Poems, dramatic and miscellaneous. By Mrs. M. Warren. ; [Two lines from Pope]

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

To Mrs. MONTAGUE, Author of "OB|SERVATIONS on the GENIUS and WRIT|INGS of SHAKESPEARE."

WILL Montague, whose critic pen adds praise, Ev'n to a Shakespeare's bold exalted lays; Who points the faults in sweet Corneille's page, Sees all the errors of the Gallic stage— Corrects Voltaire with a superior hand, Or traces genius in each distant land? Will she across the Atlantic stretch her eye, Look o'er the main, and view the western sky; And there Columbia's infant drama see— Reflect that Britain taught us to be free; Survey with candour what she can't approve; Let local fondness yield to gen'rous love; And, if fair truth forbids her to commend, Then le•• the critic soften to the friend.

The bard of Avon justly bear•• the meed Of fond applause, from Tyber to the Tweed;

Each humbler muse at distance may admire, But none to Shakespeare's fame ere dare aspire. And if your isle, where he so long has charm'd, If Britain's sons, when by his mantle warm'd, Have soar'd in vain to reach his lofty quill, Nature to paint with true Shakespearean skill— A sister's hand may wrest a female pen, From the bold outrage of imperious men.

If gentle Montague my chaplet raise, Critics may frown, or mild good nature praise; Secure I'll walk, and placid move along, And heed alike their censure or their song; I'll take my stand by fam'd Parnassus' side, And for a moment feel a poet's pride.

Plymouth, July 10, 1790.

To TORRISMOND.

A young Gentleman educated in Europe, recommended to the Author's acquaintance, by a Friend of distinction.

My soul is sicken'd when I see the youth, That sports and trifles with eternal truth.

WHEN ancient Britain pip'd the rustic lays, And tun'd to woden notes of vocal praise, The dismal dirges caught the listening throng, And ruder gestures join'd the antique song.

Then the grey druid's grave, majestic air, The frantic priestess, with dishevell'd hair And flaming torch, spoke superstition's reign; While elfin damsels dancing o'er the plain, Allur'd the vulgar by the mystic scene, To keep long vigils on the sacred green.

Then Gothic bards might dress the magic tale, And monkish legends over truth prevail; As weak credulity, with hood wink'd eyes, Had never peep'd behind the thin disguise— The party colour'd veil, at once inwove With ignorance, and some faint fears of Jove; Wrought up to madness by the crafty priest, While artful politicians saw the jest, And laugh'd at virtue as a state machine, An engine fit the multitude to rein; With more facility to rule mankind, They lent their efforts to obscure the mind. Folly and fraud the manly powers debas'd, And from the soul th' etherial spark eras'd,

Plung'd in the depth of black and dreary night, No ••e could trace one avenue to light.

B•••• from the dark impenetrable shade, Reason appear'd, a bright, a heav'n born maid; The moral system, nature's early code, Improv'd by reason, and the voice of God, Dispell'd the mists of error's tenfold maze, And truth triumphant, held a crown of bays.

Celestial reason, thus again restor'd, Her gentle wand through all the world ador'd, She reign'd resplendent o'er the human mind, With brow worn science, hand in hand combin'd, To prove the powers of the active soul, That mounts from earth to nature's farthest pole; 'Till Anglia boasts the birth of Locke and Boyle, And Newton's name adorn'd Britannia's isle; O'er the learn'd world, this heavenly genius shone, And light diffus'd as the meridian sun, Through the vast solar system late defin'd, By vast exertions of his godlike mind; And while investigating nature's laws, He still defended virtue's sacred cause: At once he taught philosophy to shine, Own'd and rever'd the oracles divine; That pens inspir'd had op'd a brighter day, That revelation lent its heavenly ray To lift, exalt, and elevate the soul, To scale the stars, and soar from pole to pole.

But as the clearest hemisphere displays The wandering star, amidst the radiant blaze, Of orb o'er orb, that aids the nightly dance, Of planets rolling through the broad expanse;

Some visionary souls have lost their way, Eccentric wandering 'mid the noon tide ray.

Thus man, frail man, to wide extremes so prone, Truth's perfect path by him so little known, That when emerging from the dismal gloom, Of night and fable, wrap'd in chaos' womb; Some danc'd and play'd around the boundless shore, The depths of erudition just skim'd o'er; Nurs'd in refinements of a sceptic age, They spurn the precepts of the sacred page; Hold revelation but the dream of pride, The wish of man to be to God ally'd: Thus the vain reptile of a fleeting hour, Presumes he knows the plenitude of power.

Through nature's system, through her grand design, He strips the veil from Providence divine; Sees clearly through the vast mysterious plan, Can prove that Heaven forgot its creature, man:

That when to rationals God first gave birth, And chain'd them down to this low distant earth, To guide their path lent not one friendly beam, No intimation of his will supreme; But the weak reasoner's left to grope his way, To Jove, Jehovah, or to Bacchus pray, As he by chance, or caprice, may be led, Born in Italia, or in Athens bred.

Lost in wild passion—prattling much of fate, His highest hope a non existing state; Yet fears alarm, or secret dread of shame; His brutal wishes, pride, or love of fame,

Alternate drag him with magnectic force, 'Till infidelity's his last resource; By turns exploding grace, free will, and fate, Still apprehensive of some future state, Suspense distracts his oscillating brain, 'Till — assures him death shall end his pain.

Ah! Torrismond! poor trembling, doubting youth, Pale with thy fears, and yet affronting truth; Come, my young friend, forsake the sceptic road, And tread the paths superiour genius trod; Leave all the modern metaphysic fools, To reason on by false logistic rules; Leave all the quibblers of a mimic age, By rote to cavil at th' inspired page; Let learned trash their arguments sustain, While common sense, ejected from their brain, They through each jarring incoherence run, Until entangled in the web they've spun, They all things doubt but their superiour sense, And live and die the dupes of dark suspense.

Come, spite of low born pleasures, nobly rise, And seek true happiness beyond the skies, Ere this short whirl of fancy'd joys are o'er, When time shall land thee on some unknown shore; Where truth array'd in silvern robes shall stand, With justice' sword uplifted in her hand.

When thy soul quivers on the awful marge, And death throws ope eternity's broad verge; When conscience whispers, thy probation's o'er, Or her soft voice may loud as thunder roar;

With what amaze you'll find the christian scheme Is not the product of a brain sick dream.

Then not the wits who grace the lists of fame, Sanction'd by Hume, or by a Shaftsbury's name, Or celebrated Voltaire's pointed pen, Who cheats the weak, or charms ev'n wiser men; Nor all the train of infidels combin'd, Can sooth a moment thy immortal mind.

A POLITICAL REVERIE.

As fairy forms, the elfin airy train, And sylphs, sometimes molest the learned brain, Delusive dreams the matron's bosom swell, And, ancient maids, the fancied vision, tell; So beaux and belles see routs and balls in dreams, And drowsy preachers chop polemic themes; The statesman's dream, in theory creates, New perfect forms, to govern broken states.

Logistic scribblers dream of sleeping souls, And dreaming bucks drown reason o'er their bowls; The doubting deist dreams of Styx and fate, Yet laughs at fables of a future state, 'Till Charon's boat shall land him on a shore Of which the dreamer never dreamt before: As sportive dreams infest all ranks of men, A dream, the visionary world, may read again.

[This Reverie was first published, January, 1774, previous to the breaking out of the Civil War, while America was os|cillating between a Resistance by Arms and her ancient Love and Loyalty to Britain.]

LET Grecian bards and Roman poets tell, How Hector fought, and how old Priam fell; Paint armies ravaging the 'Ilian coast, Shew fields of blood and mighty battles lost; Let mad Cassandra, with dishevell'd hair, With streaming eye, and frantic bosom bare, Tell dark presages, and ill boding dreams, Of murder, rapine, and the solemn themes, Of slaughter'd cities, and their sinking spires, By Grecian rage wrap'd in avening fires;

To bolder pens I leave the tragic tale, While some kind muse from Tempe's gentle vale, With softer symphony shall touch the string, And happier tidings from Parnassus bring.

Not Caesar's name, nor Philip's bolder son, Who sigh'd and wept, when he'd one world undone; Who drop'd a tear, though not from pity's source, But grief, to find some bound to brutal force, Shall tune my harp, or touch the warbling string; No bold destroyers of mankind I sing; These plunderers of men I'll greatly scorn, And dream of nations, empires yet unborn.

I look with rapture at the distant dawn, And view the glories of the opening morn, When justice holds his sceptre o'er the land, And rescues freedom from a tyrant's hand; When patriot states in laurel crowns may rise, And ancient kingdoms court them as allies; Glory and valour shall be here display'd, And virtue rear her long dejected head; Her standard plant beneath these gladden'd skies, Her fame extend, and arts and science rise; While empire's lofty spreading sails unfurl'd, Roll swiftly on towards the western world.

Long she's forsook her Asiatic throne, And leaving Afric's barb'rous burning zone, On the broad ruins of Rome's haughty power Erected ramparts round fair Europe's shore; But in those blasted climes no more presides, She, o'er the vast Atlantic surges rides, Visits Columbia's distant fertile plains, Where liberty, a happy goddess, reigns.

No despot here shall rule with awful sway, Nor orphan's spoils become the minion's prey; No more the widow'd bleeding bosom mourns, Nor injur'd cities weep their slaughter'd sons; For then each tyrant, by the hand of fate, And standing troops, the bane of every state, Forever spurn'd, shall be remov'd as far As bright Hesperus from the polar star; Freedom and virtue shall united reign, And stretch their empire o'er the wide domain. On a broad base the commonwealth shall stand, When lawless power withdraws its impious hand; When crowns and sceptres are grown useless things, Nor petty pretors plunder here for kings.

Then bless'd religion, in her purest forms, Beyond the reach of persecuting storms, In purest azure, gracefully array'd, In native majesty shall stand display'd, 'Till courts revere her ever sacred shrine, And nobles feel her influence divine; Princes and peasants catch the glorious flame, And lisping infants praise Jehovah's name.

But while methought this commonwealth would rise, And bright Millenian prospects struck my eyes, I wept 〈…〉〈…〉 once Europa's pride, To 〈…〉〈…〉 vir••ue long she stood ally'd; Th•••• 〈…〉〈…〉 queen, the mistress of the isles, Torn up by ••a••••••on, and intestine broils, Became the prey of each rapacious arm, Strip'd and disrob'd of every native charm.

Strong and erect, like some fair polish'd tower, She long defy'd each neighb'ring hostile power,

And sent her brave and valiant sons in quest Of foreign realms, who by no fear repress'd, The sinking cliffs of Europe's happy shore, They left behind, new climates to explore.

They quitted plenty, luxury and ease, Tempted the dangers of the frozen seas— While hope's soft breezes fann'd the swelling sails, And fame and glory spurn'd the ruder gales, And smooth'd the surge that roll'd from shore to shore, A race of heroes safely wafted o'er. Who pitch'd their tents beneath the dismal shade, Where wild woods roar'd, and savages betray'd; Cities they rear'd around barbarian coasts, And planted vineyards o'er the barren wastes. In Britain's lap the rich produce was pour'd, (Which heaven, benignant, plentifully shower'd,) 'Till she, ungrateful, join'd an impious band, And forging shackles with a guilty hand, Broke the firm union whence her vigour grew, Dissolv'd the bands, and cut the sinews through.

Here a bright form, with soft majestic grace, Beckon'd me on through vast unmeasur'd space; Beside the margin of the vast profound, Wild echos play'd and cataracts rebound; Beyond the heights of nature's wide expanse, Where mov'd superb the planetary dance, Light burst on light, and suns o'er suns display'd The system perfect, nature's God had laid.

This scale of altitude presented whole, The various movements of the human soul; Starting, I cry'd—"Oh! sacred form forgive, Or me from yonder nether world remove;—

Has freedom's genius left Britannia's shore? And must her sleeping patriots live no more? Arise, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 venerable shades! inspire, Each languid soul with patriotic fire; 'Till every bosom feels a noble flame, And emulates a Locke, or Sydney's name."

The seraph smil'd ineffably serene, And shew'd me truth, inscrib'd on her bright mien: She said—"The glow from breast to breast is spread, From sire to son the latent spark's convey'd; Let those bless'd shades rest in their sacred urns, Lie undisturb'd—the glorious ardour burns, Though far transferr'd from their lov'd native soil. Virtue turn'd pale, and freedom left the isle, When she stretch'd out her avari••ious hand, And shew'd her sons her hostile bloody wand; United millions parried back the blow, Britain recoil'd, and sadly learnt to know, Cities with cities leagu'd, and town with town, She trembled at her fate when half undone."

Think not this all a visionary scene, For he who wields the grand, the vast machine; Who bids the morn from eastern ocean rise, And paler Cynthia cheer the midnight skies; Who holds the balance—who stretch'd out the line— O'er all creation form'd the grand design, Ten thousand worlds to scatter o'er the plain, And spread new glories through his wide domain; Who rules the stars, and taught the rolling spheres To measure round the quick revolving years▪ At awful distance from his radiant throne, Suspended, this terrestial ball hangs down;

Yet still presides and watches o'er the fates, Of all the kingdoms that his power creates.

Ere he winds up the closing act of time, And draws the veil from systems more sublime, In swift progression, westward throws the bowl, 'Till mighty empire crowns the spacious whole.

Then this far distant corner of the earth, Shall boast her Decii's and her Fabii's birth; When the young heroes, wondering, shall be told, That Britain barter'd worth for lust of gold; How, lost in luxury, her silken sons, Forgot her Edwards claim'd the Bourbon crowns; That tyrants trembled on their tott'ring throne, And haughty monarchs fear'd Britannia's frown.

But ah! how tarnish'd her illustrious name, Despoil'd of wealth, of grandeur, and of fame! Buried beneath her complicated crimes, A sad memento to succeeding times: Dismay'd, she yet may lift her suppliant hand, And ask protection from this injur'd land; Whose peaceful sons will draw oblivion o'er Unnumber'd wrongs, and rase the blacken'd score: Yet heave a sigh, and drop the tender tear, And weep Britannia's punishment severe; When they researching o•• some future chart, Scarce find the seat of mighty Brunswick's court; For neighbouring states may seize the venal isle, And Ga••lic princes distribute the spoil. The ••••on, prostrate on the naked strand, May see the lilies waving o'er the land; May see Columbia's embrio pendants play, And infant names cut the watry way;

Fame's outstretch'd wing may on the eastern gales Leave the proud Thames, and spread her whiten'd sails.

While rising empire rears her purple crest, Triumphant commerce hails the gladden'd west, And steers her course to Zembla's frozen pole, Or lands in India, free from the control Of base, monopolizing men, combin'd To plunder millions, and enslave mankind. From Florida to Nova Scotian shores She pours her treasures and unlades her stores; Round all the globe she sails from sea to sea, And smiles and prospers, only when she's free.

But here the sweet enchanting vision fled, And darken'd clouds flash'd lightnings o'er my head; The seraph solemn stretch'd abroad her hand, The stars grew pale beneath her burnish'd wand; On her pale front disgust and sorrow hung, And awful accents trembled on her tongue.

Behold! she said, before these great events, Absorb'd in tears, America laments; Laments the ravage of her fruitful plains, While crimson streams the peaceful villa stains.

The weeping matron sighs in poignant pain O'er her last hope, in the rude battle slain: The bleeding bosom of the aged sire, Pierc'd by his son, will in his arms expire; For death promiscuous flies from ev'ry hand, When faction's sword is brandish'd o'er the land; When civil discord cuts the friendly ties, And social joy from every bosom flies; But let the muse forbear the solemn tale, And l••••d once more, the "Grecian painter's veil."

To Mr. —.

Alluding to a Conversation which favoured the Opinion of Fatalism; that human Action, whether good or evil, springs from the Principle of self Love, void of any real Benevo|lence, when traced up to its Source.

THOUGH short, far short, my pen of the sublime, Fate urges on, and bids me write in rhyme; I hope my friend the effort will excuse, Nor blame the heart, but chide the niggard muse.

Is it a wild enthusiastic flame, That swel••s the bosom panting after fame; Dilates the mind, while every ••ail's unfurl'd, To catch the plaudits of a gazing world? Is there no permanent, no steady pole, To point us on, and guide the wandering soul? Does prejudice and passion rule mankind? Are there no springs that actuate the mind, Whose deep meanders have a nobler source, Than vain self love, to guide their winding course?

The gen'rous ardour, stil'd benevolence, Is it all art, to gratify the sense? Or give imagination further scope? That airy queen, who guides the helm of hope, Holds a false mirror to the dazzled sight; A dim perspective, a delusive light, That swells the bubbles of life's shorten'd span, While wisdom laughs at the deluded man, Wrap'd in ecsta••••••s, by imagin'd fame, When the next moment may blot out his name.

Can't the wise precepts of a Plato's school, Or a divine—a still more perfect rule, Arouse, exalt, and animate the soul Self to renounce, and rise above control Of narrow passions, that the man debase, And from his breast his maker's image rase; Or are the fetters that enslave the mind Of such a strong and adamantine kind, So firmly lock'd, and so securely riv'd, The more we strive, the more we're still deceiv'd; Are truth and friendship no where to be found, And patriot virtue nothing but a sound? Then may a Caesar equal honours claim, With gen'rous Brutus' celebrated name; For the poor tribute of a short applause, One stabb'd a tyrant, trampling on the laws; While the proud despot mark'd his baneful way, With virtue's tears, and triumph'd o'er his prey.

Caesar enslav'd, and Brutus would have freed, Self, the sole point in which they're both agreed.

Self love, that stimulus to nobler aims, Bade Nero light the capital in flames; Bade Borgia act a most infernal part, Or Scipio to triumph o'er his heart; Bids — betray his native land, And his base brother lend his perjur'd hand, While freedom weeps, and heav'n forbears to shed Its awful vengeance on the guilty head.

If such is life, and fancy throws the bowl, And appetite and caprice rule the whole; If virtuous friendship has no solid base, But false deception holds the sacred place;

Then from thy mem'ry rase out every line, Nor recollect a sentiment of mine, But dark oblivion's sable veil draw o'er, And I'll forbear to interrupt thee more.

For if vice boasts her origin the same With social joy and patriotic flame, Turn I must wish to bid the world farewel, Turn Anchoret, and choose some lonely cell, Beneath some peaceful hermitage reclin'd, To weep the misery of all mankind, 'Till days and years, till time shall cease to roll, And truth eternal strike the wondering soul.

On a SURVEY of the HEAVENS.

DOES there an infidel exist? Let him look up—he can't resist, These proofs of Deity—so clear, He must the architect revere, Whene'er to heaven he lifts his eyes, And there surveys the spangled skies; The glitt'ring stars, the worlds that shine, And speak the••r origin divine, Bid him adore, and prostrate fall, And own one Lord, supreme o'er all.

One God this mighty fabrick guides, Th' etherial circles he divides; And measures out the distant bound, Of each revolving planet's round; Prevents the universal jar, That might from one eccentric star, Toss'd in the wide extended space, At once—a thousand worlds displace.

What else supports the rolling, spheres; Nought but Almighty power appears, The vast unnumber'd orbs to place, And scatter o'er the boundless space, Myriads of worlds of purer light, Our adoration to excite, And lead the wandering mind of man, To contemplate the glorious plan.

Not even Newton's godlike mind, Nor all the sages of mankind,

Could e'er assign another cause, Though much they talk of nature's laws; Of gravity's attractive force, They own the gra••d, eternal source, Who, from the depths of chaos' womb, Prepar'd the vaulted? spacious dome; He spake—a vast foundation' laid, And countless globes thereon display'd.

His active power still sustains Their weight, amidst the heavenly plains; Infinite goodness yet protects, All perfect wisdom still directs Their revolutions;—knows the hour, When rapid time's resistless pow'r, In mighty ruin will involve, And God—this grand machine dissolv••.

Then time and death shall both expire, And in the universal fire, These elements shall melt away, To usher in eternal day.

Amazing thought!—Is it decreed; New earth and heavens, shall these succeed? More glorious far—still more august! In his omnific arm we trust.

But how this system 'twill excel, Nor Angel's voice, or tongue can tell; Nor human thought so high can soar; His works survey, and God adore.

On the DEATH of Mrs. S. —, who died within a few Days after her MARRIAGE.

THE grave with open mouth destroys, Life's choicest blessings, purest joys.

The gay Orinda's pleasing charms, Allur'd young Selim to her arms; They tasted bliss one happy moon, Nor thought their joys could end so soon, Or dreamt that such a guest as Death Would interrupt the bridal mirth; But lo! his sable wings are spread, Orinda's number'd with the dead.

Thus have I seen the opening flower That decorates the nuptial bow'r, Its odours shed, its bright array Rival the lustre of the day; But ere the glorious morning sun Had reach'd the central point of noon, The violets fade, the roses die, So sunk the lustre of her eye. The valiant Selim quits the prize, Reluctant yields the sacrifice; Trys in the laurell'd field of fame, To lose the lov'd Orinda's name; But, not the warlike, hostile scene, That purples o'er the native green, Nor the hoarse trumpet, loud and shrill, The plaintive voice of grief could quell. Selim still feels the keener smart That rankles in his bleeding heart;

He rushes on amid the plain, And courts the sword to end his pain: He fell—but smil'd in Death's embrace, And cry'd, here ends the idle chace; Wealth, ••leasure, honour, airy fame, I've prov'd are ••••t an empty name: He kiss'd the reeking steel, and said, I fly to seek Orinda's shade.

The SQUABBLE of the SEA NYMPHS; or the SACRIFICE of the TUSCARAROES.

The important political event of 1774, when several cargoes of teas were poured into the sea, has been replete with mighty consequences, and will never be forgotten in the his|tory of American independence. But the author's own opinion of the equity or policy of this measure is not to be col|lected from a political sally, written at the request of a par|ticular friend, now in one of the highest grades of American rank.

BRIGHT Phoebus drove his rapid car amain, And plung'd his steeds beyond the western plain, Behind a golden skirted cloud to rest. Ere ebon night had spread her sable vest, And drawn her curtain o'er the fragrant vale, Or Cynthia's shadows dress'd the lonely dale, The heroes of the Tuscararo tribe,* 1.1 Who scorn'd alike a fetter or a bribe, In order rang'd, and waited freedom's nod, To make an offering to the wat'ry god.

Grey Neptune rose, and from his sea green bed, He wav'd his trident o'er his oozy head; He stretch'd, from shore to shore, his regal wand, And bade the river deities attend: Triton's hoarse clarion summon'd them by name, And from old ocean call'd each wat'ry dame.

In council met to regulate the state, Among their godships rose a warm debate,

What luscious draught they next should substitute, That might the palates of celestials suit, As Nectar's stream no more meandering rolls, The food ambrosial of their social bowls Profusely spent;—nor, can Scamander's shore, Yield the fair sea nymphs one short banquet more.

The Tilans all with one accord aro••s'd, To travel round Columbia's coast propos'd; To rob and plunder every neighb'ring vine, (Regardless of Nemisis' sacred shrine;) Nor leave untouch'd the peasant's little store, Or think of right, while demi gods have power.

But ere on a decided mode agreed, They, nor great Neptune, farther dare proceed, 'Till every goddess of the streams and lakes, And lesser deities of fens and brakes— With all the nymphs that swim around the isles, Deign'd to give sanction by approving smiles: For females have their influence o'er kings, Nor wives, nor mistresses, were useless things, Ev'n to the gods of ancient Homer's page; Then sure, in this polite and polish'd age, None will neglect the sex's sage advice, When they engage in any point so nice, As to forbid the choice nectareus sip, And offer boh••a to the rosy lip.

Proud Amphytrite rejected in disdain, Refus'd the gift, and left the wat'ry main, With servile Proteus lagging by her side, To take advantage of the shifting tide; To catch a smile, or pick up golden sands, Either from Plut••s, or the naked strands▪

Long practis'd—easy he assumes the shape Of fox, or panther, crocodile, or ape; When 'tis his int'rest, his step dame he'll aid, One pebble more, and Amphytrite's betray'd.

A flaming torch she took in either hand, (And as fell discord reign'd throughout the land, Was well appriz'd the centaurs would conspire;) Resolv'd to set the western world on fire, By scattering the weed of Indian stores; Or worse, to lodge it in Pygmalion's stores: But if the artifice should not succeed, Then, in revenge, attempt some bolder deed; For while old ocean's mighty billows roar, Or foaming surges lash the distant shore, Shall goddesses regale like woodland dames? First let Chinesan herbage feed the flames.

But all the Nereids whisper'd murmurs round, And craggy cliffs reecho'd back the sound; 'Till fair Salacia perch'd upon the rocks, The rival goddess wav'd her yellow locks, Proclaim'd, hysonia shall assuage their grief, With choice souchong, and the imperial leaf.

The champions of the Tuscararan race, (Who neither hold, nor even wish a place, While faction reigns, and tyranny presides, And base oppression o'er the virtues rides; While venal measures dance in silken sails, And avarice o'er earth and sea prevails; While luxury creates such mighty feuds, E'en in the bosoms of the demi gods;) Lent their strong arm in pity to the fair, To aid the bright Salacia's generous care;

Pour'd a profusion of delicious teas, Which, wafted by a soft favonian breeze, Supply'd the wat'ry deities, in spite Of all the rage of Jealous Amphytrite.

The fair Salacia, victory, victory, sings, In spite of heroes, demi gods, or kings; She bids defiance to the servile train▪ The pimps and sycophants of George's reign.

The virtuous daughters of the neighb'ring mead, In graceful smiles approv'd the glorious deed; (And though the Syrens left their coral beds, Just o'er the surface lifted up their heads, And sung soft peans to the brave and fair, 'Till almost caught in the delusive snare To sink securely in a golden dream, And taste the sweet inebriating stream, Which, though a repast for the wat'ry maids, Is baneful poison to the mountain naiades;) They saw delighted from the inland rocks, O'er the broad deep pour'd out Pandora's box; They join'd, and fair Salacia's triumph sung, Wild echo, o'er the bounding ocean rung; The sea nymphs heard, and all the sportive train, In shaggy tresses danc'd around the main, From southern lakes, down to the northern rills, And spread confusion round N— hills.

To a YOUNG LADY, On shewing an excellent Piece of PAINTING, much faded.

COME, and attend, my charming maid; See how the gayest colours fade; As be••••teous paintings lose their dye, Age sinks the lustre of your eye.

Then seize the minutes as they pass; Behold! how swift runs down the glass; The hasty sands that measure time, Point you to pleasures more sublime; And bid you shun the flow'ry path, That cheats the millions into death.

Snatch every moment time shall give, And uniformly virtuous live; Let no vain cares retard thy soul, But strive to reach the happy goal; When pale, when unrelenting Death, Shall say, resign life's vital breath! May you, swift as the morning lark That stems her course to heav'n's high arch, Leave every earthly care, and soar, Where numerous seraphims adore; Thy pinions spread and wafted high, Beyond the blue etherial sky, May you there chant the glorious lays, The carols of eternal praise, To that exhaustless source of light, Who rules the shadows of the night, Who lends each orb its splendid ray, And points the glorious beams of day.

Time and eternity he holds; Nor all eternity unfolds, The glories of Jehovah's name; Nor highest angels can proclaim, The wonders of his boundless grace, They bow, and veil before his face.

What then shall mortals of an hour, But bend submissive to his power; And learn at wisdom's happy lore, Nature's great author to adore.

To the Hon. J. WINTHROP, Esq.

Who, on the American Determination, in 1774, to suspend all Commerce with Britain, (except for the real Necessaries of life) requested a poetical List of the Articles the Ladies might comprise under that Head.

FREEDOM may weep, and tyranny prevail, And stubborn patriots either frown, or rail; Let them of grave economy talk loud, Prate prudent measures to the list'ning crowd; With all the rhetoric of ancient schools, Despise the mode, and fashion's modish fools; Or shew fair liberty, who us'd to smile, The guardian goddess of Britannia's isle, In sable weeds, anticipate the blow, Aim'd at Columbia by her royal foe; And mark the period when inglorious kings Deal round the curses that a Churchill sings.

But what's the anguish of whole towns in tears, Or trembling cities groaning out their fears? The state may totter on proud ruin's brink, The sword be brandish'd, or the bark may sink; Yet shall Clarissa check her wanton pride, And lay her female ornaments aside? Quit all the shining pomp, the gay parade, The costly trappings that adorn the maid? What! all the aid of foreign looms refuse! (As beds of tulips strip'd of richest hues, Or the sweet bloom that's nip'd by sudden frost, Clarissa reigns no more a favorite toast. For what is virtue, or the winning grace, Of soft good humour, playing round the face;

Or what those modest antiquated charms, That lur'd a Brutus to a Portia's arms; Or all the hidden beauties of the mind, Compar'd with gauze, and tassels well combin'd?

This mighty theme produc'd a long debate, On the best plan to save a sinking state; The oratorial fair, as they inclin'd, Freely discuss'd, and frankly spake their mind.

Lamira wish'd that freedom might succeed, But to such terms what female ere agreed? To British marts forbidden to repair, (Where ev'ry lux'ry tempts the blooming fair,) Equals the rigour of those ancient times When Pharaoh, harden'd as a G— in crimes, Plagu'd Israel's race, and tax'd them by a law, Demanding brick, when destitute of straw; Miraculously led from Egypt's port, They lov'd the fashions of the tyrant's court; Sigh'd for the leeks, and waters of the Nile, As we for gewgaws from Britannia's isle; That haughty isle, whose mercenary hand, Spreads wide confusion round this fertile land, Destroys the concord, and breaks down the shrine, By virtue rear'd, to harmony divine.

Prudentia sigh'd—shall all our country mourn, A powerful despot's low'ring, haughty frown, Whose hostile mandates, sent from venal courts, Rob the fair vintage, and blockade our ports; While troops of guards are planted on each plain, Whose crimes contagious, youth and beauty stain? Fierce rancour blazen'd on each breast's display'd, And for a crest, a gorgon's snaky head.

The good, the wise, the prudent, and the gay, Mingle their tears, and sighs for sighs repay; Deep anxious thought each gen'rous bosom fills, How to avert the dread approaching ills; Let us resolve on a small sacrifice, And in the pride of Roman matrons rise; Good as Cornelia, or a Pompey's wife, We'll quit the useless vanities of life. Amidst loud discord, sadness, and dismay, Hope spread her wing, and flit across the away: Thanks to the sex, by heavenly hand design'd, Either to bless, or ruin all mankind.

A sharp debate ensu'd on wrong and right, A little warm, 'tis true, yet all unite, At once to end the great politic strife, And yield up all but real wants of life.

But does Helvidius, vigilant and wise, Call for a schedule, that may all comprise? 'Tis so contracted, that a Spartan sage, Will sure applaud th' economizing age.

But if ye doubt, an inventory clear, Of all she needs, Lamira offers here; Nor does she fear a rigid Cato's frown, When she lays by the rich embroider'd gown, And modestly compounds for just enough— Perhaps, some dozens of more slighty stuff; With lawns and lustrings—blond, and mecklin laces, Fringes and jewels, fans and tweezer cases; Gay cloaks and hats, of every shape and size, Scarfs, cardinals, and ribbons of all dyes; With ruffles stamp'd, and aprons of tambour, Tippets and handkerchiefs, at least, three score;

With finest muslins that fair India boasts, And the choice herbage from Chinesan coasts; (But while the fragrant hyson leaf regales, Who'll wear the homespun produce of the vales? For if 'twould save the nation from the curse Of standing troops; or, name a plague still worse, Few can this choice delicious draught give up, Though all Medea's poisons fill the cup.) Add feathers, furs, rich sattins, and ducapes, And head dresses in pyramidial shapes; Side boards of plate, and porcelain profuse, With fifty ditto's that the ladies use; If my poor treach'rous memory has miss'd, Ingenious T—l shall complete the list. So week Lamira, and her wants so few, Who can refuse?—they're but the sex's due.

In youth, indeed, an antiquated page, Taught us the threatenings of an Hebrew sage 'Gainst wimples, mantles, curls, and crisping pins, But rank not these among our modern sins: For when our manners are well understood, What in the scale is stomacher or hood?

"Tis true, we love the courtly mein and air, The pride of dress, and all the debonair; Yet Clara quits the more dress'd negligee, And substitutes the careless polanee; Until some fair one from Britannia's court, Some jaunty dress, or newer taste import; This sweet temptation could not be withstood, Though for the purchase's paid her father's blood; Though loss of freedom were the costly price, Or flaming comets sweep the angry skies;

Or earthquakes rattle, or volcanoes roar; Indulge this trifle, and she asks no more: Can the stern patriot Clara's suit deny? 'Tis beauty asks, and reason must comply.

But while the sex round folly's vortex play, Say, if their lords are wiser far than they; Few manly bosoms feel a nobler flame, Some cog the dye, and others win the game; Trace their meanders to their tainted source, What's the grand pole star that directs their course? Perhaps revenge, or some less glaring vice, Their bold ambition, or their avarice, Or vanity unmeaning, throw the bowl; 'Till pride and passion urge the narrow soul, To claim the honours of that heavenly flame, That warms the breast, and crowns the patriot's name.

But though your wives in fripperies are dress'd, And public virtue is the minion's jest, America has many a worthy name, Who shall, hereafter, grace the rolls of fame. Her good Cornelias, and her Arrias fair, Who, death, in its most hideous forms, can dare, Rather than live vain fickle fortune's sport, Amidst the panders of a tyrant's court; With a long list of gen'rous, worthy men, Who spurn the yoke, and servitude disdain; Who nobly struggle in a vicious age, To stem the torrent of despotic rage; Who leagu'd, in solemn covenant unite, And by the manes of good Hampden plight, That while the surges lash Britannia's shore, Or wild Ni'gara's cataracts shall roar, And Heaven looks down, and sanctifies the deed, They'll fight for freedom, and for virtue bleed.

TO FIDELIO, Long absent on the great public Cause, which agitated all America, in 1776.

THE hill tops smile o'er all the blooming mead, As I alone, on Clifford's summit tread; Traverse the rural walks, the gurgling rills, Survey the beauties of th' adjacent hills; Taste the delights of competence and health, Each sober pleasure reason lends to wealth: Yet o'er the lawn a whisp'ring echo sighs, Thy friend is absent—my fond heart replies— Say—do not friendship's joys outweigh the whole? 'Tis social converse, animates the soul. Thought interchang'd, the heavenly spark improves, And reason brightens by the heart it loves; While solitude sits brooding o'er her cares, She oft accelerates the ills she fears; And though fond hope with silken hand displays, The distant images of halcyon days, Her sable brow contracts a solemn air, That treads too near the threshold of despair; 'Till heav'n benign the choicest blessings lend, The balm of life, a kind and faithful friend: This highest gift, by heav'n indulged, I claim; Ask, what is happiness?—My friend, I name: Yet while the state, by fierce internal war, Shook to the centre, asks his zealous care, I must submit, and smile in solitude, My fond affection, my self love subdu'd: The times demand exertions of the kind, A patriot zeal must warm the female mind.

Yet, gentle hope!—come, spread thy silken wing, And waft me forward to revolving spring; Or ere the vernal equinox returns, At worst, before the summer solstice burns, May peace again erect her cheerful stand, Disperse the ills which hover o'er the land; May every virtuous noble minded pair, Be far remov'd from the dread din of war; Then each warm breast where gen'rous friendships glow, Where all the virtues of the patriot flow, Shall taste each joy domestic life can yield, Nor enter more the martial bloody field.

But, hark!—alas! the brave Montgomery dies, Oh, heaven forbid that such a sacrifice, My country or my sex should yield again, Or such rich blood pour o'er the purpled plain: May guilty traitors satiate the grave, But let the sword forever—spare the brave; I weep his fall—I weep the hero slain, And mingle sighs with his Janetta's pain: Yet while I weep, and lend the pitying sigh, I bow the knee, and lift my soul on high, That virtue, struggling with assiduous pains, May free this country from despotic chains. Long life I ask, and blessings to descend, And crown the efforts of my constant friend; My early wish, and evening prayer the same, That virtue, health, and peace, and honest fame, May hover o'er thee, till time's latest hour, Commissionate the dread resistless power; Then gently lay thee by thy Marcia's clay, 'Till both shall rise, and on a tide of day,

Be wafted on, and skim the ambient plains Through lucid air, and see the God who reigns.

Where cherubims in borrow'd lustre shine, We'll hand in hand our grateful homage join; Beneath his throne, where list'ning angels stand, With raptur'd seraphs wait his least command.

Clifford Farm, 1776.

To HONORIA, on her JOURNEY to DO|VER, 1777.

FANCY, for once, her airy wing shall spread, And stretch her pinions o'er the verdant mead; But not to sing of fierce, or hostile ranks, Or heroes conq'ring on the Ganges' banks; Nor frozen Danube, nor the Tyber's stream, But happy Dover, is my gentler theme.

With good Honoria would I trace the scene, The flow'ry lawns, the grots of evergreen; The lofty elms, and all the blooming pride, Where Dover's silv'ry winding waters glide; Pleas'd with the bounties that kind nature pours Profusely down from her exhaustless stores: But yet I feel my feeble pinions droop, Nor dare I trust the silken wing of hope; Lest when exalted in my brittle car, To sail aloft as phaeton in air, I meet the fate of that presumptuous youth, Whose mad ambition taught one solemn truth; And bade dull genius tread his destin'd sphere, Nor scorch his wings by venturing too near, The sacred mount, devoted to the muse, And thus disgusted, all the nine refuse, To dictate numbers that may flow with ease, And most I fail, when most I wish to please.

Will the soft mantle of a gentle friend, Then cover all that truth cannot commend? Yet this, perhaps, might frustrate my design, She, in oblivion, might enwrap each line;

For every portrait that my pen can paint, To her descriptive eloquence is faint; As while beside the winding stream she roves, And views the prospects from the pleasing groves, She lifts her heart to celebrate the hand, That scatters blessings o'er this happy land; This land of plenty, this delicious vine, By heav'n mark'd out for some august design.

Truth's sacred banners may be here unfurl'd, And genius spread her graces o'er the world; Here other Boyles or Newtons yet may rise, And trace the wonders of the western skies; More than one W—p may adorn the seat, Of bright Apollo's favorite retreat; When Harvard's sons may spread the arts refin'd, Diffusing knowledge o'er the human mind; While every star its kindly influence lends, 'Till Harvard's fame throughout the world extends.

Then smiling Ceres, placid and serene, Shall unmolested her ripe vintage glean; Sweet harmony erect her graceful head, And happy peasants tread the cheerful glade.

Events roll o'er, and on the wing of time, Disclose new wonders—systems more sublime; Yet rapid thought anticipates the scene, Sees empire rising with majestic mein; When peace again shall glad Columbia's shore, And conq'ring heroes freedom shall restore; When troops no more are canton'd round the plain, Nor vict'ries won, nor routed armies slain; When fresh blown laurels spring from Warren's grave, Freedom to dress, and decorate the brave,

For whom kind fortune wreathes the crown of fame, And stamps th' initials of her fav'rite name; When Washington, conspicuous o'er the rest, By heroes, patriots, and by foes caress'd, May quit the field, and court the rural scene; There with his friend, the good and valiant Greene, With conscious worth each victory review, And still Columbia's happiness pursue. Yet both must weep the cold Canadian plain, Where a Montgom'ry, and a Wolfe were slain.

How have I left fair Dover's rippling stream, To gurgle on, and touch'd a bolder theme!— Forgive my wand'ring from the beauteous groves, Where warb'ling songsters chant their vernal loves.

Vast crowded scenes, have rush'd upon the mind, And led me far from what I first design'd. I'll check the sallies of my rambling muse, If candor these excursions will excuse: Or if my friend, the good Helvidius, deign, To hark a moment to the pu'rile strain; If from the wonders of the vast expanse, Where viewing long the planetary dance, He from the starry region will descend, And gently chide the follies a friend; I'll mark the censure as a proof sincere Of gen'rous friendship, and the frown revere; Though it enjoins long silence on my pen, The mandate I'll obey—nor write again.

LINES, Written after a very severe TEMPEST, which cleared up ex|tremely pleasant.

WHEN rolling thunders shake the skies, And lightnings fly from pole to pole; When threat'ning whirlwinds rend the air, What terrors seize th' affrighted soul!—

Aghast and pale with thrilling fear, He trembling stands in wild amaze; Nor knows for shelter where to hide, To screen him from the livid blaze.

Happy the calm and tranquil breast, That with a steady equal mind, Can view those flying shafts of death, With heart and will at once resign'd!—

Oh! thou Supreme Eternal King, At whose command the tempests rage, With equal ease can worlds destroy, Or with a word, the storm assuage.

And though impetuous tempests roar, And penetrating flames surround, Thou bid'st them cease—the thunder's hush'd, And rest and silence reign profound.

Thus have we seen thy power and might, Adoring, we thy works survey; 'Tis thou direct'st the pointed flame, And thus thy goodness dost display.

Thou hast compos'd the rapid winds, And lull'd to rest the foaming wave; The clouds dispers'd, each twinkling star Proclaims aloud thy power to save.

The silver moon, the glorious orbs, That swim aloft in boundless space, Their rays resplendent all unite, To celebrate at once thy praise.

To a YOUNG GENTLEMAN, residing in FRANCE.

THE new year opes—the early morning dawns, Broad sheets of silver dress the whiten'd lawns; Bleak winter rises from the brindled north, The tempest shakes, and furious blasts pour forth.

From nature's dawn, to nature's latest hour, Each spangled leaf bespeaks creative pow'r; The vernal dew drops, or autumnal breath, That wraps the foliage in the arms of death; The yew, the cypress, or the blooming rose, India's long summer, or the Lapland snows, Alike proclaim, what sceptic fools deny, The soul's support—a providential eye.

This glorious truth my opening lids survey'd, My grateful heart its early homage paid; Then swiftly wafts its warmest wishes o'er To find * * * on the Gallic shore.

"Long health, long peace, long happiness attend," The lovely youth, and bring me back my friend, Unhurt, unshackled by the triple chains Of folly, pride, or pleasure's guilty scenes. When he has travell'd o'er from stage to stage, The distant world, and read life's gaudy page, Oh! may he quit th' illusive, airy chace, And retrospect the happy path of peace. True happiness consists in real worth, And makes her exit when lost sight of truth; The heaven born prize is not the gift of gold, Of princes, statesmen, or whole countries sold;

'Tis not the lap of luxury display'd In all the spoils of innocence betray'd; Nor will the smiles of witlings or of kings, The laugh licentious of such motley things, Give joy or peace to sterling worth or sense, 'Tis honest probity, with competence, That calms the mind, and smooths the manly mein, And shews the world true happiness within.

Search o'er the globe—the circling ball traverse— Let British bards their Gothic tales rehearse; Let Grecian pens, or modern poets sing, The feats of ancients, or of Bourbon's king; The sage, the bard, the scepter'd hand, combin'd, Have nought to barter for a virtuous mind.

The herald's page, emblazoning high birth, The longest list of ancestry on earth, Ennobles not, nor dignifies the son, 'Till merit makes the deeds renown'd, his own.

Methinks I hear the youthful bosom sigh, And nature whisper fancy's fond reply; "These old ideas are quite out of date, Can man be happy without pomp or state? He who can wealth and pageantry disclaim, May mark the willows with his blighted name; Hid in the caverns of some dark retreat, And wrap'd in canvas, the wild anchoret May weep, or rave in silence or despair, And groans reecho with the whistling air."

Not so, my son, did Hercules demean, When rival goddesses adorn'd the scene; The Cyprian queen a thousand lurements spread, A modest glory crown'd Minerva's head;

Pleasure's bright nymph new deck'd her charming face, But virtue beckon'd with a milder grace; Love's little urchin, by his mother taught, Ten thousand joys in fancy's bosom wrought; Fond wishes warm'd, the youthful hero sigh'd, 'Till Virtue shew'd him to the gods alli'd. The spark celestial kindled in his breast, The man, the hero, and the god confess'd; Pleasure turn'd pale, and drop'd her wither'd wand, Triumphant Virtue lent her willing hand, And led him on to every glorious deed His ancestors atchiev'd, or heav'n decreed.

Thy native land is big with mighty scenes, And fate rolls rapid o'er her vivid greens; What time unfolds, the muse must yet conceal, And leave a blank for bolder pens to fill; But ere she quits the dark prophetic lays, Let her retrace, and recollect the days, When, by the margin of the western tide, Young empire sprung from proud oppression's side; The infant flourish'd, nurs'd by freedom's hand, Who spread her banners o'er a bleeding land.

Economy, to virtue close alli'd, A frugal pair, with wisdom by their side, And ruddy health, Aurora's offspring smil'd, And promis'd vigour to the new born child; The maid, caress'd by potentates and kings, Rais'd high her fame, and spread her growing wings.

But, 'midst the prospect suddenly appear'd, A hideous form whose front by heaven was fear'd; From envy's gulph the phantom seem'd to rise, His head he rear'd, and roll'd his redden'd eyes;

His forky fang, and livid lip, reveal'd, The crooked form, a gaudy vest conceal'd; Large tablets mark'd the monster's gally breast, And AV'RICE stood conspicuous on his crest; His tainted breath infects from shore to shore, And poisons all the generous fountains o'er. True public spirit floated down the tide, While dissipation danc'd by folly's side; Soft silken breezes fan'd her fluttering wing, And golden showers hid her guilty sting; The molten calves fall prostrate at her shrine, Sip the new joys, mistaken for divine. A sudden gust, in part, the mist dispell'd, And shew'd Columbia on a broken shield: She wept, and totter'd on the rapid stream, 'Till it rush'd back, and broke the flattering dream: Her trembling lip in quivering accents said, Alas! am I by half my friends betray'd? Though noble names from distant realms repair, And breathe new vigour in the northern air; Yet dangers threat, and distant thunders roar; Convulsive storms may rage from shore to shore.

If Attic annals don't mislead the muse, And old Amphyctions had their private views, Some latent spark of wild, exotic growth, Engender'd there, may flourish in the south;* 1.2 Ambitious Philips live in modern times, And bold improvements make on Grecian crimes.

Yet in the field exalted heroes stand, And, while he lives, may Washington command!

The social virtues claim him for their own, An hero born, fair freedom's favorite son; Fresh myrtles spring, and never fading bays, Live where he fought, and mark his glorious days; While virtue's hand enrols La Fayette's name, And ranks him high on the bright list of fame.

Is thy young bosom warm'd with patriot zeal? An ardent glow to serve the common weal? Or does ambition lead thee to the field, In war to conflict, and the faulchion wield? From Hector's days to haughty Caesar's time, When sinking Rome, ingulph'd in every crime, When ravag'd Gaul had swell'd the tyrant's pride, And crimson torrents wash'd the Danube's side; Nor yet when Charles, and his more bloody son, On carnage fed, till Europe was undone; (The Rhine ran red, the low lands overflow'd, And every city smoak'd with patriot blood:) Yet history has never mark'd a page, With feats more glorious than the present age; No smitten plains, or reeking fields afford, A fairer cause to draw an hero's sword, Than does thy country, ravag'd and distress'd, While war's hoarse clarion roars from east to west.

Yet private virtue wants the youth's support; Leave all the fopperies of a foreign court; * * * come, with every virtue fraught, By principle and precept, early taught, A bright example shine among the first, Good as thy fire—as Aristides just; Then may thy youth and manners both engage, And smile contempt on folly's pu'rile rage.

When wintry blasts no more shall tear the plain, And thy fond wishes bear thee o'er the main; When soft Favonius fans the vernal breeze, And Boreas' breath shall cease to lash the seas; My forest birds sweet warbling notes shall sing, And hail thy welcome with returning spring.

The long lov'd mansion that first gave thee birth, The happy dome that nurs'd thy early youth, Is left awhile to taste the sylvan gale, As life treads downwards thro' time's narrow vale; And if benignant heaven still protect, And tow'rds thy natal soil thy steps direct, Haste to the villa on the southern side Of sweet Tremont, whose wavy waters glide Near the fair summit of a lofty mount, Where wild woods shade a soft meandering fount, That gently rolls and forms a small cascade, By nature's hand irregularly made; The towering oaks and rising hill tops vie To shade the radiance of the western sky; The sloping lawns and flowery meads combine To form the landscape on a bold design; The opening bay a winding river bounds, And scatter'd isles erect their verdant mounds; The grey ey'd morn her streaked pinions spreads, And distant mountains rear their blushing heads; The broad Atlantic's rolling tide between, Heightens the grandeur of th' enchanting scene; The whiten'd surges gently wash the shore, While silver rills run softly rippling o'er.

The fragrant banks, whose native borders rise In beauteous foliage of a thousand dyes;

The tufted flowers meet the clustering vine, That wildly rambles o'er the conic pine; The darkening cedars form the grotto's shade, And greener willows fan the fertile glade; A little alcove opes on either hand, Where the tall larch and vivid limes ascend; The lengthen'd vista widens through the dale, Where sportive flocks play o'er the glossy vale; From hence we view along the watery way, Great Bourbon's flag and streaming pendants play.

In this retreat reside thy happy friends, Content and health benignant heaven lends; A social board, with frugal plenty crown'd, A generous welcome smiles on all around; The day glides on, and when the eve returns, Fraternal love in every bosom burns; Each virtue planted in the youthful breast, The parents smile, in future prospects blest.

Domestic peace, a conscious upright mind, Is honour, wealth, and every good combin'd: Return, my son, for nothing else we need, To see thee happy, would be bliss indeed.

Milton, January 1, 1782.

To a patriotic Gentleman, who presented a small Book of Bark, requesting a POEM might be written therein, on PRIM|ITIVE SIMPLICITY.

ON the smooth papyrus of ancient times, Nature's bright charms, I'd paint in simple rhymes; The bliss superiour of those happy days, When on the bark the bard inscrib'd his lays; But, when immers'd amidst ten thousand cares, Domestic duties, and some foreign fears; When avocations of the social kind, Engross the heart, and fill the busy mind, Pegasus often does his aid refuse, And sentiment will not assist the muse.

Thus circumstanc'd, I'll not indulge the pride, To pick one flower from Parnassus side; Much less attempt its summit to explore, Though much I love Scamander's rippling shore; I'll check my wish, and drop my humble wing, Pleas'd with the laurels that for others spring: Yet snatch a moment, when my friends command, And point the period with a willing hand; And if the lagging numbers slowly move, I'll hope a pardon from the voice of love. Critics may censure, but if candour frowns, I'll quit the pen, and keep within the bounds, The narrow bounds, prescrib'd to female life, The gentle mistress, and the prudent wife: Maternal precepts, drawn from sacred truth, Shall warm the bosom of the list'ning youth; While the kind mother acts her little part, And stamps the tablet on the infant heart,

Each fervent wish, I to my country lend, And thus subscribe, the pa••riot's faithful friend.

SIMPLICITY.

DEEP in the bosom of old Time there stood, Just on the margin of the sea green flood, A virgin form, in lucid robes array'd, Whose ebon tresses negligently play'd In flowing ringlets, as the wavy main Felt the soft breeze that fann'd the verdant plain; While the young blush of innocence bespoke Her innate worth in every graceful look; Her meek ey'd aspect, modest and benign, Evinc'd the fair one's origin divine; Virtue, at once her ornament and shield, And Truth the trident that the goddess held.

Beneath her reign, behold a happy race, Who ne'er contested titles, gold, or place▪ ••re commerce' whiten'd sails were wafted wide, And every bosom caught the swelling pride ••f boundless wealth, surcharg'd with endless snares, ••xotic follies, and destructive cares; ••••e arts, or elegance, or taste refin'd, ••nd tempting luxury, assail'd mankind; ••heir oaks and evergreens, and poplar shades, •• native beauty, rear'd their conic heads; ••he purple tinge with golden hues inwrought, ••n dappled forms, as sportive nature taught; The silken foliage open'd through the mead, And the clear font in wild meanders play'd; Beside whose gentle murm'ring stream there stood The humble hamlet, by the peasant trod,

Whose heart, unblacken'd by so mean a vice, As lust of gold, or carking avarice; No guilty bribes his whiten'd palm possess'd, No dark suspicion lurk'd within his breast: Love, concord, peace, and piety and truth, Adorn'd grey hairs, and dignifi'd the youth; There stingless pleasures crown'd the temp'rate feast, And ruddy health, a constant welcome guest, Fill'd up the cup, and smil'd at every board, The friend and handmaid of her generous lord.

The rosy finger'd morn, and noontide ray, The streaked twilight, or the evening grey, Were pass'd alike in innocence and mirth, No riot gendering ••ow but certain death; Unclouded reason guided all their way, And virtue's self sat innocently gay; The winged hours serenely glided by, 'Till golden Phoebus deck'd the western sky; And when enwrap'd in evening's sable vest, And midnight shadows hush'd the world to rest, On the fam'd ladder, whose extended bars, From earth's low surface reach'd beyond the stars, From orb to orb, thought reach'd the airy void, Through widen'd space the busy mind employ'd, While angel guards to watch his fate were given Prelusive dreams anticipated heaven.

But ere the bird of morn had hail'd the day, Or warbling songsters chirp'd their early lay, The grateful heart its joyful ma••ins rais'd, And nature's God in morning anthems prais'd.

Thus happy that ideal golden age, That lives descriptive in the poet's page;

But now, alas! in dark oblivion lost, The sons of Adam know it to their cost; Since God forbad the mother of mankind To taste the fruit to which she most inclin'd: Her taste so delicate, re••in'd and nice, That the exuberance ev'n of Paradise, The grassy banks beside the blue cascade, The winding stream from Pison's golden head, The spicy groves on Gihon's lengthen'd side, Hidekel's font, Assyria's blooming pride, The fruits luxuriant on Euphrates' shores, The rich profusion that all Eden pours, The shady dome, the rosy vaulted bower, And nature deck'd with every fruit and flower, Were insufficient, rude, and incomplete, For taste ran wanton, and the fair must eat.

Since which the garden's closely lock'd by fate, And flaming cherubs guard the eastern gate; This globe is travers'd round from pole to pole, And earth research'd to find so rich a dole As happiness unmix'd;—the phantom flies, No son of Eve has ever won the prize.

But nearest those, who nearest nature live, Despising all that wealth, or pow'r can give, Or glitt'ring grandeur, whose false optics place The summum bonum on the frailest base; And if too near the threshold of their door, Pride blazes high, and clamours loud for more— More shining pomp, more elegance and zest, In all the wild variety of taste; Peace and contentment are refin'd away, And worth, unblemish'd, is the villain's prey.

Easy the toil, and simple is the task, That yields to man all nature bids him ask; And each improvement on the author's plan, Adds new inquietudes to restless man. As from simplicity he deviates, Fancy, prolific, endless wants creates; Creates new wishes, foreign to the soul, Ten thousand passions all the mind control; So fast they tread behind each other's heels That some new image on the fancy steals; Ere the young embrio half its form completes, Some new vagary the old plan defeats; Down comes the Gothic or Corinthian pile, And the new vista wears the Doric stile. The finer arts depopulate and waste, And nations sink by elegance and taste: Empires are from their lofty summits rent, And kingdoms down to swift perdition sent, By soft, corrupt, refinements of the heart, Wrought up to vice by each deceptive art.

Rome, the proud mistress of the world, displays A lasting proof of what my pen essays; High wrought refinement— usher'd in replete, With all the ills that sink a virtuous state; Their sumptuary laws grown obsolete, They, undismay'd, the patriot's frown could meet; Their simple manners lost—their censors dead, Spruce petit maitres o'er the forum tread.

I weep those days when gentle Maro sung, And sweetest strains bedeck'd the statt'rer's tongue; When so corrupt and so refin'd the times, The muse could stoop to gild a tyrant's crimes.

Then paint and sculpture, elegance and song, Were the pursuits of all the busy throng; When silken commerce held the golden scales, Empire was purchas'd at the public sales: No longer liv'd the ancient Roman pride, Her virtue sicken'd, and her glory di'd.

What blotted out the Carthaginian fame, And left no traces but an empty name?— Commerce! the source of every narrow vice, And honour, barter'd at a trivial price. By court intrigues, the Commonwealth's disgrac'd, Both suffetes and senators debas'd: By soft refinement, and the love of gold, Faction and strife grew emulous and bold, 'Till restless Hanno urg'd his purpose on, And Scipio's rival by his art's undone.

From age to age, since Hannibal's hard fate, From Caesar's annals to the modern date, When Brunswick's race sits on the British throne, And George's folly stains his grandsire's crown; When taste's improv'd by luxury high wrought, And fancy craves what nature never taught; Affronted virtue mounts her native skies, And freedom's genius lifts her bloated eyes; As late I saw, in sable vestments stand, The weeping fair, on Britain's naked strand.

The cloud capt hills, the echoing woods and dales, (Where pious druids dress'd the hallow'd vales; And wrote their missels on the birchen rind, And chanted dirges with the hollow wind,) Breathe murmuring sighs o'er that ill fated isle, Wrapt in refinements both absurd and vile.

Proud Thames deserted—her commercial ports Seiz'd and possess'd by hated foreign courts; No more the lofty ships her marts supply, The Nereids flap their watry wings and die: Grey Neptune rises from his oozy bed, And shakes the sea weed from his shaggy head; He bids adieu to fair Britannia's shore, The surge rebounds, and all the woodlands roar; His course he bends towards the western main, The frowning Titans join the swelling train, Measure the deep, and lash the foaming sea, In haste to hail the brave Columbia free: Ocean rebounds, and earth reverberates, And Heaven confirms the independent states; While time rolls on, and mighty kingdoms fail, They, peace and freedom on their heirs entail, 'Till virtue sinks, and in far distant times, Dies in the vortex of European crimes.

Plymouth, October, 1779.

On the DEATH of the Hon. JOHN WINTHROP, Esq. L. L. D. HOLLISIAN PROFESSOR of MATHEMATICKS and NATURAL PHILOSO|PHY, at HARVARD COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE.

Addressed to his LADY.

A SERAPH shot across the plain, The lucid form display'd, The starry ••ound he here explor'd, And cry'd—"great Winthrop's dead."

Down through the planetary fields, Where countless systems roll, A Newton's glorious kindred shade, Descends to meet his soul.

They through the trackless paths of light Still wonder, and adore, And mount towards the central source, Of all creative power.

But lo! the sons of Harvard weep, And science drops a tear, Philosophy, her favorite mourns, And stoic souls revere.

The wrangling disputant abash'd, Adores great nature's God, And zealously explores the path Th' illustrious sage has trod.

As life forsook his dying lids, Faith view'd the glorious prize,

Yet nature dropt a friendly tear Before he reach'd the skies.

Though death with "dewy fingers cold," Pervades the sainted brow, Compassion mov'd the quivering lip, And in a last adieu—

He his last sanction to the truth, To doubting sceptics leaves. While weeping friends deplore his loss, And sad Honoria grieves;

He sigh'd—"the ancient sages grop'd "Through error's mazy round, "Through earth and air, to hell's abyss, "They sought one cause profound—

"One Great First Cause—in every form, "In every star they greet, "From Woden's dark and dreary cave, "To Jove's etherial seat.

"They snatch'd each feeble ray of light, "And cherish'd to a flame, "As nature in ten thousand forms "Spake one eternal name.

"Kind Heaven beheld a wandering world, "With altars rear'd to fate, "And condescended to reveal "A pure, immortal state.

"But clearer light in modern time "Our wiser youth has taught, "Whatever Socrates might preach, "Or gloomy Plato thought,

"Are but enthusiastic dreams; "And such, the perfect code, "Seal'd by a messenger divine, "The sacred son of God.

"By fancy's ebullitions swell'd "With philosophic fume, "Both Moses and Saint Paul renounce, "For evangelic Hume.

"Shall such intelligence and thought "As actuates a mind, "Like reas'ning Locke, or pious Boyle, "To Hades be consign'd?—

"No more to live—no more to think, "But perish as the brute; "This for the Christian faith and hope, "Ah! what a substitute!—

"Witlings may sport at every truth "The sacred page contains, "And academic fools dispute "With mazy, muddled brains;

"The word on Sinai's mount reveal'd "Has demonstrative proof, "Nor less the condescending grace "Of a redeemer's love."

An heavenly energy divine, Retarded long his mind, While Angels heard the dying trill In aid to truth design'd.

The musick of the spheres resounds, And hasten'd his delay,

A cherub lower'd his golden wing To waft him on his way.

He through a galaxy of light By Newton's eye unseen, Beyond the telescopic view Of weak ey'd mortal men,

Treads o'er the pavement of the skies, And looking down surveys, A thousand transits gliding through The vast etherial space.

Venus may pass the nether sun, And worlds revolving roll; The great astronomer beholds The author of the whole.

Huygens's little tub••s thrown by, And Gravesande's narrow scale. To view the magnitude of plan▪ An Angel's opticks fail.

Hail! bright, exalted, happy soul, Disrob'd of earth born clay, Thine agile wing moves o'er the orbs Through seas of liquid day.

But, hah!—the literary world Laments the recent blow, Beside the yew grown cover'd tomb, Long—virtue's tears will flow.

His kind persuasive voice allur'd To learning's happy seat, And truth and friendship both combin'd To bless the lov'd retreat.

The listening youth hung on the lip Where soft instruction flow'd, In every emulative breast The thirst of knowledge glow'd.

Some at Apollo's shrine may bow, And ask another name, To fill the philosophic chair And reach a Winthrop's fame;

But, oh! thou great all perfect source! Of knowledge, light, and truth, Send in the prophet's flaming car, A guide to Harvard's youth.

LINES, Written on the anniversary of the death of Mr. C—W—, an amiable and accomplished young gentleman, who died in St. Lacar, 1785. His resignation, fortitude, and piety, witnessed the excellence of that religion which supported him with dignity and calmness, and through many months of lan|guid illness, reason justified to him the hope of the Christian.

Oh! ••end a moment to a parent's grief, As wounded nature asks this kind relief!—

LONG have I trod o'er life's most brilliant stage, Read its deceptive, visionary page, Its richest hope in rapture lifted high, I now survey with retrospective eye.

Its brightest boon, oft my transported heart In fancy hug'd—but time's insidious dart Check'd each fond wish—relentless swept away As tender foliage in a frosty day, Youth, vigour, friendship; and the ripening bloom Of early genius, shrouds in C—s's tomb.

A youth just form'd, as if by heav'n design'd To shew the virtues in a youthful mind; His manners gentle, and his heart sincere, Mild his deportment—but to vice severe; He aim'd alone at life's sublimest end, Rose to the saint, and soften'd to the friend. With manly grace, and piety serene, Met the last foe with an unclouded mein.

A burning hectic's secret fire betray'd, 'Till yielding nature bow'd his languid head;

When strangers' tears were sprinkled o'er his grave, From which no tears, nor virtue's self could save. Kind foreign hands have dress'd his sacred urn, While weeping friends in distant climates mourn; No brother's foot the solemn dirge attends, Yet innate worth commanded many friends; The father mourns with many a heartfelt sigh, While to the grave bends the maternal eye; Her busy mind, too curious, would inquire, Why was he lent—or why so soon expire?

Is it from life's best joys my heart to wean? Or are severer pangs behind the scene?— Let me not ask—but humbly bow my will, And own my God, the God of mercy still; Adore and tremble at Jehovah's name, Whose hand, omnific, still supports my frame; Obey each precept of his laws divine, Nor at the darkest providence repine; Though strip'd of all earth calls its choicest store, Yet if upheld by all supporting power, I'll calmly walk on to life's utmost verge, And, undismay'd, approach the boundless marge, Of that broad space where mighty systems roll, And radiant glories strike the wondering soul.

Then may the youth whose soul benign on earth, Breath'd truth and sweetness from his early birth, Descend a moment from the realms above, Deputed thence a messenger of love, To aid my faith, and catch the parting breath, And waft my soul from the cold bed of death; Lead the glad spirit through th' etherial sea, And ope the gates to an eternal day.

To an amiable FRIEND, Mourning the DEATH of an excellent FATHER.

LET deep dejection hide her pallid face, And from thy breast each painful image rase; Forbid thy lip to utter one complaint, But view the glories of the rising saint, Ripe for a crown, and waiting the reward Of watching long the vineyard of his Lord.* 1.3

The generous purpose of his zealous heart, Truth to enforce, and knowledge to impart, Insures his welcome on the unknown shore Where choirs of saints, and angel forms adore: A seraph met him on the trackless way, And strung his harp to join the heavenly lay.

Complain no more of Death's extensive power, Whose sceptre wafts us to some blissful shore, Where the rough billows that roll o'er the head, That shake the frame, and fill the mind with dread, Are hush'd in silence, and the soul serene Looks back delighted on the closing scene.

Happy, thrice happy that exalted mind, Who, leaving ••arth and all its cares behind, Has not a wish t•• ••••ffle or control The equal temp•••• of his tranquil soul— Who, on a retrospect, is safe within, No private passion, nor a darling sin, Can check his hope, when death's insatiate power Stands hovering on ••he last decisive hour.

This dreaded tyrant throws his forky wand, And mows down millions with resistless hand; From his research no sceptred prince can hide, Though deck'd in all the luxury of pride.

Not all the splendor of a Saladin, Not those who worship at Belona's shrine, Not Caesar's triumphs, or a Pompey's fame, Nor all the heroes of Rome's boasted name, Could once evade, though e'er so wise or great, The dreaded sentence of resistless fate, Which strips the laurel from the good and brave, And ranks the monarch with the meanest slave.

Cohorts of old, and slaves of modern Rome, Promiscuously meet one common doom, And drop as leaves in the autumnal blast, While adamantine pens record the past; And every action stands disclos'd on high, Inscrib'd on columns fix'd beyond the sky; Each virtuous deed, and every base pursuit, That dignifies the man, or marks the brute.

Not seas of tears disa••m the grizzly king, And virtue only antidotes his sting; The eastern monarch, or the Grecian sage, May bid defiance to death's wanton rage, If inward peace insures the glorious prize, That crowns the victor at the grand assize; When pearls, nor gold, nor India's wealth obtains Applause from him who o'er creation reigns.

Then weep no more, my friend, but all resign'd, Submit thy will to the eternal mind,

Who watches o'er the movements of the just, And will again reanimate the dust. Thy sire commands—suppress the rising sigh— He wipes the tear from thy too filial eye, And bids thee contemplate a soul set free, Just safe escap'd from life's tempestuous sea.

Could my we••k numbers, or my plaintive strain, Or softest sympathy, relieve thy pain, My willing heart its ready aid should lend To sooth the sorrows of my weeping friend.

Let gratitude—(best feeling of the heart) Whose raptur'd smiles the highest joys impart, Inspire thy soul, and look abroad serene, Survey all nature with a placid mein.

See early spring its swelling leaf expand, Or ripening harvests court the reaper's hand; Autumnal clusters pour their juices forth, Or frowning winter blacken all the north; Still let content and gratitude appear, Through all the changes of the varying year; Let not a wayward thought thy peace molest, Or the least murmur e'er escape thy breast: Look round, behold the brighten'd landscape gay, The wavy poplars fan the ve••dant May, The oaken tops are with the elm combin'd, To weave a covert for the weary mind.

On every side the vary'd sweets appear, And speak the power that marks the rolling year▪ Pleas'd with the grot, extinguish'd ••••••••y ••••rs, Expand thy heart, and breathe a grateful prayer.

That when time's rapid car its course has run A few more circuits round the central sun, Thy friends and mine from death's umbrageous womb, May burst the mansions of the darksome tomb, With us unite in friendships more sublime, And smile on all the ductile scenes of time.

FAITH, reach thy hand, and lead us o'er the deep, While smiling Hope forbids we here should weep.

The GENIUS of AMERICA weeping the ab|surd FOLLIES of the DAY.— October 10, 1778.

"O TEMPORA! O MORES!"

BENEATH the lofty pine that shades the plain, Where the blue mount o'erlooks the western main, I saw Columbia's weeping Genius stand, A blacken'd scroll hung waving in her hand.

The pensive fair, in broken accents said, Shall freedom's cause by vice be thus betray'd?— Behold the schedule that unfolds the crimes And marks the manners of these modern times. She sigh'd and wept—the folly of the age, The selfish passions, and the mad'ning rage For pleasure's soft debilitating charms, Running full riot in cold avarice' arms; Who grasps the dregs of base oppressive gains, While luxury in high profusion reigns. Our country bleeds, and bleeds at every pore, Yet gold's the deity whom all adore; Except a few, whose probity of soul No bribe could purchase, nor no fears control. A chosen few, who dar'd to stem the tide Of British vengeance in the pomp of pride, When George's fleets with every sail unfurl'd, And by his hand the reeking dagger hurl'd, The sharpen'd steel, the angry furies held, And Albion's offspring strew'd the purple field With kindred blood, warm from his brother's veins, The crimson flood each field and village stains;

Yet back recoil'd the reeking bloody hilt, And slaughter'd millions mark'd the tyrant's guilt.

But 'midst the carnage the weak monarch made, Stern bending down his awful grandsire's shade, Bespoke the pupil of the Scottish thane, "Why sully thus the glories of my reign? "The western world oft for my house has bled, "And Brunswick's friends lie mingled with the dead "In yon fair fields of glory and renown, "Now independent of thy trembling crown; "The lustre of thy diadem is fled, "The brightest jewel that adorn'd thy head; "America—no more supports thy reign, "Nor freedom will forgive her martyrs slain.

"As I shot down across th' empurpled plains, "Whole cities burn'd, and Vulcan forg'd new chains. "Yet dying patriots clasp'd the darling son, "And bid him gird the warlike helmet on. "The cold lip quiver'd on the blood stain'd ground, "The spirit rising from the ghastly wound, "The hero sob'd—the glorious work complete, "And Britain's barbarous policy defeat; "'Tis heav'n commands, and freedom is the prize, "Adieu, my son—death seals thy father's eyes."

The stern majestic form about to rise, The guardian goddess met him from the ••••ies; "'Tis just, she cry'd—I urg'd the battle on," And, pointing down—"see, there the troph••••s won, "While they believ'd heav'n's uncontrol' decree, "That virtue only made them brave and free."

The trump of war from shore to shore resounds, And the shrill echo o'er the vale rebounds; The distant nations hear the dread alarm, Enkindled Europe for the conflict arm; The Gallic powers, the western peasants join, And distant legions form in freedom's line; America is hail'd from sea to sea, Sits independent, glorious, and free; Propitious heaven approv'd, and smil'd benign, And guards of angels aided her design; While still her senate, vigilant and wise, Spreads wide her fame, and lifts her to the skies.

But he who holds the universal chain Of all events, his system will maintain; He through the whole creation has decreed, Effects must follow as our actions lead; All nature shews that heaven ne'er design'd, Spite of themselves, to save and bless mankind. The friendly genius lifted slow her veil, And still hid half the melancholy tale— When, lo! she sigh'd, the happy prospect dies, Guilt has provok'd the vengeance of the skies; As wealth pour'd in ••••om every distant shore, The gaudy lap of luxury ran o'er; The blacken'd passions all at once let loose, And rampant crimes scarce ask'd for an excuse.

So dissolute—yet so polite the town, Like Hogarth's days, the world's turn'd upside down; Old Juvenal, who censur'd former crimes, Or Churchill's pen, in more satiric rhymes, Or crabbed Swift, in yet a rougher stile, Might lash the vices of a venal isle;

If sermons, satires, or the law of heaven, (Though it again from Sinai's mount were given,) Should all combine to censure modish vice, It can't be wrong, when fashion sanctifies.

Hogarth might paint, and Churchill lash the times, Compar'd with moderns, modest were their crimes; Not Swift himself could now defame the age, Truth might be told in each sarcastic page; Whoe'er delights to shew mankind absurd▪ The life in vogue may ample room afford.* 1.4

The early creed of lisping girls and boys, Is taste, high life, and pleasure's guilty joys; The modish stile the heedless parent taught, And sins run rank, from levity of thought; Ere the big cloud that shook the north retires, Each generous movement of the soul expires; All public faith, and private justice dead, And patriot zeal by patriots betray'd; While hot bed plants of yesterday shoot up, Erect their heads, and reach the cedar's top.

Thankless to heaven, and to the men ingrate, Who ventur'd all to save a sinking state; Who kept the shatter'd bark, and stood the deck, When timid he••••smen left her as a wreck. Those godlike men, those lovers of mankind, Have nought to retrospect that pains the mind;

Placid they move amidst an heedless band, And sigh in silence o'er a guilty land.

But when old Time is so decrepid grown, His worn out car no more will bear him on, When Fame throws by her faithless tinkling tube That carol'd falsehoods round the list'ning globe, The evergreens on yonder ether plains, Eternal flourish to reward their pains.

Thus truth exhibits virtue in an age, When vice, unblushing, stalk'd across the stage, And star'd around with hideous prowling eyes, To catch the ••eedless witling as he ••••ies; The disputant, who enters on the lift, To foil a Newton, or to win at whist. He lives a sceptic, if you take his word, Thinks 'tis heroic to deny his God, Or to dispute his providential care; Deride his precepts, or to scoff at prayer. His coat, his creed, his faith and genius too, Are moderniz'd as fashion forms the cue; Prompt and alert, with erudition fraught, Than Locke, or Boyle, in ethics better taught; He swears the taste the bon ton of the times, By moralists can ne'er be constru'd crimes; Most modern writers are much better bred, Voltaire and Hoyle, the authors he has read, Discard such antique, odd ideas of truth, Such musty rules for regulating youth.

Lord Bolingbroke, among the wits a toast, And Mandeville, the sceptic's empty boast, Reason so clear, that e'en their pigmy race Who swarm and cluster in each public place,

With scientific brow can demonstrate, Whate'er the pious sage or priest may prate, Virtue is an enthusiastic dream, Reveal'd religion, a long worn out theme.

At bacchanalian feasts, it is the mode To pour libations to the red ey'd God, 'Till penetration so out runs his sense, That the arcana of omnipotence, Brought to the reas'ner's superficial test, The Christian code becomes his wanton jest. Scarce any decent principles remain, A fool's cap, perch'd on folly's feather'd brain, Is the learn'd signal for the warm debate On Voltaire's creed—or the decrees of fate; 'Till graceful * * so improves the plan, The deist blushes at his bolder strain; His flowing stile, and easy periods such, His influence sinks, because he doubts too much. This smooth romantic bard, from east to west, Has conjur'd up each sceptical protest 'Gainst all religion—ev'n the most sublime, Oral or wrote—of late or modern time. All hope renounc'd of an immortal state, By rote his pupils syllogisms prate— Annihilation dissipates all fear, We can but suffer—and enjoy while here.

As ignis fatuus floats from lake to bog, The vapor plays in pestilential fog, Sparkles and sinks in the dark marshy tomb, As modern wits in metaphysic fume.

Yet they assume a self important air, Or to confound, or proselyte the fair,

Who no ideas have of other heaven, If dress, parade, and a gallant is given; Who rail aloud 'gainst puritanic rules, And learn their morals in deistic schools; Who prattle nonsense with the half fledg'd beau, Can cog the die, and raffle high or low; In folly's lap, by childish passions toss'd, On vanity's delusive shallow coast; The rippling surface hides the deep abyss, That gapes destruction, while the hydra's hiss, Unheard as pleasure's fascinating song, In gales perfum'd, the triflers hurl along. While wide spread ruin stalks from door to door, Famine and sword still threat'ning to devour, How many dance on dissipation's wing, No pen can paint, nor can the poet sing.

Profoundly learn'd, investigating truth, And thus thrown off the shackles of his youth, He's wisest sure who makes the most of life, Prefers a mistress to a sober wife; The coxcomb laughs, and revels life away, While gaming high's the business of the day; Pleasure shall dance in every festive bowl, The Brute's secure—the Man has not a soul.

Notes

• * 1.1

  The cargoes were destroyed by a number of people, disguised in the habit of the Aborigines.
• * 1.2

  This piece was written at a period when certain characters, in some of the southern states, were suspected of designs unfa|vorable to the liberties of America.
• * 1.3

  The gentleman alluded to, was a clergyman of distinguished m••••it.
• * 1.4

  This piece was written when a most remarkable depravity of manners pervaded the cities of the United States, in consequence of a state of war; a relaxation of government; the sudden acquisition of fortune; a depreciating currency; and a new intercourse with foreign nations.