra. Epy. **Hresp. Voltaire. v. 251.

Maupertuis may be thought to have borrowed from tho 3 Εννυχιαι στιχον, περικαλλισ οσσαν εισαι.--Theog. ancient Aristippus that indiscriminate theory of pleasures 1. 10.

which he has set forth in his Essai de Philosophie Morale, 4 Kro Hot TRY Tpor sdov, Seovns spograss oyou. Id. v. 30. and for which he was so very justly condemned. Aristippus,

5 Poor To Na 'Too '&*xxx, as expressed among the according to Laertius, held ren sincopsov to normy doras, dogmas of Heraclitus the Ephesian, and with the same which irrational sentiment has been adopted by Maupertuis: image by Seneca, in whom we find a beautiful diffusion of "Tant qu'on ne considère que l'état present, tous les the though “Nemo est mane, qui fuit pridie. Corporal plaisirs sont du même genre," ect. ect.

Yet Innocence, whene'er he came,

Would tremble for her spotless book! For still she saw his playful fingers

Fill'd with sweets and wanton toys; And well she knew the stain that lingers

After sweets from wanton boys !

And, led by thy mysterious ray,

Glide to the pillow of my love. Calm be her sleep, the gentle dear! Nor let her dream of bliss so near, Till o'er her cheek she thrilling feel My sighs of fire in murmurs steal, And I shall lift the locks, that flow Unbraided o'er her lids of snow, And softly kiss those sealed eyes, And wake her into sweet surprise! Or if she dream, oh! let her dream

Of those delights we both have known And felt so truly, that they seem

Form'd to be felt by us alone!
And I shall mark her kindling cheek,

Shall see her bosom warmly move,
And hear her faintly, lowly speak

The murmur'd sounds so dear to love ! Oh! I shall gaze, till even the sigh, That wafts her very soul, be nigh, And when the nymph is all but blest, Sink in her arms and share the rest ! Sweet Lais! what an age of bliss

In that one moment waits for me! Oh sages ! think on joy like this,

And where's your boast of apathy !

And so it chanc'd, one luckless night

He let his honey goblet fall
O'er the dear book, so pure, so white,

And sullied lines and marge and all!
In vain he sought, with eager lip,

The honey from the leaf to drink, For still the more the boy would sip,

The deeper still the blot would sink ! Oh ! it would make you weep to see

The traces of this honey flood Steal o'er a page where Modesty

Had freshly drawn a rose's bud! And Fancy's emblems lost their glow,

And Hope's sweet lines were all defac'd, And Love himself could scarcely know

What Love himself had lately trac'd! At length the urchin Pleasure fed,

(For how, alas! could pleasure stay ?) And Love, while many a tear he shed,

In blushes flung the book away! The index now alone rernains,

Of all the pages spoil'd by Pleasure, And though it bears some honey stains,

Yet Memory counts the leaf a treasure ! And oft, they say, she scans it o'er,

And oft, by this memorial aided, Brings back the pages now no more,

And thinks of lines that long have faded ! I know not if this tale be true,

But thus the simple facts are stated ; And I refer their truth to you,

Since Love and you are near related !



Τατο δι τι εστι το ποτον; πλανη, εφη.

Cebetis Tabula.


They say that Love had once a book,

(The urchin likes to copy you) Where, all who came the pencil took,

And wrote, like us, a line or two. 'Twas Innocence, the maid divine,

Who kept this volume bright and fair, And saw that no unhallow'd line,

Or thought profane should enter there And sweetly did the pages fill

With fond device and loving lore, And every leaf she turn'd was still

More bright than that she turn'd before : Beneath the touch of Hope, how soft,

How light the magic pencil ran! Till Fear would come, alas ! as oft,

And trembling close what Hope began A tear or two had dropp'd from Grief,

And Jealousy would, now and then, Ruffle in haste seme snowy leaf,

Which Love had still to smooth again! But, oh! there was a blooming boy,

Who often turn'd the pages o'er, And wrote therein such words of joy,

As all who read still sigh'd for more. And Pleasure was this spirit's name,

And though so soft his voice and look,





Xenophont. Ephes. Ephesiac. lib. v.

"Tis evening now; the heats and cares of day
In twilight dews are calmly wept away.
The lover now, beneath the western star,
Sighs through the medium of his sweet segar,
And fills the ears of some consenting she
With puffs and vows, with smoke and constancy
The weary statesman for repose hath fled
From halls of council to his negro's shed,

Where blest he woos some black Aspasia's grace, Of weak barbarians, swarming o'er its breast,
And dreams of freedom in his slave's embrace!" Like vermin, gender'd on the lion's crest ?

Were none but brutes to call that soil their hone, In fancy now, beneath the twilight gloom,

Where none but demi-gods'should dare to roam ? Come, let me lead thee o'er this modern Rome !?

Or worse, thou mighty world! oh! doubly wonde, Where tribunes rule, where dusky Davi bow, And what was Goose-Creek once is Tiber now!- The motly dregs of every distant clime,

Did Heaven design thy lordly land to nurse This fam'd metropolis, where fancy sees

Each blast of anarchy and taint of crime Squares in morasses, obelisks in trees;

Which Europe shakes from her perturbed sphere, Which travelling fools and gazetteers adorn With shrines unbuilt, and heroes yet unborn,

In full malignity to rankle here? Though nought but wood“ and ******** they see, But hush !-observe that little mount of pines, Where streets should run, and sages ought to be! Where the breeze murmurs, and the fire-fly shines

There let thy fancy raise, in bold relief, And look, how soft in yonder radiant wave,

The sculptur'd image of that veteran chief,' The dying sun prepares his golden grave !

Who lost the rebel's in the hero's name, Oh great Potomac! oh you banks of shade!

And stept o'er prostrate loyalty to fame; You mighty scenes, in nature's morning made,

Beneath whose sword Columbia's patriot train While still, in rich magnificence of prime,

Cast off their monarch, that the mob might reiga She pour'd her wonders, lavishly sublime,

How shall we rank thee upon glory's page ? Nor yet had learn'd to stoop with humbler care,

Thou more than soldier, and just less then sage! From grand to soft, from wonderful to fair! Say, were your towering hills, your boundless floods, Too train’d in camps to learn a statesman's art

Too form'd for peace to act a conqueror's part, Your rich savannas, and majestic woods,

Nature design’d thee for a hero's inould, Where bards should meditate, and heroes rove,

But ere she cast thee, let the stuff grow cold ! And woman charm, and man deserve her love!

While warmer souls command, ray, make their fate Oh! was a world so bright but born to grace

Thy fate made thee, and forc'd thee to be great. Its own half-organiz'd, half-minded race

Yet Fortune, who so oft, so blindly sheds
1 The “ black Aspasia” of the present ********* of the Her brightest halo round the weakest heads,
United States, "inter Avernales haud ignotissima nymphas" Found thee undazzled, tranquil as before,
has given rise to much pleasantry among the anti-democrat Proud to be useful, scorning to be more;
wits in America.

2 "On the original location of the ground now allotted Less prompt at glory's than at duty's claim,
for the seat of the Federal City (says Mr. Weld,) the iden- Renown the meed, but gel-applause the aim;
rical spot on which the capitol now stands was called Rome. All thou hast been reflects less fame on thee,
This anecdote is related by many as a certain prognostic of
the future magnificence of this city, which is to be, as it Far less, than all thou hast forborne to be!
were, a second Rome."-Weld's Travels, Letter iv.

3 A little stream that runs through the city, which with Now turn thine eye where faint the moonlight falls intolerable affectation, they have styled the Tiber. It was On yonder dome--and in those princely halls, originally called Goose-Creek.

4 "To be under the necessity of going through a deep If thou canst hate, as, oh! that soul must hate, wood for one or two miles, perhaps, in order to see a next Which loves the virtuous, and reveres the great, door neighbour, and in the same city, is a curious, and I be- If thou canst loathe and execrate with me lieve a novel circumstance."-Wei, Letter iv.

The Federal City (if it must be called a city,) has not That Gallic garbage of philosophy, been much increased since Mr. Weld visited it. Most of the That nauseous slaver of these frantic times, public buildings, which were then in some degree of forward. With which false liberty dilutes her crimes ! ness, have been since utterly suspended. The Hotel is already a ruin; a great part of its roof' has fallen in, and the If thou hast got within thy free-born breast, rooms are left to be occupied gratuitously by the miserable One pulse that beats more proudly than the rest, Scotch and Irish emigrants. The President's House, a very With honest scorn for that inglorious soul, noble structure, is by no means suited to the philosophical humility of its present possessor, who inhabits but a corner of Which creeps and winds beneath a mob's control, the mansion himself, and abandons the rest to a state of un- Which courts the rabble's smile, the rabble's nod, cleanly desolation, which those who are not philosophers And makes, like Egypt, every beast its god! cannot look at without regret. This grand edifice is encircled by a very rude pale, through which a common rustic There, in those walls—but, burning tongue, forbear: stile introduces the visitors of the first man in America. Rank must be reverenc'd, even the rank that's thero: With respect to all that is in the house, I shall imitate the So here I pause--and now, my Hume! we part; prudent forbearance of Herodotus, and say, ta do ov &T op. But oh! full oft, in magic dreams of heart,

The private buildings exhibit the same characteristic dis- Thus let us meet, and mingle converse dear play of arrogant speculation and prematuro ruin, and the By Thames at home, or by Potomac here! few ranges of houses which were begun some years ago, have remained so long waste and untivished, that they are O'er lake and marsh, through fevers and through fogs, now for the most part dilapidated.

Midst bears and yankees, democrats and frogs, 5 The picture which Buffon and De Pauw have drawn of the American Indian, though very humiliating, is

, as far | Thy foot shall follow me, thy heart and eyes as I can judge, much more correct than the flattering repre- With me shall wonder, and with me despise !2 sentations which Mr. Jefferson has given us. See the Notes on Virginia, where this gentleman endeavours to disprove in general, the opinion main ained so strongly by some phi

1 On a small hill near the capitol, there is to be an eques losophers, that nature (as Mr. Jefferson expresses it,) belit- trinn statue of General Washington. tles her productions in the western world. M. de Pauw 2 In the ferment which the French revolution excited attributes the imperfection of animal life in America to the among the democrats of America, and the licentious symravages of a very recent deluge, from who-e effects upon its pathy with which they shared in the wildest excesses of soil and atmosphere it has not yet sufficiently recovered. jacobinism, we may find one source of that vulgarity of See his Recherches sur les Americains, Part i. tom. I. p. 102. vice, that hostility to all the graces of life, which distin


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