IV.

Then I owe thee success To fortune! why so? Justice succoured me; From on high she cast down her eyes; And when she perceived the contending parties, She lifted up her hand to weigh The right of each side, And as she found the balance incline, she employ'd her sword.

The King of Prussia employs himself in times of peace in the following manner: He rises at five; on business till seven; dresses, and receives letters and petitions till nine; from nine to eleven with his ministers; then on the parade, to exercise the guards; dines at half an hour after twelve with some of his officers; at half an hour after one he retires till five; then somebody reads to him till seven; then the concert; at nine come the men of genius; they sup half an hour after, and converse till eleven; then the king retires, and at twelve goes to bed.--He is a statesman, soldier, author, and musician; indefatigable in business; and by method overlooks and directs everything; very frugal; without farce of state; the idle officers of the court have the usual titles; but no pay for the drones, tho' they are mostly officers.

THE THIRD PSALM PARAPHRASED, ALLUDING TO HIS PRUSSIAN MAJESTY.

Look down, O God! regard my cry! On thee my hopes depend: I'm close beset, without ally; Be thou my shield and friend. Confed'rate kings and princes league, On ev'ry side attack To perpetrate the black intrigue But thou canst drive them back, Long did I fear their wink and nod; In close cabals they cry'd, _There is no help for him in God_; His kingdom we'll divide. Amid their army's dreadful glare Thou gav'st me inward might, Teaching my arm the art of war, My fingers how to fight. Tho' vet'ran troops my camp invest, Expert in war's alarms, Calmly I lay me down to rest In thy protecting arms. Nor will I fear their empty boasts, Tho' thousands thousands join; Since thou art stil'd _the God of hosts_, And victory is thine. Arise, O God, and plead my cause, O! save me by thy pow'r; If e'er I reverenc'd thy laws, Guide this important hour! 'Tis done!--they shudder with dismay; My troops maintain their ground: Lo! their embattl'd lines give way, And we are victors crown'd! Success, ye kings, is not your gift; To heav'n it does belong: The race not always to the swift Nor battle to the strong.

_New Amer. Mag._, No. IV-78, Apr. 1758, Woodbridge in N. J.

SPEECH OF THE PRINCE OF BRUNSWICK TO THE HANOVERIAN AND HESSIAN TROOPS.

To injured troops thus gallant BRUNSWICK spoke; 'Shall we with tameness bear the _Gallic_ yoke! 'Will ye, O Veterans, inur'd to pains 'And toils of War, drag ignominious chains? 'Turn and behold! behold where hostile bands 'Seize on your properties, lay waste your lands, 'Your daughters, wives, snatch'd forcibly away, 'Slaves to proud _Gallia's_ sons, to best a prey! 'Hark! how with piercing Cries, the tender Maid, 'By force subdu'd, implores her father's aid; 'In agonies repeats her brother's name, 'To flay the ruffians and preserve her fame! 'Rouze! GERMANS! rouze! a glorious vengeance take; 'Religion, honour, freedom, all's at stake!' ... "Enough," they cry'd, "let FERDINAND proceed, "We dare to follow, where he dares to lead." Fir'd by their country's wrongs, to arms they fly, Resolv'd to save her, or resolved to die.

_New Amer. Mag._, No. IV-80, Apr. 1758, Woodbridge in N. J.

ON A CARGO OF FRENCH MUFFS SEIZ'D BY THE PRUSSIANS.

Lewis, the winter harsh, and climate rough, To each of his nice captains, sends a muff, Knowing his troops too tender to resist The foe, without a furr to guard his wrist; For who could prime his gun, or pistol hold, Whose aching fingers were benumbed with cold. _Prussia_, a different scheme in war approves; Whose hardy veterans charge without their gloves. Defy the rigour of the chilling air, And fight, and conquer with their knuckles bare. _Bourbon!_ if wreathes and triumphs are thy aim, Think of some wiser way to purchase fame: Some other arts thy rival to subdue, Soft muffs, without keen swords, will never do; Thy shivering troops would act a better part, Would'st thou send something that could warm their heart; Less for their valour than their heels admir'd With fighting oft' ... with flying seldom tir'd, Success thy arms would never fail to meet, Were battles to be won by nimble feet.

_New Amer. Mag._, No. IV-80, Apr. 1758, Woodbridge in N. J.

THE KING OF PRUSSIA'S ODE IMITATED IN RHIME.

1.

Father of all! all pow'rful Lord! Infinitely unknown! By heathen, and by saint ador'd, Tho' differently, yet one; By what great name shall I address Thee everlasting king? Oh! how my gratitude express? Oh! how thy praises sing? But, O great God! omniscient ever just, Permit towards thy throne to bow, a particle of dust.

2.

By friends forsaken ev'ry where, Alone, the brunt to stand, Winter's inclement cold to bear, And in a foreign Land; The foe, enrag'd on ev'ry side, Dire implements of war In various shapes and forms provide, And doom them for our share. Heav'ns! with what fury to the charge they fly; Forestal the vict'ry, but forget that man was born to die!

3.

Yet he who frequently has said, That numbers don't avail, Inspir'd us not to be dismay'd, But stand, fight, and prevail: The battle join'd, the foe gave way, Superior valour own'd, And left to us a glorious day, With spoils and honours crown'd: Each single _Prussian_ arm the hero play'd, Dealt round an hundred deaths, an hundred conquests made.

4.

Is it to fortune then I owe This unthought for success? Fortune is blind, it can't be so, I must some other guess: JUSTICE, bright heav'nly maid, beheld The dire contention rise, Saw, and her sacred beam she held Suspended in the skies: The _Austrian_ scale kick'd up, by our's weigh'd down, Justice approv'd, and straight ordain'd the field to be our own.

_New Amer. Mag._, No. V-119, May 1758, Woodbridge in N. J.

THE RELAXATION OF WAR: OR THE HERO'S PHILOSOPHY, &C. WROTE BY THE KING OF PRUSSIA, DURING HIS RESIDENCE AT BRESLAU.

Love by _Hope_ is still sustain'd, _Zeal_ by the _Reward_ that's gain'd; In _Pow'r_, _Authority_ begins, _Weakness_ strength from _Prudence_ wins; _Honesty_ is _Credit's_ wealth, _Temp'rance_ the support of _Health_; _Wit_ from calm _Contentment_ springs, _Content_ 'tis _Competence_ that brings, _Competence_, as all may see, Springs from good _Oeconomy_. Maids, to fan a lover's fire, _Sweetness_ more than charms require; _Authors_ more from _Truth_ may gain Than from tropes that please in vain; _Arts_ will less than _Virtues_ tend _Happiness_ and _Life_ to blend; He that _Happiness_ wou'd get _Prudence_ more must prize than _Wit_, More than _Riches_ rosy _Health_, Blameless _Quiet_ more than _Wealth_. Nought to _owe_, and nought to _hoard_, Little _Land_ and little _Board_, Little _Fav'rite_, true and kind, These are blessings to my mind. I, when winter comes, desire Little _Room_ but plenteous _Fire_, Temp'rate _Glasses_, gen'rous _Wine_, _Dishes few_ whene'er I dine. Yes, my sober thoughts are such, Man must never have _too_ much; _Not too much_ ... What solid sense. Three such little words dispense! Too much _Rest_ benumbs the mind; Too much _Strife_ distracts mankind; Too much _Negligence_ is _Sloth_; Too much _Zeal_ is _Folly's_ growth; Too much _Love_ our peace annoys, Too much _Physic_ life destroys; Too much _Cunning's_ fraudful art, Too much _Firmness_ want of heart Too much _sparing_ makes a knave; Those are _rash_ that are _too_ brave; Too much _Wealth_ like weight oppresses; Too much _Fame_ with care distresses; Too much _Pleasure_ death will bring, Too much _Wit's_ a dang'rous thing; Too much _Trust_ is folly's guide, Too much _Spirit_ is but pride; He's a dupe that is _too free_, Too much _Bounty_ weak must be; Too much _Complaisance_ a knave, Too much _Zeal to please_ a slave. This TOO MUCH, tho' bad it seem, Chang'd with ease to good you deem; But in this you err my friend, For on _Trifles_ all depend. Trifles great effects produce, Both of pleasure and of use; Trifles often turn the scale, When in love or law we fail; Trifles to the great commend, Trifles make proud beauty bend; Trifles prompt the poet's strain, Trifles oft distract the brain; Trifles, trifles more or less, Give us, or withhold success; Trifles, when we _hope_, can cheer, Trifles smite us when we fear: All the flames that lovers know, Trifles quench and trifles blow.

N. B. This little poem is sold for 6d. sterl. in London, and 3d. here.

_Amer. Mag. and Mo. Chron._, I-440, June 1758, Phila.

ON READING IN THE PUBLICK PAPERS, OF A LADY THAT HAD ORDER'D THE KING OF PRUSSIA A PRESENT OF A THOUSAND POUNDS.

No more let haughty _Austrians_ cry, "_Fred'rick_ our foe, has no ally." The _British_ fair are on his side, And for the next campaign provide; Their fortunes to his chests transfer ... Money the sinews is of war. For him they plead, and much can say, For him they grow devout and pray! For him their martial ardours rise, And arm afresh their killing eyes; Those shining warriors ne'er were beat, But gain a conquest by retreat.

_New Amer. Mag._, No. VII-172, July 1758, Woodbridge in N. J.

Gentlemen.

The following small poetical performance was hastily composed at the request, and for the entertainment, of a select company of publick spirited friends, who gave me a short notice of their intention to dine with me, and drink the protestant champion's health, as they termed the king of _Prussia_. They were indulgent enough to express their unanimous approbation of the piece, and insisted on my sending it up to you, in order (if you would be of their opinion) to occupy a leaf in your _Magazine_. I hope no reader will think the dignity of the subject, lessened merely by the familiar strain, in which it is written: when they consider, that _such_ seemed most suitable to the occasion, the verses consisting of eleven feet, are to be read, like the _Greek Iambics_ (which were, anciently, much used in convivial festivities) with less solemnity and more rapidity, than the common heroic measure of ten feet in our language will admit.

Kent, Maryland, July 14, 1758.

THE ROYAL COMET.

Mistaken astronomers, gaze not so high: The _Comet_ foretold is not _yet_ in the sky. It shines here on earth, tho' deputed from Heav'n; And remarkably flam'd last year--_Fifty sev'n_. In _Wodon's_[36] bold figure, three thousand years past, O'er ancient Germania its lustre it cast. Next, wearing _Arminius_[37], thy form, it return'd; And, fatal to _Rome's_ blasted legions, it burn'd. Now, attended with all the thunders of war, Our _Prussia's_ great _Frederick_ is that _Blazing Star_! Heav'ns proxy to nations opprest; but a _Sign_ To tyrants he comes of a vengeance divine. Eccentric and rapid the north saw him rowl: (For heroes and stars seem most bright near the pole) To _Britain_ propitious he sheds forth his rays; While _Babel's_ lewd _Harlot_, his terrors amaze. The fierce _Russian Bear_ his splendors affright; And _Austria's_ proud _Eagle_ now shrinks from his light. While freedom's glad sons with due warmth he inspires; The _Lillies_ of _France_ are all scorch'd in his fires. False _Stockholm_ shall find the _Baltic_ no bar is. Now at _Vienna_, he'll soon be at _Paris_. O'er _Ocean_ from _Europe_ his influence hurl'd Shall animate here, O _George_, thy new world. Our laws, our religion, our rights he befriends, And conquest o'er savage invaders portends; O'er christians miscall'd, who their nature disgrace, Bely human form, and god's image deface.

Hail, _Living Effulgence_, whose all honour'd name Shall grace, first of mortals, the annals of fame! Whose glory shall spread, thro' each age and each clime, To the final extent of space and of time! Who the Virtues _Trajan_ and _Titus_ unite; The victor of empires, and _Mankind's Delight_! Hail, radiance auspicious, from light's fountain born Each dark hemisphere to relume and adorn! To whom if compar'd, other kings all appear, Like little dim _Sparklers_, round _Cynthia's_ bright sphere. The wonder of monarchs, a patriot imperial, Endow'd with a spirit of vigour aetherial! For worth, less than your's in pale envy's despite, Old chiefs claim'd to honours celestial a right! From their funeral piles in flames eagles soar'd; Earth's heroes grew gods, and dead kings were ador'd. Defensive, fair justice, he fights in thy cause, And his sword, lightning pointed, reluctant he draws, His courage on aggregate perils still grows; And his triumphs increase from multiply'd foes. Ye _Caesars_, ye _Bourbons_, ye scourges of God, Ye saw on the wings of the wind how he rode: Revere then heav'ns champion, who, charg'd with your doom, Shall quell the leagu'd hosts of _Gaul_, _Satan_ and _Rome_! When earth's giant crew, each with manifold hands, Assaulted _Jove's_ seat, in confederate bands; Thus _Evius_ asserted the throne of his sire, And heap'd o'er th' aggressors a mountain of fire!

Ye numberless suns, his kindred, on high, For six thousand years whom cou'd ye descry; Whom, like him, have seen of meer mortal birth; Tho _Alfred_ and _Edward_ once dignify'd earth? Blush, blush, scepter'd pirates, who trail your faint fire: Ye meteors, that transiently dazzling expire! Whose lust of vain pow'r stains the page of your story: What glow worms ye look, and how lost in his glory? Blush, butchers, whose banners red massacre shames, That _Honest_ and _Great_ should bear different names! Go waste the creation for empire and pelf: The globe you may win, but _he_ conquers himself! To spare he subdues; as he sought to defend; Dire war's his forc'd mean: but fair peace his lov'd end. Tho' trophies in battles o'er your's he can raise; Yet these he accounts but a second rate praise. Who by victories plum'd ne'er thinks it disgrace, To sigh that they're earn'd by the blood of his race. The public's first servant, and humble in station; He found his firm glory on wise legislation. His country's great father, in blessings most blest, Who loses his own for the world's peace and rest! Still only ambitious of fair-won renown, And olives with laurels to wreath in his crown. Say poet, philosopher, critick, divine, What art thou?--Since all, but omniscience is thine. Self-taught, tho' a king! and now destin'd to prove, That _Minerva_, like thee, sprang perfect from _Jove_. Like thee, fam'd for wisdom; like thee for alarms: The goddess of science, and goddess of arms! In his words, in his deeds, we read his great heart; Too gen'rous for fraud, and too wise for mean art. With aw still reflecting whence all grandeur springs; And only dependent on thee, King of Kings! The mate of his vet'rans in each noble feat; The first in the charge, and the last in retreat, A statesman and monarch, yet true to his word; A soldier with honour, more bright than his sword. Whom pow'r ne'er corrupted; whom learning adorns: Who, ev'n in idea, court-turpitude scorns: --Yet why should we wonder, that _this_ he disdains; When the blood of good _George_ flows rich in his veins?

_Amer. Mag. and Mo. Chron._, I-551, Aug. 1758, Phila.

[Footnote 36: The founder and first legislator of the German nation, to whom after his deification the fourth day of our week was consecrated, now contracted from Wodon's day to Wednesday.]

[Footnote 37: The brave assertor of his country's liberty against the Roman invasions, who cut to pieces three legions commanded by _Quintilius Varus_ in the reign of _Augustus Caesar_.]

MR. VOLTAIRE'S LETTER TO HIS PRUSSIAN MAJESTY. Translated.

Kind Prince! whom the admiring world must own By truth and nature form'd to grace a throne: Whose dawn of empire like the solar ray, Chears half the _North_ with hopes of lasting day; Receive the homage which the Muses send, Their fav'rite thou! their guardian! and their friend! ARE you enthron'd?... And does your goodness deign To own your poet, and regard his strain? O blissful moment! dear auspicious grace! Does FRED'RICK'S smile my wand'ring steps embrace? Does his great soul possess'd of wisdom's balm, (Ever benevolent, and ever calm!) Leave all the dignity of state behind, To meet the humble lover of mankind? And can your hand the royal gift impart To style me friend of your _distinguish'd_ heart? Fame says of old, that _Phoebus_ heavenly bright, O'er the wide world who spreads the living light, So _Jove_ ordain'd ... his splendid carr resign'd, To live below and humanize mankind: No more his brows their wonted rays reveal'd, A shepherd's form the exil'd god conceal'd; In _Phrygian_ wilds to an unletter'd race, He sung with such divinely-pleasing grace, The savage nation in their softened hearts, Receiv'd the love of virtue and of arts! The rudest breasts the strong persuasion felt, Were taught to think, to reason, and to melt! Themselves to know, the social tye to own, And learn they were not made to live alone! Then every useful science sprung to birth, And peaceful labour blest the smiling earth: Men now united lost their antient rage, Nature rejoic'd and blest her _golden age_; An _age_ by heav'n design'd for man no more, Unless a FREDERICK shall _that_ age restore! It chanc'd as thro' the wood _Apollo_ stray'd, Ere gathering numbers peopled half the shade; As near the cooling stream he pass'd the day And wak'd the golden lyre to wisdom's lay! Attentive to the sound a _stranger swain_, His reed attun'd to imitate the strain; The god well-pleas'd the rustic genius spy'd, Approv'd his aim, and deign'd to be his guide! Aided his trembling hands to touch the string, Whisper'd the words, and shew'd him how to sing! The swain improving blest the care bestow'd, Nor in the _master_ yet perceiv'd the _god_: Nor knew the immortal flame his bosom fir'd, But like a shepherd lov'd him, and admir'd! In me, _great prince_, the image stands renew'd, I feel myself with kindred warmth indu'd; As to thy praise I tune the conscious lyre, I ask whence draws my breast the noble fire? Tell what inspires me, happy people tell? Beneath my Fred'rick's orient sway who dwell: From rapid _Rhine_ to silver-streaming _Meine_, The peaceful subjects of his placid reign? Or ye on _Prussia's_ amber yielding shore, Who bless his name, and hail his guardian power! Yes ... let consenting lands his virtues raise, And fame with all her tongues repeat his praise! Whose scepter shall _Astrea's_ rule restore, And bid dejected MERIT[38] sigh no more. As once directed by the voice of fame To _wisdom's King_ the _southern princess_ came; At FREDERICK'S call ... see ravish'd to obey, The sons of learning take their chearful way; To hear _that_ sense which still attention draws; And bless _that_ goodness which directs his laws; Close by his throne _Philosophy_ shall smile, To view her prince approve her children's toil! While _Science_ joys to see his kind regards Inspire the muse, his bounty still rewards; Not distant far, calm _Charity_ shall stand, Stretching to _Piety_ her social hand: _Justice_ shall banish _arbitrary might_, And _Commerce_ chearful _Plenty_ shall invite: But _Goodness_ chief ... in form angelic drest, (Such as she lives in FREDERICK'S royal breast!) Beneath her wings shall bid the worthy find A shelter from the storms that vex mankind; The friend of truth, by fraud or malice hurl'd Through all the mazes of a faithless world. Whom envy persecutes and bigots hate, Shall here enjoy an undisturb'd retreat; With HIM, who scorns the empty pride or blood, But shares his grandeur with the _wise_ and _good_! What tho' his prudence guards the chance of war, His mildness eyes the mischief from afar! What tho' his arms might _Caesar's_ laurels find, The peaceful olive suits his greater mind: Yet safe in all events the storm he views, In peace or war ... the darling of the Muse! In either state, alike insur'd success, Since all his aim is to defend and bless! Yet while impending clouds their darkness spread, He arms for war ... but arms without a dread! No _giant forms_[39] compose a vain parade, No glittering _figures_ of the _warrior-trade_: Valour he courts without the pomp of art, And rises on the service of the heart: He boasts it all his glory to be just (A pride beyond the title of _August_!) Which time secures, the most impartial friend, And guards his _name_ till nature fells her end! So when beneath the curs'd _Caesarian_ race _Rome_ felt the horrors of her first disgrace; Great _Trajan_ rose with every virtue blest, To give the weary world the sweets of rest: No blood, no conquest mark'd his spotless reign, 'Twas goodness form'd th' inviolable chain; E'en _India's_ Kings receiv'd the willing yoke, For goodness is a band no savage broke! Not _Salem's_ walls defil'd with wilful blood, A crime, her victor's clemency withstood: Not all her honours levell'd with the dust, Styl'd _Titus good_, or _merciful_, or _just_: Love knit the charm on which his greatness rose, A charm! not worlds united can oppose! Behold the glorious pattern marks your rise! Nor quit the steps by which he gain'd the skies: Try to surpass! (but heav'n his _fate_ refuse!) _He wept a day!_ ... which YOU _will never lose_!

_New Amer. Mag._, No. XI-283, Nov. 1758, Woodbridge in N. J.

[Footnote 38: This alludes to the new order instituted by his Prussian Majesty, the badge of which is a gold medal with this inscription, For Merit.]

[Footnote 39: This alludes to the king's allowing liberty to the tall soldiers his father forced into his service.]

TRANSLATION OF AN EPISTLE FROM THE KING OF PRUSSIA TO MONSIEUR VOLTAIRE.

Voltaire, believe me, were I now In private life's calm station plac'd, Yet heav'n for nature's wants allow, With cold indifference would I view Departing fortune's winged haste, And at the goddess laugh like you. Th' insipid farce of tedious state, Imperial duty's real weight, The faithless courtier's supple bow, The fickle multitude's caress, And flatt'rers wordy emptiness, By long experience well I know; And, tho' a prince and poet born, Vain blandishments of glory scorn. For when the ruthless sheers of fate Have cut my life's precarious thread, And rank me with th' unconscious dead, What will't avail that _I was_ great, Or that th' uncertain tongue of fame In mem'ry's temple chants my name? One blissful moment whilst we live Weighs more than ages of renown; What then do potentates receive Of good peculiarly their own? Sweet ease, and unaffected joy, Domestic peace, and sportive pleasure, The regal throne and palace fly, And, born for liberty, prefer Soft silent scenes of lovely leisure To what we monarchs buy so dear, The thorny pomp of scepter'd care. My pain or bliss shall ne'er depend On fickle fortune's casual flight, For, whether she's my foe or friend, In calm repose I'll pass the night; And ne'er by watchful homage own I court her smile, nor fear her frown. But from our stations we derive Unerring precepts how to live, And certain deeds each rank calls forth By which is measur'd human worth. _Voltaire_, within his private cell, In realms where ancient honesty Is patrimonial property, And sacred freedom loves to dwell, May give up all _his_ peaceful mind, Guided by _Plato's_ deathless page, In silent solitude resigned To the mild virtues of a sage; But I 'gainst whom wild whirlwinds wage Fierce war with wreck-denouncing wing, Must be to face the tempest's rage, In thought, in life, in death a king.

_New Amer. Mag._, No. XVII-470, May 1759, Woodbridge in N. J.

A DUTCH PROVERB.

Fire, water, woman, are man's ruin Says wise Professor Vander Bruein By flames a house I hir'd was lost Last year; and I must pay the cost. This spring the rains o'erflow'd my ground; And my best Flanders mare was drown'd. A slave I am to Clara's eyes: The gipsy knows her power and flies. Fire, water, woman, are my ruin: And great thy wisdom Vander Bruein.

_Boston Mag._, III-81, Feb. 1786, Boston.

ODE TO DEATH By Frederick II, King of Prussia. From the French, by Dr. Hawkesworth.

Yet a few years or days perhaps, Or moments pass with silent lapse, And time to me shall be no more; No more the sun these eyes shall view, Earth o'er these limbs her dust shall strew, And life's fantastick dream be o'er.

Alas! I touch the dreadful brink, From nature's verge impell'd I sink, And endless darkness wraps me round! Yes, Death, is ever at my hand, Fast by my bed he takes his stand, And constant at my board is found.

Earth, air and fire, and water join Against this fleeting life of mine, And where for succour can I fly? If art with flattering wiles pretend To shield me like a guardian friend, By Art, ere Nature bids, I die.

I see this tyrant of the mind, This idol Flesh to dust consigned, Once call'd from dust by power divine: Its features change, 'tis pale, 'tis cold-- Hence dreadful spectre! to behold Thy aspect, is to make it mine.

And can I then with guilty pride, Which fear nor shame can quell or hide, This flesh still pamper and adorn? Thus viewing what I soon shall be, Can what I am demand the knee, Or look on aught around with scorn?

But then this spark that warms, that guides, That lives, that thinks, what fate betides? Can this be dust, a kneaded clod! This yield to death! the soul, the mind, That measures heaven, and mounts the wind, That knows at once itself and God?

Great Cause of all, above, below, Who knows thee must forever know, Immortal and divine! Thy image on my soul imprest, Of endless being is the test, And bids Eternity be mine.

Transporting thought!--but I am sure That endless life will joy secure? Joys only to the just decreed! The guilty wretch expiring goes, Where vengeance endless life bestows, That endless mis'ry may succeed.

Great God, how awful is the scene! A breath, a transient breath between; And can I jest, and laugh and play? To earth, alas! too firmly bound, Trees, deeply rooted in the ground, Are shiver'd when they're torn away.

Vain joys, which envy'd greatness gains, How do ye bind with silken claims, Which ask Herculean strength to break! How with new terrours have ye arm'd The power whose slightest glance alarm'd! How many deaths of one ye make!

Yet, dumb with wonder, I behold Man's thoughtless race in errour bold, Forget or scorn, the laws of death; With these no projects coincide, Nor vows nor toils, nor hopes they guide, Each thinks he draws immortal breath.

Each blind to fate's approaching hour, Intrigues, or fights for wealth or power, And slumb'ring dangers dare provoke: And he who tott'ring scarce sustains A century's age, plans future gains, And feels an unexpected stroke.

Go on, unbridled desp'rate band, Scorn rocks, gulfs, winds, search sea and land, And spoil new worlds wherever found. Seize, haste to seize the glittering prize, And sighs, and tears and prayers despise, Nor spare the temple's holy ground.

They go, succeed, but look again, The desperate hand you seek in vain, Now trod in dust the peasant's scorn. But who, that saw their treasures swell, That heard th' insatiate rebel, Would e'er have thought them mortal born?

See the world's victor mount his car, Blood marks his progress wide and far, Sure he shall reign while ages fly; No, vanish'd like a morning cloud, The hero was but just allow'd To fight, to conquer, and to die.

And is it true, I ask with dread, That nations heap'd on nations bled Beneath his chariot's fervid wheel, With trophies to adorn the spot, Where his pale corse was left to rot, And doom'd the hungry reptile's meal?

Yes, fortune weary'd with her play, Her toy, this hero, casts away, And scarce the form of man is seen: Awe chills my breast, my eyes o'erflow, Around my brows no roses glow, The cypress mine, funereal green.

Yet in this hour of grief and fears, When awful Truth unveil'd appears, Some power unknown usurps my breast; Back to the world my thoughts are led, My feet in folly's labyrinth tread, And Fancy dreams that life is blest.

How weak an empress is the mind, Whom Pleasure's flowery wreaths can bind, And captive to her altars lead! Weak Reason yields to Frenzy's rage, And all the world is Folly's stage, And all that act are fools indeed.

And yet this strange and sudden flight, From gloomy cares to gay delight, This fickleness so light and vain, In life's delusive transient dream, Where men nor things are what they seem, Is all the real good we gain.

_New Haven Gaz. and Conn. Mag._, I-339, Dec. 7, 1786, New Haven.

NARCISSA [A poem, the third stanza of which is as follows:]

Perhaps, like Werter[40], pensive in the shade, I mourn in vain, and curse relentless fate Or while I love the sympathetic maid, Adversity's black clouds around me wait.

_Columbian Mag. or Mo. Misc._, I-245, Jan. 1787, Phila.

[Footnote 40: An unfortunate lover.]

CHARLOTTE'S SOLILOQUY--TO THE MANES OF WERTER. By the late doctor Ladd.

Why, Werter, dost thou leave me so? I wander through the gloom: And with the tears of silent woe, Each night bedew thy tomb.

Why, Werter, dost thou leave me so? Thy friends, thy kindred flee? Dost thou no longer Charlotte know? Have friends no charms for thee?

Why, Werter, dost thou leave me so, All lonely, full of fears? Behold thy friends are left to woe, And Charlotte left in tears.

Why, Werter, dost thou leave me so, To wander round thy tomb? Alas! presentiments of woe Foretold thy fatal doom.

Why Werter didst thou leave me so, In terrible despair? Those pistols did thy fate foreknow: Ah! why was Charlotte there!

Why, Werter, didst thou leave me so? Alas! thou wrong'dst my love, To leave me weeping here below, While thou art blest above.

Werter, thou shalt not leave me so: We must not parted be: I quit the world--to heav'n I go! Werter, I fly to thee.

_Amer. Museum_, I-180, Feb. 1787, Phila.

DEATH OF WERTER.

I

And say, did Charlotte's hand these pistols give? Come, ye dear pledges, sacred to my love-- Since giv'n by her, 'twould be a crime to live-- No; come ye pistols; all your death I prove.

II

But first one kiss, for there did Charlotte touch, Ye sacred relics, now are ye most dear; Tho' o'er your deeds will Charlotte sorrow much, And even Albert drop a pitying tear.

III

May heav'n forgive the unconsider'd deed! It gave me passions, nor could I controul: But if, poor Werter, 'tis a crime to bleed, The God of heav'n have mercy on thy soul.

IV

Charlotte I go!--my pistols have their load: My last, my dying thoughts are fix'd on you! I go! I go thro' death's untrodden road; Once, and for ever, Charlotte--Oh! adieu!

_Amer. Museum_, I-474, May 1787, Phila.

WERTER'S EPITAPH.

I

Stranger! whoe'er thou art, that from below This grass-green hill, with steady steps dost press; Shed sympathetic tears; for stranger know, Here lies the son of sorrow and distress.

II

Although his soul with ev'ry virtue mov'd, Tho' at his birth deceitful fortune smil'd, In one sad hour, too fatally he lov'd; False fortune frown'd, and he was sorrow's child.

III

Heav'n gave him passions, as she virtue gave, But gave not pow'r those passions to suppress: By them subdu'd he slumbers in the grave-- The soul's last refuge from terrene distress.

IV

Around his tomb, the sweetest grass shall spring; And annual flowers shall ever blossom here; Here fairy forms their loveliest gifts shall bring, And passing strangers shed the pitying tear.

_Amer. Museum_, I-474, May 1787, Phila.

[Dr. Ladd, _Werter's Epitaph_.]

DESCENT OF ODIN. AN ODE.

_New Haven Gaz. and Conn. Mag._, III-No. 21, May 29, 1788, New Haven.

[Thomas Gray, _Poems_. Publ. by Dodsley--London, July 1768. Publ. by Foulis--Glasgow, Sept. 1768.

Both editions contain the _Descent of Odin_. "The poem was written at Cambridge in 1761. It is a paraphrase of the ancient Icelandic lay called _Vegtams Kvida_, and sometimes _Baldrs draumar_. The original is to be found in Bartholinus, _de causis contemnendae mortis_; Hafniae, 1689, quarto. Gray has omitted to translate the first four lines." Cf. _Works of Thomas Gray_, ed. by Edmund Gosse. N. Y., 1885. I-60.]

CHARACTERISTIC SKETCH OF THE LONG ISLAND DUTCH.

Still on those plains their num'rous race survive, And, born to labour, still are found to thrive; Through rain and sunshine, toiling for their heirs, They hold no nation on this earth like theirs. Where'er they fix, all nature smiles around-- Groves bend with fruit, and plenty clothes the ground; No barren trees to shade their domes, are seen; Trees must be fertile, and their dwellings clean; No idle fancy dares its whims apply, Or hope attention from the master's eye. All tends to something that must pelf produce, All for some end, and ev'ry thing its use. Eternal scow'rings keep their floors afloat, Neat as the outside of the Sunday coat. The wheel, the loom, the female band employ,-- These all their pleasure, these their darling joy. The strong-ribb'd lass no idle passions move, No nice ideas of romantic love; He to her heart the readiest path can find, Who comes with gold, and courts her to be kind. She heeds not valour, learning, wit, or birth, Minds not the swain--but asks him, what he's worth? No female fears in her firm breast prevail, The helm she governs, and she trims the sail; In some small barque the way to market finds, Hauls aft the sheet, or veers it to the winds: While, lac'd ahead, subservient to her will, Hans smokes his pipe, and wonders at her skill. Health to their toils--thus may they still go on-- Curse on my pen! what virtues have I drawn! Is this the gen'ral taste? No--truth replies-- If fond of beauty, guiltless of disguise, See (where the social circle meant to grace) The handsome Yorker shades her lovely face; She, early led to happier talks at home, Prefers the labours that her sex become; Remote from view, directs some fav'rite art, And leaves to hardier man the ruder part.

_Amer. Museum_, VII, Jan.-June 1790, Appendix I-42, Phila.

ON READING THE SORROWS OF WERTER.

Mistaken youth! thy love, to frenzy wrought, Spurn'd calm reflection and each sober thought. A little time had shewn e'en Charlotte's charms Had shrunk and faded in a Werter's arms: For guilt and meanness ne'er could dwell with thee; And virtuous friendship soon had set thee free. But hadst thou triumph'd o'er the fair one's fall, Thou then, as now, hadst met the fatal ball; Still keener anguish had attack'd thy mind Than e'en now dying thy stung soul did find. None dare say Mercy wont extend its aid; } But who of that would not have been afraid, } If with a kiss thou Charlotte hadst betray'd. }

--Laura.

_Universal Asylum and Columbian Mag._, V-269, Oct. 1790, Phila.

WERTER'S EPITAPH By the late Dr. Ladd.

_Mass. Mag._, III-114, Feb. 1791, Boston.

[Also in _Amer. Museum_, I-474, May 1787, Phila.]

ELLA. A TALE.

History says that Sivard, King of Sweden, entered Norway with a numerous army, and committed the greatest enormities; but was at last overthrown, his army routed, and himself slain by one of those women whom he had brutally abused.

Between Norwegian hills wide spreads a plain, By nature form'd for sport; The Vet'ran warrior here, and hardy swain, To annual games resort.

High o'er their heads was hung the hoary brow, Which cast an ample shade; From thence these words majestic seem'd to flow-- "Fierce foes your sports invade!"

They upward gaze--a warrior struck their sight; He bore aloft his lance, All sheath'd in arms, unsufferably bright, Where beamy splendors dance.

The western sun-beam round his helmit flies, He more than man appears; And more than mortal seem'd to sound the voice That rang upon their ears.

"Ye sons of Norway! harken to my tale, "Your rural games oh cease; "Sivard is marching thro' Dulvellon's vale, "Break off the sports of peace!

"The bloody Sivard leads his conqu'ring Swedes, "He riots in our shame; "The man, the matron, and the infant bleeds-- "Norway is but a name!

"The husband sees--curse on the tyrant's lust-- "He sees his beauteous bride-- "Her virtue, worth, and honor in the dust-- "Oh where is Norway's pride!

"Rouse! rouse Norwegians! take your arms amain, "Let helms o'ershade each brow; "Let's meet these Swedish daemons in the plain, "And lay their triumphs low.

"O had you seen what these poor eyes have seen! "'Twas Sivard done the deed-- "Our hoary monarch, and our helpless queen, "I--yes, I saw them bleed.

"Their daughter Ella--no, I will not tell! "Norwegians ne'er enquire-- "Ne'er hear it--what the royal maid befel; "I see your souls on fire.

"Oh seize your swords, your spears, helms, and shields! "Oh vindicate your fame! "Sivard and Sweden glare on Norway's fields; "Remember Norway's name."

He said--tears flow apace, fierce glow the swains, Rage fills each honest breast; In Swedish blood to wipe away their stains, Was ev'ry thought address'd.

Then red-hair'd Rollo, fierce advancing cri'd,-- "Who'er thou art, come down, "We live on hills, to ev'ry toil we're tri'd, "And war is all our own.

"Let Sivard come, we'll meet the tyrant here: "But stranger come thou down." He came--Old Athold gaz'd with look severe;-- He gaz'd--but ceas'd to frown.

"Or Athold has forgot his monarch's face, "Or sure thou art his son! "Eric, of mighty Norway's royal race!"-- Full quick the tidings run.

With shouts they press to see the beauteous chief; The aged kiss his hand: On either side, fast roll'd the marks of grief, Then Athold spoke the band--

"Ye sons of Norway, to your homes repair, "There seize the sword and shield, "And ere the morning's purple streaks the air, "Meet Eric in the field.

"Oh prince! do you with aged Athold go, "And take refreshing sleep; "Athold will sing and soothe the rising woe, "Or break his harp and weep!"

'Twas night--in Athold's hall each took his place; Of other times he sung; Fast stream'd the tears adown the hero's face, And groans responsive rung.

Bright came the morn; and bright in batter'd arms, The rustic vet'rans came: And many a youth, untri'd in rough alarms, Now hop'd a patriot's name.

They heard from far the hum of Sivard's host; Young Eric struck his shield; Then high in air his heavy spear he tost, And blaz'd along the field.

Next aged Athold follow'd; Rollo strong; Black Calmar lifts his mace; Culullin, Marco, Streno, rush along, And all the rugged race.

Fierce came the Swede;--in strength of numbers proud; He scorn'd his feeble foe; But soon the voice of battle roar'd aloud, And many a Swede lay low.

Strong Rollo struck the tow'ring Olaus dead, Full fifteen bleed beside: Old Athold cleft the brave Adolphus head, In all his youthful pride.

But Eric! Eric! rang'd the field around, On Sivard still he cri'd; The gasping Swedes lay heap'd upon the ground-- Sivard! the hills repli'd.

In fury Sivard seiz'd his shining shield, His mail, his helm, and spear; He mounts his car, and thunders o'er the field; Now Norway knows no fear.

Great Rollo falls beneath his dreadful arm, His steeds are stain'd with blood; Young Eric smil'd to hear the loud alarm, And flew to stop the flood.

He rag'd, he foam'd--fierce flew the thirsty spear, Down fell the foremost steed: Astonish'd Sivard felt unusual fear, "Tyrant thou'rt doom'd to bleed!"

Up sprang the youth--deep fell the sword, Sunk in the tyrant's brow: Fast fly the Swedes, and leave their hated lord, His mighty pride laid low.

Now Norway's sons their great deliv'rer hail, But lo! he bleeds! he falls! Old Athold strips the helm and beamy mail, And on his Gods he calls.

He lifts the helm, and down the snowy neck Fast falls the silky hair-- And could those limbs, the conq'ring Sivard check! Oh pow'r of great despair!

Life ebbs apace--she lifts her languid head, She strives her hand to wave; Confess to all, the beauteous Ella said-- "Thanks, thanks companions brave:

"Freedom rewards you--naught can Ella give, "Low, low poor Ella lies; "Sivard is dead! and Ella wou'd not live." She bleeds--she faints--she dies!

_N. Y. Mag. or Lit. Repos._, II-235, Apr. 1791, N. Y.

PEASANT OF THE ALPS.

Where cliffs arise by Winter crown'd, And through dark groves of pine around, Down the deep chasms, the snowed torrents foam, Within some hollow, shelter'd from the storms, The PEASANT of the ALPS his cottage forms, And builds his humble, happy home.

Unenvied is the rich domain, That far beneath him on the plain, Waves its wide harvests and its olive groves; More dear to him his hut, with plantain thatch'd, Where long his unambitious heart attach'd, Finds all he wishes, all he loves.

There dwells the mistress of his heart, And _Love_ who teaches ev'ry art, Has bid him dress the spot with fondest care; When borrowing from the vale its fertile soil, He climbs the precipice with patient toil, To plant her fav'rite flow'rets there.

With native shrubs, a hardy race, There the green myrtle finds a place, And roses there, the dewy leaves decline; While from the crags' abrupt and tangled steeps, With bloom and fruit the Alpine berry peeps, And, blushing, mingles with the vine.

His garden's simple produce stor'd, Prepared for him by hands ador'd Is all the little luxury he knows: And by the same dear hands are softly spread, The Chamois' velvet spoil that forms the bed, Where in her arms he finds repose.

But absent from the calm abode Dark thunder gathers round his road, Wild raves the wind, the arrowy light'nings flash, Returning quick the murmuring rocks among, His faint heart trembling as he winds along; Alarm'd he listens to the crash.

Of rifted ice!--Oh, man of woe! O'er his dear cot--a mass of snow, By the storm sever'd from the cliff above, Has fall'n--and buried in its marble breast, All that for him--lost wretch--the world possest, His home, his happiness, his love!

Aghast the heartstruck mourner stands! Glaz'd are his eyes--convuls'd his hands, O'erwhelming anguish checks his labouring breath; Crush'd by Despair's intolerable weight, Frantic he seeks the mountain's giddiest height, And headlong seeks relief in death.

A fate too similar is mine, But I--in ling'ring pain repine, And still my last felicity deplore; Cold, cold to me is that dear breast become, Where this poor heart had fondly fix'd its home, And love and happiness are mine no more.

_N. Y. Mag., or Lit. Repos._, III-443, July 1792, N. Y.

ELLA. A TALE.

_Lady's Mag. and Repos._, I-97, Jan. 1793, Phila.

[Also in _N. Y. Mag. or Lit. Repos._, II-235, Apr. 1791, N. Y.]

A GENERAL VIEW OF SWITZERLAND AND THE ALPS, WITH AN AFFECTING ANECDOTE.

* * * * *

But to return to our Alps. Here, savage rocks of an inaccessible height; there, torrents bursting, as it were, from the clouds, and rolling down the rugged precipices:

The gay train, Of fog, thick roll'd into romantic shape,

may, perhaps, excite your wonder, but not exceed the compass of your imagination. But how shall I convey to you an idea of the ever-varying and accidental beauties of this majestic scenery! Sometimes the vapour-winged tempest, flitting along some lonely vale, embrowns it with a solemn shade, whilst every thing around glitters in the fullness of meridian splendour. On a sudden, all is dark and gloomy; the thunder rolls from rock to rock, till echo seems tired with the dreadful repetition: add to this, the gradual approach of the evening, the last gleam of sunshine fading on the mountain-brow, the lingering twilight still warding off the veil of night, till the rising moon just continues, in vision, a glimmering of its faded glories:

Now all's at rest--and ere the wearied swain Rise to his labour on the upland lawn, Shall not the muse from nature catch a strain, To wake, and greet him at the morning dawn?

Oh! let her tell him that the feeling heart, Oft to the mountain side by memory led, Shall seek those blessings wealth can ne'er impart, And wish to share the quiet of his shed:

Where ev'ry sordid passion lull'd to rest, Man knows each gift of nature how to prize: Flies from the storm unto his fair one's breast, And there reposing waits serener skies.

Say, ye proud sons of fortune and of power, Can aught the joys you feel, with these compare? Can the full triumph of ambition's hour, When tempests threaten, sooth your anxious care?

Or shall the tenant of yon lonely cot, That smiles with pity on your pageant state, Pleas'd with his poor but independent lot, Expose the wretchedness of being great?

Unknown to you, the houseless child of woe, The friendless pilgrim, or the hungry poor; Unleft the good ye carelessly bestow, The hand that feeds them, drives them from your door.

Here cruel charity no off'ring makes, That whilst it aids, insults the big distress, The heart that welcomes, ev'ry grief partakes, And only pities where it can't redress.

Such are the scenes, my dear Lord, such the hospitality I am now going to quit. I know not why I wished to jingle their virtues into rhyme, unless it was, that my prose began to run upon stilts, or that I mistook a momentary enthusiasm for a poetical inspiration. In fact, every thought and conception is so far raised above the common train of ideas, that the error is excusable, especially too when the imaginary poet sets out with

Sublimi seriens sidera vertice.

* * * * *

Adieu, Ever your's.

_Lady's Mag. and Repos._, I-253, May 1793, Phila.

A DUTCH PROVERB.

_Weekly Museum_, VII, Mar. 14, 1795, N. Y.

[Also in _Boston Mag._, III-81, Feb. 1786, Boston.]

A DUTCH PROVERB.

_Phila. Minerva_, I, May 16, 1795, Phila.

[Also in _Boston Mag._, III-81, Feb. 1786, Boston.]

VERSES BY THE LATE KING OF PRUSSIA.

_Rural Mag. or Vt. Repos._, I-494, Oct. 1795, Rutland.

[Same as _The Relaxation of War_ in _Amer. Mag. or Mo. Chron._, I-440, June 1758, Phila.]

For the Weekly Museum. THE GOTHIC CASTLE.

"The Days of Chivalry are gone." Burke's Letter on the French Revolution.

See! now the landscape fades away, As westward flies the orb of day: See the solemn night appear, With silence her sedate compeer.

Hark! the surgy shore resounds, As from the rocks the wave rebounds: Rocks, on whose o'er-hanging brows, The ragged surf-fed samphire grows.

Lo! the beacon's distant rays O'er the waste of water plays, Friendly to the port-bound bark, On his watch, the seaman's mark.

Mark! yon dreary Gothic pile, --Where murder oft did glut and smile,-- Dungeons dire of vanquish'd hosts, --Hark! the screams of wandering ghosts!--

Now a double gloom is spread O'er each turret's murky head, While from th' Owlet's dismal cry Intruding joys affrighted fly.

Ye vengeful walls for ruin built! Scenes accurs'd of hell-born guilt! Direful were your fierce alarms-- Hist! the sentry calls--"To arms!"

How many barons here were slain, In coats of armour lock'd in vain!-- How many feudal vassals dy'd, Ebbing here life's crimson tide!

What secret woes lay close immur'd! What anguish wretches erst endur'd! When in your sable cells confin'd Oppression's chosen victims pin'd.

How sullen stands yon rugged tow'r! Seems it not on the cot to low'r? As it looks, with proud disdain, O'er the wide-extended plain.

Here the feudal times I trace; The lordling's power--the poor's disgrace-- Here while it moulders, all may see "A Monument of Chivalry."

Aug. 13, 1796. ORLANDO.

_Weekly Museum_, IX, Aug. 13, 1796, N. Y.

PEASANT OF THE ALPS.

_Phila. Minerva_, III, Aug. 19, 1797, Phila.

[Also in _N. Y. Mag. or Lit. Repos._, III-443, July 1792, N. Y.]

BY THE LATE KING OF PRUSSIA.

_Rural Mag._, I, July 21, 1798, Newark.

[Same as _The Relaxation of War_ in _Amer. Mag. or Mo. Chron._, I-440, June 1758, Phila.]

THE WATER-KING.

A Danish Ballad. By the Author of Alonzo the Brave.

[The poem follows.]

Since writing these stanzas, I have met with two old Scotch ballads which have some resemblance with "The Water King"; one is called "May Colvin," and relates the story of a king's daughter who was beguiled from her father's house by a false Sir John; the other, intitled "Clerk Colvil," treats of a young man who fell into the snares of a false mermaid; the latter, indeed, bears a still stranger resemblance to the Danish tradition of "The Erl-King's Daughter." The fragment of "The Water King" may be found in "Herder's Volkslieder."

Many inquiries have been made respecting the elementary monarchs mentioned a few pages back; I must inform my readers that all I know respecting the Water King (called in the German translation "Der Wasser-Mann") and the Erl-King (called in German Erlkoenig) is gathered from the foregoing ballad and two others which I shall here insert. With respect to the Fire King and the Cloud King, they are entirely of my own creation; but if my readers choose to ascribe their birth to the "Comte de Gabalis," they are very welcome.

_Weekly Mag._, III-92, Aug. 18, 1798, Phila.

[J. G. Herder, _Der Wassermann_ in the Fourth Book (_Nordische Lieder_) of _Stimmen der Voelker in Liedern_. Trans. from the German.

M. G. Lewis, _The Monk_ and _Tales of Wonder_. Cf. note to _The Erl-King_ in _Weekly Mag._, III-93, Aug. 18, 1798.]

WERTER'S FAREWELL TO CHARLOTTE.

"Sunt lacrimae rerum; et mentem mortalia tangunt."

Virg. Ae. I-466.

The conflict's o'er--ah! lovely maid, adieu! Before these sad, these parting lines, you view; Before the fields with early dawn shall bloom, Your Werter rests beneath the silent tomb: No more to view the beauties of the day, No more to listen to thy heavenly lay, To sit, in transport, and to hear thee talk, Or with thee wander, in an ev'ning walk, Along the margin of the winding flood, Thro' the green fields, or in the shady wood. O! Charlotte! when you see the floods arise, And wintry storms descending from the skies, The wat'ry gloom that fills the plain below, And all around one dreary waste of snow; Will you not then, a sigh in sorrow heave, For the lost pleasures of a summer's eve, Recall the time when you so oft have seen Thy hapless lover on the verdant green, Or thro' the vale approaching from the grove, To view thy charms and pine in hopeless love, Gaze on thy angel form, for without she, The world appear'd a boundless blank to me. As when to seamen, from the midnight skies The moon's bright beams in brilliant glory rise, To guide them wand'ring thro' the wat'ry plain, Or land them on their native shores again; Thus, Charlotte, I no other joy could see, Than pass the vacant day, and gaze on thee, Live in thy joys, or in thy sorrows die, "And drink delicious poison from thine eye," As the lost insect round the taper flies, And courts the fatal flame by which it dies. But, Charlotte, now those fleeting joys are fled, And Werter sinks among the silent dead From the bright hopes of life forever gone, His mem'ry lost, and e'en his name unknown, The time shall come, when in the vacant mind, The fondest friend no trace of me shall find; When e'en my kindred my sad fate shall hear, And view my mould'ring grave without a tear, Think on the light impressions of the mind, Which flee as midnight dreams, and leave no trace behind. This eve I wander'd thro' each beauteous scene, Each fertile valley, and each level green, Pensive and sad I view'd the foaming flood; And the wild winds disturb the silent wood. Beheld the sun's great orb, in glory bright, Descend behind the western surge in night; While on the hill to see its beams, I stood, And view'd it sinking in the briny flood, I felt my heart with double sorrows prest, And life's last hope desert my throbbing breast; The world's vast scene forever clos'd from sight, And all involv'd in one eternal night. Ah! shall I ne'er again thy image know, In these sad realms of misery and woe, Or is there yet a place in heaven design'd, For hapless mortals by th' eternal mind, Some winding valley, or some shady grove, Some blissful mansions in the realms above, Where Charlotte's shade and mine may one day meet, Our suff'rings ended and our bliss complete, In the bright regions of eternal light, Where all is perfect joy and pure delight. When in the summer's eve you chance to stray Thro' the low vale, or on the broad highway, Or in the churchyard, thro' the shady trees, You hear the whistling of the midnight breeze, Wave high the grass, in solitary gloom, Around the heap that shews thy lover's tomb-- Ah, then will you not one sad thought bestow, On him who could no greater blessing know Than pass the hour with fleeting joys with thee, Gaze on thy charms and watch thy wand'ring eye, Observe the beauteous image of thy mind, Disclose a soul for heaven alone design'd, Or view thy distant form amidst the trees, And thy white tresses floating in the breeze; Or see thy fingers strike, with tender lays, Such notes as bards in heaven alone can raise; Such notes as Orpheus' self might lean to hear, And force from Pluto's soul the melting tear. Yes, Charlotte's self, my sad remains shall see, And Charlotte's tender heart will heave a sigh for me.

_Dessert to the True American_, I-No. 20, Nov. 24, 1798, [Phila.].

The following burlesque on the style, in which most of the German romantic ballads are written, is replete with wit and humour; and we trust will prove amusing even to the greatest admirers of that style of writing. It is only necessary to premise that Lord Hoppergallop has left his servant maid at his country mansion, where she has fallen with the gardener.

Cold blows the blast:--the night's obscure: The mansion's crazy wainscots crack: The sun had sunk:--and all the moor, Like ev'ry other moor--was black.

Alone, pale, trembling, near the fire, The lovely Molly Dumpling sat, Much did she fear, and much admire, What Thomas, gard'ner could be at.

Listening, her hand supports her chin, But, ah! no foot is heard to stir: He comes not, from the garden, in; Nor he, nor little Bobtail cur.

They cannot come, sweet maid, to thee! Flesh, both of cur and man, is grass! And what's impossible, can't be; And never, never, comes to pass!

She paces through the hall antique, To call her Thomas from his toil; Opes the huge door;--the hinges creak,-- Because the hinges wanted oil.

Thrice on the threshold of the hall, She "Thomas" cried, with many a sob; And thrice on Bobtail did she call, Exclaiming sweetly--"Bob! Bob! Bob!"

Vain maid! a gard'ners corpse, 'tis said In answers can but ill succeed; And, dogs that hear when they are dead Are very cunning dogs, indeed!

Back through the hall she bent her way, All, all was solitude around! The candle shed a feeble ray-- Though a large mould of four to th' pound.

Full closely to the fire she drew; Adown her cheek a salt tear stole, When, lo! a coffin out there flew, And in her apron burnt a hole!

Spiders their busy death watch tick'd; A certain sign that fate will frown; The clumsy kitchen clock, too, click'd; A certain sign it was not down.

More strong and strong her terrors rose;-- Her shadow did the maid appal;-- She trembled at her lovely nose-- It look'd so long against the wall.

Up to her chamber, damp and cold, She clim'd lord Hoppergallop's stair;-- Three stories high, long, dull and old-- As great lords' stories often are.

All Nature now appear'd to pause; And "o'er the one half world seem'd dead;" No "curtain'd sleep" had she;--because She had no curtains to her bed.

Listening she lay;--with iron din, The clock struck twelve; the door flew wide; When Thomas grimly glided in, With little Bobtail by his side.

Tall, like the poplar, was his size; Green, green his waistcoat was, as leeks, Red, red as beet root, were his eyes; And, pale, as turnips, were his cheeks!

Soon as the spectre she espied, The fear struck damsel faintly said, "What would my Thomas?"--he replied, "O! Molly Dumpling! I am dead."

"All in the flower of youth I fell, Cut off with health's full blossom crown'd; I was not ill--but in the well I tumbled backwards, and was drown'd.

"Four fathom deep thy love doth lie; His faithful dog his fate doth share; We're friends;--this is not he and I; We are not here--for we are there.

"Yes;--two foul water fiends are we; Maid of the moor! attend us now! Thy hour's at hand;--we come for thee! The little fiend cur said "bow wow!"

"To wind her in her cold grave, A Holland sheet a maiden likes; A sheet of water thou shalt have; Such sheets there are in Holland dykes."

The fiends approach; the maid did shrink; Swift through the night's foul air they spin; They took her to the green well's brink, And, with a souse, they plump'd her in.

_Dessert to the True American_, I-No. 27, Jan. 12, 1799, Phila.

[The author evidently had Buerger's _Lenore_ in mind when writing the above.]

[Burlesque on the Style, in which most of the German romantic Ballads are written.]

_Phil. Repos._, I-328, Aug. 22, 1801, Phila.

[Also in _Dessert to the True American_, I-No. 27, Jan. 12, 1799, Phila.]

For the Port Folio. AN AUTHOR'S EVENINGS. From the shop of Messrs. Colon and Spondee.

Among the newest and most delightful miscellanies, lately received from England, may be ranked a poetical work, entitled "_Tales of Terror_." This is partly intended as a burlesque of the various ballads in Lewis's celebrated romance, "_The Monk_." We well remember, that this member of the British parliament has amused himself, and alarmed his readers, by resorting to the cells of Gothic superstition, and invoking all the forms of German horror, to appal every timid heart. Hence, we have been haunted by ghosts of all complexions; and "_Cloud Kings_," and "_Water Kings_," and "_Fire Kings_," have been crowned by this poetical magician, to rule with despotism in the realms of Fancy. A lively satirist, endowed with the gifts of Genius, easy in versification, pleasant in his humour, and inimitably successful in parody, has, in some of his "_Tales of Terror_" undertaken to mock the doleful tones of Mr. Lewis's muse, or shall we rather say the hoarse caw of the German raven. The midnight hour has been beguiled, by transcribing the following sarcasm, founded on a well-known nursery story, and our readers will thank us for sitting up so late for their amusement.

THE WOLF KING; OR LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. An Old Woman's Tale.

Veteres avias tibi de pulmone revello _Persius_.

Translated from the Danish of the author of the Water King, etc., and respectfully inscribed to M. G. Lewis, Esq., M.P., as an humble attempt to imitate his excellent version of that celebrated ballad.

The birds they sung, the morning smil'd The mother kiss'd her darling child, And said ... "My dear, take custards three, And carry to your grandmummie."

The pretty maid had on her head A little riding hood of red, And as she pass'd the lonely wood, They call'd her small red riding hood.

Her basket on her arm she hung, And as she went thus artless sung: "A lady lived beneath a hill, Who if not gone, resides there still."

The wolf king saw her pass along, He ey'd her custards heard her song, And cried "That child and custards three This evening shall my supper be!"

Now swift the maid pursu'd her way, And heedless trill'd her plaintive lay; Nor had she pass'd the murky wood, When lo! the wolf king near her stood.

"Oh! stop my pretty child so gay! Oh! whither do you bend your way?" "My little self and custards three Are going to my grandmummie."

"While you by yonder mountain go, On which the azure blue bells grow, I'll take this road; then haste thee, dear, Or I before you will be there.

"And when our racing shall be done, A kiss you forfeit, if I've won; Your prize shall be, if first you come, Some barley sugar and a plumb."

"Oh! thank you, good sir Wolf," said she, And dropt a pretty courtesie: The little maid then onward hied, And sought the blue bell mountain side.

The wolf sped on o'er marsh and moor, And faintly tapp'd at granny's door: "Oh! let me in, grandmummy good, For I am small red riding hood."

"The bobbin pull (the grandam cried), The door will then fly open wide." The crafty wolf the bobbin drew, And straight the door wide open flew.

He pac'd the bed room eight times four, And utter'd thrice a hideous roar; He pac'd the bed room nine times three, And then devour'd poor grandmummie.

He dash'd her brains out on the stones, He gnaw'd her sinews, crack'd her bones; He munch'd her heart, he quaff'd her gore, And up her lights and liver tore.[41]!!!!

Grandmummy's bed he straight got in, Her night-cap tied beneath his chin; And, waiting for his destin'd prey, All snug between the sheets he lay.

Now at the door a voice heard he, Which cried ... "I've brought you custards three; Oh! let me in, grandmummy good, For I am small red riding hood."

"The bobbin pull (the wolf king cried), The door will then fly open wide." The little dear the bobbin drew, And straight the door wide open flew.[42]

She plac'd the custards on the floor, And sigh'd ... "I wish I'd brought you _four_.[43] I'm very tir'd, dear grandmummie; Oh! may I come to bed to thee?"

"Oh come! (the wolf king softly cried), And lie, my sweet one, by my side:" Ah! little thought the child so gay The cruel wolf king near her lay!

"Oh! tell me, tell me, granny dear, Why does your _voice_ so gruff appear?" "Oh! hush, sweetheart (the wolf king said), I've got a small cold in my head!"

"Oh! tell me, grandmummie so kind, Why you've a _tail_ grows out _behind_?" "Oh! hush thee, hush thee, pretty dear, My pincushion I hang on there!"

"Why do your _eyes_ so glare on me?" "They are your pretty face to see." "Why do your _ears_ so long appear?" "They are your pretty voice to hear."

"Oh! tell me, granny, why to-night Your teeth appear so long and white?"[44] Then, growling, cried the wolf so grim, "They are to tear you limb from limb!"

His hungry teeth the wolf king gnash'd, His sparkling eyes with fury flash'd, He op'd his jaws all sprent with blood, And fell on small red riding hood.

He tore her bowels out one and two, "Little maid, I will eat you!" But when he tore out three and four, The little maid she was no more!

Take warning hence, ye children fair; Of wolves' insidious arts beware; And, as you pass each lonely wood, Ah! think of small red riding hood!

With custards sent, nor loiter slow, Nor gather blue bells as you go; Get not to bed with grandmummie, Lest she a ravenous wolf should be!

_Port Folio_, II-173, June 5, 1802, Phila.

[Footnote 41: This stanza is borrowed from an affecting and sanguinary description in a German ballad by Professor Von Spluttbach, called Skulth den Balch, or Sour Mthltz; in English, as far as a translation can convey an idea of the horror of the original, "The Bloody Banquet, or the Gulph of Ghosts!!!" a very terrible and meritorious production.]

[Footnote 42: Repetition is the soul of ballad writing.]

[Footnote 43: The reader will do my heroine the justice to remember that she set out with only _three_, consequently her wish that another had been added, arose from a motive purely affectionate and characteristic. This benevolent trait, ingeniously insinuated, excites the interest of the reader for her, and adds horror to the catastrophe.]

[Footnote 44: Our heroine is here lost in _double_ astonishment; not only the _length_, but the _whiteness_ of her grandmother's teeth excites her wonder and suspicion.]

The following piece of singular and original composition was found amongst the papers of an old Dutchman, in Albany. The manuscript has suffered considerably from the tooth of time, and from several marks of antiquity about it, it may be safely inferred, that a century at least has elapsed since it was written. It is hardly necessary to inform the judicious reader, that this piece is no other than a billet doux, or love epistle, sent by some Dutch swain in the country, to the girl of his heart, who, it seems, had gone to reside some time in the city of Albany.

HANS LETTER TO NOTCHIE.

Mine Cot, vat vose does Hans se feel, Vile lufly Notchie is avay, Vat is de matter, vat de deel, Does make you zo vorever stay.

I sleep none in de day, nor nite, Mit such impashuns I duz burn, Zo, when de shell drake vings hur vlite, Pore Frow she mornes vor his return.

Zo owls will hoot, und cats will mew, Und dogs will howl; und storms will ney, Und zhall not I more anguish sho, Vile lufly Notchie is avay.

A shacket I has lately bot, Und brokenbrooks zo zoft as zilk, Stripd as your under petticote, Und vite as any buttermilk.

Make hase, mine dere, und quikly cum, Mine vaders goin to di, you zee, Und Yacups cot his viddle home, Und we shall haf a daring bee.

I feres zum Yanky vull uv art, More cunnin, as de ferry dele, Vill git away yorn little hart, Zo as da will our horshes stele.

If any wun yore hart shool blunder, Mine horshes Ill do vaggon yoke, Und ghase him quickly by mine dunder, I vly zo zwift as any zpoke.

Vhen yonk Vontoofen, my coot frend Zhall cum to zee you vhare you be, Dese skarlet carters I zhall zend, O die dem on, und dink on me.

_Port Folio_, II-176, June 5, 1802, Phila.

["se feel" (stanza I). "se" is no Dutch word and the verb "feel" (voelen) is not reflexive in Dutch. In stanzas III and VI "mill" appears in the place of "will." This is most likely a misprint, since "_w_ in Dutch is a particularly tenacious sound" and is not replaced by _m_, as is sometimes the case in German. "Brokenbrooks" is a coined word.

The author is indebted for the above information to Professor Wm. H. Carpenter, of Columbia University, and to Arnold Katz, the Dutch vice-consul at Philadelphia.]

HRIM THOR, OR THE WINTER KING. A Lapland Ballad.

I shall not soon tire of copying ballads from the "Tales of Terror." They are the legitimate offspring of genius. We are conducted by a versatile guide, sometimes into the vale of tears, and sometimes into the hall of mirth. But let him lead us where he will, we cheerfully follow and always find ourselves with a sensible and tuneful companion. I am half inclined to suspect that Mr. Lewis himself is the concealed author. We know how he brilliantly travestied his own ballad, Alonzo the Brave, and it is probable that in this collection he is alter et idem.

[The poem follows.]

_Port Folio_, II-195, June 26, 1802, Phila.

[M. G. Lewis, _Tales of Terror_, 1799, Kelso. Cf. p. 18.]

GRIM, KING OF THE GHOSTS, OR THE DANCE OF DEATH.

_Port Folio_, II-199, June 26, 1802, Phila.

[M. G. Lewis, _Tales of Terror_. Cf. p. 18.]

ON THE DEATH OF A BELOVED ONLY SON. Translated from a Danish Inscription. By T. CAMPBELL, Esq.

_Port Folio_, II-352, Nov. 1802, Phila.

WRITTEN IN GERMANY, IN AUTUMN, 1801.

Hail, deadly Autumn, and thy fading leaf, I love thee, drear and gloomy as thou art; Not joyful Spring, like thee can soften grief, Nor gaudy Summer soothe the aching heart; But in thy cheerless, solitary bower, Beneath the varied shade, I love to lie, When dusky Evening's melancholy hour With boding clouds obscures the low'ring sky, And tuneless birds and fading flowers appear In grief to hang their heads, and mourn the parting year.

'Tis not the gloomy sky, the parting year, 'Tis not the Winter's dreary reign I mourn, But absent friends--and _one_ than life more dear, And joys departed, never to return! O gentle Hope, that 'mid Siberia's snows, Can cheer the wretched exile's lingering year, And where the sun on curs'd Oppression glows, Can check the sigh, and wipe the falling tear, Thy gentle care--thy succour I implore; O raise thy heavenly voice, and bid me weep no more.

Thou hears't my prayer--I feel thy holy flame-- And future joys in bright succession rise, And mutual love and friendship--sacred name! And home and all the blessings that I prize. Thou, Memory, lendst thy aid, and to my view Each friend I love, and every scene most dear, In forms more bright than ever painter drew, Fresh from thy pencil's magic tint appear. Roll on, ye lingering hours, that lie between, Till Truth shall realize, and Virtue bless, the scene.

--R.

_N. E. Quarterly Mag._, No. III-271, Oct.-Dec. 1802, Boston.

ALBERT OF WERDENDORFF. OR, THE MIDNIGHT EMBRACE. A German Romance.

Nocturnus occurram furor. Hor.

_Port Folio_, IV-334, Oct. 20, 1804, Phila.

[M. G. Lewis, _Tales of Terror_, 1799, Kelso.]

ON THE DEATH OF MR. HANDEL.

In the midst of the performance of his Lent Oratorio, (1759) of the Messiah, nature exhausted, he dropt his head upon the keys of the organ he was playing upon, and with difficulty raised up again. He recovered his spirits, and went on with the performance until the whole was finished. He was carried home, and died.

To melt the soul, to captivate the ear, (Angels such melody might deign to hear,) To anticipate on earth the joys of heav'n, 'Twas Handel's task: to him that pow'r was giv'n.

Ah, when he late attuned Messiah's praise, With sound celestial, with melodious lays: A last farewell, his languid looks express'd, And thus, methinks, th' enraptur'd crowd addrest.

"Adieu, my dearest friend, and also you, "Joint sons of sacred harmony, adieu! "Apollo whispering, prompts me to retire, "And bids me join the bright seraphic choir:

"Oh! for Elijah's car!" great Handel cry'd: Messiah heard his voice, and Handel died.

_Boston Weekly Mag._, II-208, Oct. 20, 1804, Boston.

WRITTEN IN GERMANY, ON ONE OF THE COLDEST DAYS OF THE CENTURY, BY W. WORDSWORTH.

_Port Folio_, IV-342, Oct. 27, 1804, Phila.

[William Wordsworth, _idem_.

"The Reader must be apprised, that the stoves in North Germany generally have the impression of a galloping horse upon them, this being part of the Brunswick arms."]

A HUMBLE IMITATION OF SOME STANZAS, WRITTEN BY W. WORDSWORTH, IN GERMANY, ON ONE OF THE COLDEST DAYS OF THE CENTURY.

'A fig for your languages, German and Norse, Let me have the song of the _kettle_ And the _tongs_ and the _poker_.'--W. W.

[The poem, which contains no references to Germany, follows.]

_Port Folio_, IV-342, Oct. 27, 1804, Phila.

AGAINST FAUSTUS.

In scorn of writers, Faustus still doth hold, Nought is now said, but hath been said of old; Well, Faustus, say my wits are gross and dull, If for that word I give thee not a Gull: Thus then I prove thou holdst a false position; I say thou art a man of fair condition, A man true of thy word, tall of thy hands, Of high descent and left good store of lands; Thou with false dice and cards hast never play'd, Corrupted never widow, wife or maid, And, as for swearing, none in all this realm, Doth seldomer in speech curse or blaspheme. In fine, your virtues are so rare and ample, For all our Song thou mayst be made a sample. This, I dare swear, _none ever said before_, This, I may swear, _none ever will say more_.

_Port Folio_, IV-383, Dec. 1, 1804, Phila.

THE CELEBRATED SWISS AIR, RANZ DES VACHES.

"This air, so dear to the Swiss," says Rousseau, "was forbidden by the French government to be played among the Swiss soldiers, employed in the service of France, under pain of death; because it excited such a fond remembrance of the scenes they had witnessed in their own native country, and such a strong desire of seeing them again, that it caused them to shed tears, to desert, or, if they despaired of this, to commit suicide."

Quand reverrai-je, en un jour, Tous les objets de mon amour? Nos claires ruisseaux, Nos couteaux [_sic_], Nos hameaux, Nos montagnes, Et l'ornament de nos campagnes, La si gentille Isabeau? A l'ombre d'un ormeau, Quand danserai-je au son du chalumeau?

Quand reverrai-je, en un jour, Tous les objects de mon amour? Mon pere, Ma mere, Mon frere Ma soeur, Mes agneaux Mes troupeaux, Ma bergere? Quand reverrai-je, en un jour, Tous les objet de mon amour?

LITERAL TRANSLATION.

When shall I behold again, in one day, all the pleasing objects of my affection?--our clear streams, our cottages [_sic_], our hamlets, our mountains, and the ornament of our fields, the gentle Isabelle?--Under the shade of a spreading elm, when shall I dance again to the sound of the tabor?

When shall I behold again, in one day, all pleasing objects of my love?--my father, mother, brothers, sisters, my lambs, my flocks, and my faithful shepherdess?--When shall I behold again, in one day, all the pleasing objects of my affection?

Boston, Jan. 30, 1805.

_Boston Weekly Mag._, III-60, Feb. 2, 1805, Boston.

For the Port Folio. THE SCANDINAVIAN HERO.

SKOGUL.

From midst the dusty fields of war To realms beyond the northern star, To loud Valhalla's echoing halls, I bear the hero ere he falls; The valiant dwell in those abodes, And sit amid carousing gods; Not goblets rich, nor flasks of gold, But skulls of mantling mead they hold; The coward while he gasps for breath, Sinks darkling to Hela beneath.

HAROLD.

O be it mine, from conflict borne, To reach the realms of endless morn; At Odin's board my lips I'll lave In the foam'd bev'rage of the brave.

ODIN.

Who breaks the dusty fields of war, Death travels by his clattering car; Perch'd on the whirlwind's thund'ring tower, On comes the sable tempest's power; Ye warriors rise, ye chiefs give room, A godlike guest in youthful bloom, Harold from fields of battle see, Begin th' immortal revelry.

S.

_Port Folio_, V-120, Apr. 20, 1805, Phila.

WERTER'S EPITAPH.

_Phila. Repos._, V-164, May 25, 1805, Phila.

[Also in _Amer. Museum_, I-474, May 1787, Phila.]

PRAYER OF FREDERICK II IN BEHALF OF POETS.

Ye Gods! from whom each favour'd bard Receives those talents verse requires, O teach them truth! for sure 'tis hard They should be all such wicked liars.

_Boston Mag._, I-12, Nov. 9, 1805, Boston.

A SKETCH OF THE ALPS, AT DAYBREAK.

The sun-beams streak the azure skies, And line with light the mountain's brow; With hounds and horns the hunters rise, And chase the roebuck through the snow.

From rock to rock, with giant-bound, High on their iron poles they pass; Mute, lest the air, convuls'd by sound, Rend from above a frozen mass.

The goats wind slow their wonted way, Up craggy steeps and ridges rude; Mark'd by the wild wolf for his prey, From desert cave or hanging wood.

And while the torrent thunders loud, And as the echoing cliffs reply, The huts peep o'er the morning cloud, Perch'd, like an eagle's nest, on high.

_Evening Fireside_, II-74, Feb. 8, 1806, Phila.

In the following exquisite Parody, the sentiments are not less admirable than the talents of the author. We have often expressed our contempt for German plays, and we are happy to fortify our opinion of the Teutonic Muse, with the wit of a man of genius, and a polite scholar.

ODE TO THE GERMAN DRAMA, By Mr. SEWARD. A Parody of Gray's Ode to Adversity.

Daughter of night, chaotic Queen! Thou fruitful source of modern lays, Whose turbid plot, and tedious scene, The monarch spurn, the robber raise. Bound in thy necromantic spell The audience taste the joys of hell, And Briton's sons indignant grown With pangs unfelt before, at crimes before unknown.

When first, to make the nation stare, Folly her painted mask display'd, Schiller sublimely mad was there, And Kotz'bue lent his leaden aid. Gigantic pair! their lofty soul Disdaining reason's weak control, On changeful Britain sped the blow, Who, thoughtless of her own, embraced fictitious woe.

Aw'd by thy scowl tremendous, fly Fair Comedy's theatric brood, Light satire, wit, and harmless joy, And leave us dungeons, chains and blood. Swift they disperse, and with them go, Mild Otway, sentimental Rowe; Congreve averts the indignant eye, And Shakespeare mourns to view the exotic prodigy.

Ruffians, in regal mantle dight, Maidens immers'd in thoughts profound, Spectres, that haunt the shades of night, And spread a waste of ruin round. These form thy never-varying theme, While, buried in thy Stygian stream, Religion mourns her wasted fires And Hymen's sacred torch low hisses, and expires.

O mildly on the British stage, Great Anarch! spread thy sable wings; Not fired with all the frantic rage, With which thou hurl'st thy darts at kings. As thou in native garb art seen, With scattered tresses, haggard mien, Sepulchral chains and hideous cry By despot arts immur'd in ghastly poverty.

In specious form, dread Queen! appear; Let falsehood fill the dreary waste; Thy democratic rant be here, To fire the brain, corrupt the taste. The fair, by vicious love misled, Teach me to cherish and to wed, To low-born arrogance to bend, Establish'd order spurn, and call each outcast friend.

_Port Folio_, I-92, Feb. 15, 1806, Phila.

THE SWEDISH COTTAGE. From Carr's Northern Summer.

Here, far from all the pomp ambition seeks, Much sought, but only whilst untasted prais'd, Content and Innocence, with rosy cheeks, Enjoy the simple shed their hands have rais'd.

On a gay rock it stands, whose fretted base The distant cataract's murm'ring waters lave; Whilst, o'er its grassy roof, with varying grace, The slender branches of the white birch wave.

Behind, the forest fir is heard to sigh, On which the pensive ear delights to dwell; And, as the gazing stranger passes by, The grazing goat looks up and rings his bell.

Oh! in my native land, ere life's decline, May such a spot, so wild, so sweet, be mine!

_Weekly Visitant_, I-63, Feb. 22, 1806, Salem.

[Sir John Carr, _A Northern Summer; or Travels round the Baltic in 1804_, London, 1805.]

ODE TO DEATH. By Frederick II, King of Prussia. Translated from the French by Dr. Hawkesworth.

_Polyanthos_, I-270, Mar. 1806, Boston.

[Also in _New Haven Gaz. and Conn. Mag._, I-339, Dec. 7, 1786, New Haven.]

THE DANCING BEAR. A FABLE.

[Perhaps suggested by Gellert's fable of the same title, but differing much in content. Cf. _Port Folio_, I-400, Dec. 12, 1801, Phila., where a translation of Gellert's poem is given.]

_Emerald_, I-118, July 5, 1806, Boston.

The following song by M. G. Lewis Esq. is, as we are apprized by that gentleman, derived from the _French_, though the swain who figures in it appears to be a German. The thought is pretty and the measure flowing.

A wolf, while Julia slept, had made Her favorite lamb his prize; Young Casper flew to give his aid, Who heard the trembler's cries. He drove the wolf from off the green, But claim'd a kiss for pay. Ah! Julia, better 'twould have been, Had Casper staid away.

While grateful feelings warm'd her breast, She own'd she loved the swain; The youth eternal love professed, And kiss'd and kiss'd again. A fonder pair was never seen; They lov'd the live long day: Ah! Julia, better 'twould have been, Had Casper staid away.

At length, the sun his beams withdrew, And night inviting sleep, Fond Julia rose and bade adieu, Then homeward drove her sheep. Alas! her thoughts were chang'd, I ween, For thus I heard her say; Ah! Julia, better 'twould have been, Had Casper staid away.

_Port Folio_, II-94, Aug. 16, 1806, Phila.

EXTRACTS FROM "THE WANDERER OF SWITZERLAND" by James Montgomery, London, 1806.

_Port Folio_, II-369, 412, Dec. 20, 31, 1806, Phila.

[James Montgomery, _The Wanderer of Switzerland and Other Poems_, London, 1806. The first American edition from the second London edition--N. Y., 1807.

Extracts from Parts VI and I respectively. Cf. Preface.]

RUNIC ODE. THE HAUNTING OF HAVARDUR. By C. Leftly, Esq.

Son of Angrym, warrior bold, Stay thy travel o'er the wold; Stop, Havardur, stop thy steed; Thy death, thy bloody death's decreed. She, Coronzon's lovely maid, Whom thy wizard wiles betray'd, Glides along the darken'd coast, A frantic, pale, enshrouded ghost. Where the fisher dries his net, Rebel waves her body beat; Seduc'd by thee, she toss'd her form To the wild fury of the storm. Know thou feeble child of dust, Odin's brave, and Odin's just; From the Golden Hall I come To pronounce thy fatal doom; Never shall thou pass the scull Of rich metheglin deep and full: Late I left the giant throng, Yelling loud thy funeral song; Imprecating deep and dread Curses on thy guilty head. Soon with Lok, thy tortur'd soul, Must in boiling billows roll; Till the God's eternal light Bursts athwart thy gloom of night; Till Surtur gallops from afar, To burn this breathing world of war. Bold to brave the spear of death, Heroes hurry o'er the heath: Hasten to the smoking feast-- Welcome every helmed guest, Listen hymns of sweet renown, Battles by thy fathers won; Frame thy face in wreathed smiles, Mirth the moodiest mind beguiles.-- Yet I hover always nigh, Bid thee think,--and bid thee sigh; Yet I goad thy rankling breast;-- Never, never, shalt thou rest. What avails thy bossy shield? What the guard thy gauntlets yield? What the morion on thy brow? Or the hauberk's rings below? If to live in anguish fear, Danger always threatening near: Lift on high thy biting mace, See him glaring in thy face; Turn--yet meet him, madd'ning fly, Curse thy coward soul, and die. Not upon the field of fight Hela seals thy lips in night; A brother, of infernal brood, Bathes him in thy heart's hot blood; Twice two hundred vassals bend, Hail him as their guardian friend; Mock thee writhing with the wound, Bid thee bite the dusty ground; Leave thee suffering, scorn'd alone, To die unpitied and unknown. Be thy nacked carcase strew'd, To give the famish'd eagles food; Sea-mews screaming on the shore, Dip their beaks, and drink thy gore. Be thy fiend-fir'd spirit borne, Wreck'd upon the fiery tide, An age of agony abide. But soft, the morning-bell beats one, The glow-worm fades; and, see, the sun Flashes his torch behind yon hill. At night, when wearied nature's still, And horror stalks along the plain, Remember--we must meet again.

_Port Folio_, II-415, Dec. 31, 1806, Phila.

Buerger's beautiful ballad,

Earl Walter winds his bugle horn, To horse! to horse! halloo! halloo!.

has given rise in England to a very humorous

PARODY. Mirth, with thee I mean to live.

Earl Walter kicks the waiter's rump, Down stairs! down stairs! halloo, halloo! They sally forth, they wheel, they jump, And fast the scampering watch pursue.

The jolly bucks from tavern freed, Dash fearless on through thick and thin, While answering alleys, as they speed, Loudly re-echo to their din.

Saint Dunstan's arm, with massy stroke The solemn midnight peal had rung, And bawling out, "Past twelve o'clock," Loud, long and deep the watchman sung.

The clamorous Earl Walter guides, Huzza, Huzza, my merry men, When, puffing, holding both their sides, Two strangers haste to join his train.

The right-hand stranger's locks were grey, But who he was I cannot tell; The left was debonnair and gay, A dashing blood I know full well.

He wav'd his beaver hat on high, Cried, "Welcome, welcome, noble lord! What joys can earth, or sea, or sky, To match our midnight sports afford?"

"Methinks," the other said, "'twere best To leave, my friends, your frantick joys, And for the balmy sweets of rest, Exchange such rude discordant noise."

But still Earl Walter onward hies, And dashing forward, on they go, Huzza, huzza, each toper cries, "Hark forward, forward, hollo ho!"

The jovial band Earl Walter guides, Along the Fleet, up Ludgate-Hill, And puffing, holding both their sides, His boon companions follow still.

From yonder winding lane out springs A phantom, white as snow, And louder still Earl Walter sings, "Hark forward, forward, hollo, ho!"

A quaker prim has crossed the way, He sprawls their nimble feet below, But what care they for _yea_-and-_nay_, Still forward, forward, on they go.

See, at the corner of yon street, A humble stall, with apples crown'd! See, scatter'd by Earl Walter's feet, The woman's apples rolling round.

"O Lord! have mercy on my stall, Spare the hard earnings of the poor, The helpless widow's little all, The fruit of many a watchful hour."

Earnest the right hand stranger pleads, The left still pointing to the prey, The impatient Earl no warning heeds, But furious holds the onward way.

"Away, thou poor old wither'd witch, Or dread the scourge's echoing blow!" Then loud he sung and wav'd his switch, "Hark forward, forward, hollo ho!"

So said, so done; one single bound Clears the _green grocer's_ humble stall; While through the apples scatter'd round, They hurry, hurry, one and all.

And now behold the tim'rous prey, Beyond the reach of Comus' crew, Still lightly trip along the way, Unconscious who her steps pursue.

Again they wheel, their nimble feet The devious way still quickly trace, Down Ludgate-Hill, along the Fleet, The unwearied Earl pursues the chase.

The watch now muster strong and dare Dispute the empire of the field; They wave their cudgels high in air, "Now yield thee, noble Baron yield."

"Unmanner'd vagabonds! in vain You strive to mar our nightly game; Come on! come on! my merry men, The raggamuffins we can tame."

In heaps the victims bite the dust, Down sinks Earl Walter on the ground, Now run who can, and lie who must, For loud the _watchmen's rattles_ sound.

Now to the justice borne along, In sullen majesty they go; The place receives the motley throng, And echoes to their hollo ho!

All mild amid the rout profane, The _justice_ solemn thus began: "Forebear your knighthood thus to stain, Revere the dignity of man.

The meanest trull has rights to plead, Which wrong'd by cruelty or pride, Draw vengeance on thy guilty head, Howe'er by titles dignified."

Cold drops of sweat in many a trill, Adown Earl Walter's temples fall, And louder, louder, louder still, The surly watch for vengeance call.

The right-hand stranger anxious pleads; The clamours of the mob increase, The _riot act_ the justice reads, And binds the Earl to keep the peace.

The court broke up, they sally out, And raise a loud, a last huzza; Then sneak'd away and hung his snout, Each disappointed dog of law.

Muttering full many a curse, and fast Homeward to slumber now they go; Yet spite of all that now has passed, You'll hear next night their hollo ho!

This is the Earl, and this his train, That oft the awaken'd _Cockney_ hears; With rage he glows in every vein When the wild din invades his ears.

The dreaming maid sighs sad and oft, That she her visions must forego, When waken'd from her slumbers soft, She hears the cry of hollo ho!

_Port Folio_, III-44, Jan. 17, 1807, Phila.

[Parody on G. A. Buerger's poem _Der wilde Jaeger_. Cf. pp. 34, 85.]

THE WANDERER OF SWITZERLAND. By JAMES MONTGOMERY.

_Emerald_, II-108, Feb. 28, 1807, Boston.

[James Montgomery, _op. cit._ Extracts given. Cf. Preface.]

SWISS PEASANT.

Turn we, to survey Where rougher climes a nobler race display; Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansion tread, And force a churlish soil for scanty bread, Yet still, e'en here, Content can spread a charm, Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm. Though poor the peasant's hut his feast though small, He sees his little lot, the lot of all; Cheerful at morn, he wakes from short repose, Breathes the keen air, and carrols as he goes. At night returning, every labour sped, He sits him down, the monarch of his shed; Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round surveys, His children's looks, that brighten at the blaze; While his lov'd partner, boastful of her hoard, Displays her cleanly platter on her board; And haply too, some pilgrim, hither led, With many a tale repays the nightly bed.

_Emerald_, II-119, Mar. 7, 1807, Boston.

RUNIC ODE. THE HAUNTING OF HAVARDUR. By C. LEFTLY, Esq.

_Balance and Columbian Repos._, VI-144, May 5, 1807, Hudson, N. Y.

[Also in _Port Folio_, II-415, Dec. 31, 1806, Phila.]

FOREIGN POETICAL, POLITICAL SUMMARY.

PRUSSIA.

* * * * * Still like a Bur she clings and sticks; To Russia tho she grins and kicks, Holds by the fur, which yet may fail, For bears, alas, have got no tail. * * * * *

HOLLAND.

Let Mynheer Vanderschoffeldt flout, And swear and rave for sour krout; Nay kick his frow with solemn phiz, To make her feel how goot it ish. Yet after he has gorg'd his maw With puttermilks and goot olt slaw, Let him remember times are such, The French have Holland, not the Dutch.

GERMANY.

With roaring blunderbuss and thunder All Germany is torn asunder; How num'rous circles near and far Encircl'd in the arms of war; Her Hessian bullies one and all, Pay homage to the spurious Gaul; And John Bull's farm, a goodly station, Makes soup to please the Gallic nation.

_Norfolk Repos._, II-232, May 26, 1807, Dedham, Mass.

ON THE BATTLE OF HOHENLINDEN. By T. CAMPBELL.

_Weekly Inspector_, II-272, June 20, 1807, N. Y.

[Thomas Campbell, _idem_.

Battle of Hohenlinden, Bavaria, was fought Dec. 3, 1800, between the Austrians under Archduke John and the French under General Moreau.]

THE SORROWS OF SWITZERLAND.

Helvetian vales! Where freedom fix'd her sway; And all the social virtues lov'd to stray; Soft blissful seats of undisturb'd repose, Rever'd for ages by contending foes, What envious demon, ranging to destroy, Has marr'd your sports, and clos'd your song of joy? What horrid yells the affrighted ear assail! What screams of terror load the passing gale! See ruffian hordes, with tiger rage advance, The shame of manhood, and the boast of France! See trampled, crush'd and torn in lustful strife The loathing virgin and indignant wife! While wanton carnage sweeps each crowded wood, And all the mountain torrents swell with blood! Lo! Where yon cliff projects its length of shade O'er fields of death, a wounded chief is laid! Around the desolated scene he throws A look, that speaks insufferable woes: Then starting from his trance of dumb despair, Thus vents his anguish to the fleeting air: "Dear native hills, amidst whose woodland maze, I pass'd the tranquil morning of my days, On whose green tops malignant planets scowl, Where hell hounds ravage, and the furies howl; Though chang'd, deform'd, still, still ye meet my view, Ye still are left to hear my last adieu! My friends, my children, gor'd with many a wound, Whose mangled bodies strew the ensanguin'd ground, To parch and stiffen in the blaze of day, Consign'd to vultures, and to wolves a prey, Your toils are past; no more ye wake to feel Lust's savage gripe, or rapine's reeking steel! And Thou, to whom my wedded faith was given, On earth my solace, and my hope in heaven, Approv'd in manhood, as in youth ador'd, Belov'd while living, as in death deplor'd, O stay thy flight! Around this dreary shore A moment hover, and we part no more-- On thy poor corpse, thy bleeding husband hangs, Counts all thy wounds, and feels thy ling'ring pangs-- O righteous fathers! Thou whose fostering care Sustains creation, hear my dying prayer! Look down, look down on this devoted land, O'er my poor country stretch thy saving hand! O let the blood that streaming to the skies, Still flows in torrents--let that blood suffice! To thee the dreadful recompense belongs-- To thy just vengeance I consign my wrongs; O vindicate the rights of nation's sway, And sweep the monsters from the blushing day!"

_Weekly Inspector_, II-288, June 27, 1807, N. Y.

POETRY. Original.

Gentlemen,

It has been remarked, that the poetick department of the Anthology abounds rather in selected than original productions; whether this be the result of choice or necessity, the following lines will not be considered inapplicable since they partake the nature of both characters, and hence, if in other respects worthy to appear, it is presumed they will not be rejected.

FROM THE RUNIC.

'The power of Musick is thus hyperbolically commemorated in one of the songs of the Runic Bards.'[45]

I know a Song, by which I soften and enchant the arms of my enemies, and render their weapons of no effect.

I know a Song, which I need only to sing when men have loaded me with bonds, for the moment I sing it, my chains fall in pieces, and I walk forth at liberty.

I know a Song, useful to all mankind, for as soon as hatred inflames the sons of men, the moment I sing it they are appeased.

I know a Song of such virtue, that were I caught in a storm, I can hush the winds and render the air perfectly calm.

_Mo. Anthology_, IV-602, Nov. 1807, Boston.

[Footnote 45: See Godwin's _Life of Chaucer_.]

THE SONG OF A RUNIC BARD.

Imitated in English verse.

I know a Song, the magick of whose power Can save the Warrior in destruction's hour; From the fierce foe his falling vengeance charm, And wrest the weapon from his nervous arm.