Swift to her aid her mother came, "Ah! say," cried she, "in mercy's name, "What means this frantic grief?" "Mother 'tis past—all hopes are fled, "God hath no mercy, William's dead, "My woe is past relief."

"Pardon, O pardon, Lord above! "My child, with pray'rs invoke his love, "The Almighty never errs?" "O, mother! mother! idle prate, "Can he be anxious for my fate, "Who never heard my prayers?"

"Be patient child, in God believe, "The good he can, and will relieve, "To trust his power endeavour." "O, mother! mother! all is vain, "What trust can bring to life again? "The past, is past for ever."

"Who knows, but that he yet survives; "Perchance, far off from hence he lives, "And thinks no more of you. "Forget, forget, the faithless youth, "Away with grief, your sorrow soothe, "Since William proves untrue."

"Mother, all hope has fled my mind, "The past, is past, our God's unkind; "Why did he give me breath? "Oh that this hated loathsome light "Would fade for ever from my sight, "Come, death, come, welcome death!"

"Indulgent Father, spare my child, "Her agony hath made her wild, "She knows not what she does. "Daughter, forget thy earthly love, "Look up to him who reigns above, "Where joys succeed to woes."

"Mother what now are joys to me? "With William, Hell a Heaven could be, "Without him, Heaven a Hell. "Fade, fade away, thou hated light, "Death bear me hence to endless night, "With love all hope farewell."

Thus rashly, Leonora strove To doubt the truth of heavenly love. She wept, and beat her breast; She pray'd for death, until the moon With all the stars with silence shone, And sooth'd the world to rest.

When, hark! without, what sudden sound! She hears a trampling o'er the ground, Some horseman must be near! He stops, he rings, Hark! as the noise Dies soft away, a well-known voice Thus greets her list'ning ear.

"Wake, Leonora;—dost thou sleep, "Or thoughtless laugh, or constant weep, "Is William welcome home?" "Dear William, you!—return'd, and well! "I've wak'd and wept—but why, ah! tell, "So late—at night you come?"

"At midnight only dare we roam, "For thee from Prague, though late, I come." "For me!—stay here and rest; "The wild winds whistle o'er the waste, "Ah, dear William! why such haste? "First warm thee in my breast."

"Let the winds whistle o'er the waste, "My duty bids me be in haste; "Quick, mount upon my steed: "Let the winds whistle far and wide, "Ere morn, two hundred leagues we'll ride, "To reach our marriage bed."

"What, William! for a bridal room, "Travel to night so far from home?" "Leonora, 'tis decreed. "Look round thee, love, the moon shines clear, "The dead ride swiftly; never fear, "We'll reach our marriage bed."

"Ah, William! whither would'st thou speed, "What! where! this distant marriage bed?" "Leonora, no delay. "'Tis far from hence; still—cold—and small: "Six planks, no more, compose it all; "Our guests await, away!"

She lightly on the courser sprung, And her white arms round William flung, Like to a lily wreath. In swiftest gallop off they go, The stones and sparks around them throw, And pant the way for breath.

The objects fly on every side, The bridges thunder as they ride; "Art thou my love afraid? "Death swiftly rides, the moon shines clear, "The dead doth Leonora fear?" "Ah, no! why name the dead?"

Hark! as their rapid course they urge, A passing bell, a solemn dirge; Hoarse ravens join the strain. They see a coffin on a bier, A priest and mourners too appear, Slow moving o'er the plain.

And sad was heard the funeral lay; "What the Lord gives, he takes away; "Life's but a fleeting shade. "A tale that's told,—a flower that falls; "Death, when the least expected, calls, "And bears us to his bed."

"Forbear;"—imperious William cry'd "I carry home, a beauteous bride, "Come, to our marriage feast; "Mourners, away, we want your song; "And as we swiftly haste along, "Give us your blessing, priest.

"Sing on, that life is like a shade; "A tale that's told, or flowers which fade: "Such strains will yield delight. "And, when we to our chamber go, "Bury your dead, with wail and woe; "The service suits the night."

While William speaks, they silent stand, Then run obedient to command, But, on with furious bound, The foaming courser forward flew, Fire and stones his heels pursue, Like whirlwinds dash'd around.

On right and left, on left and right, Trees, hills, and towns flew past their sight, As on they breathless prest; "With the bright moon, like death we speed, "Doth Leonora fear the dead?" "Ah! leave the dead at rest."

Behold, where in the moon's pale beam, As wheels and gibbets faintly gleam, Join'd hand in hand, a crowd Of imps and spectres hover nigh, Or round a wasted wretch they fly, When William calls aloud:

"Hither, ye airy rabble, come, "And follow till I reach my home; "We want a marriage dance." As when the leaves on wither'd trees, Are rustled by an edying breeze, The muttering sprites advance.

But, soon with hurried steps, the crew Rush'd prattling on, for William flew, Clasp'd by the frighted fair: Swifter than shafts, or than the wind, While struck from earth fire flash'd behind, Like lightnings through the air.

Not only flew the landscape by, The clouds and stars appear'd to fly. "Thus over hills and heath "We ride like death; say, lovely maid, "By moon-light dost thou fear the dead?" "Ah! speak no more of death."

"The cock hath crow'd—Away! away! "The sand ebbs out: I scent the day. "On! on! away from here! "Soon must our destin'd course be run, "The dead ride swift,—hurrah! 'tis done, "The marriage bed is near."

High grated iron doors, in vain Barr'd their way.—With loosened rein Whil'st William urg'd the steed, He struck the bolts;—they open flew, A churchyard drear appear'd in view; Their path was o'er the dead.

As now, half veil'd by clouds, the moon With feebler ray, o'er objects shone, Where tombstones faint appear, A grave new dug arrests the pair, Cry'd William, and embrac'd the fair, "Our marriage bed is here."

Scarce had he spoke, when, dire to tell, His flesh like touchwood from him fell, His eyes forsook his head. A skull, and naked bones alone, Supply the place of William gone, 'Twas Death that clasp'd the maid.

Wild, snorting fire, the courser rear'd, As wrapp'd in smoke he disappear'd, Poor Leonora fell; The hideous spectres hover round, Deep groans she hears from under ground, And fiends ascend from hell.

They dance, and say, in dreadful howl, "She asks no mercy for her soul; "Her earthly course is done. "When mortals, rash and impious! dare "Contend with God, and court despair, "We claim them as our own."

"Yet," thus was heard, in milder strains, "Call on the Lord, while life remains, "Unite your heart to his; "When man repents and is resign'd, "God loves to soothe his suff'ring mind, "And grant him future bliss."

"We claim as ours, who impious dare "Contend with God, and court despair;" Again the spectres cry'd. "Fate threats in vain, when man's resign'd, "God loves to soothe the suff'ring mind," The gentler voice reply'd.

Leonora, e'er her sense was gone, Thus faint exclaim'd,—"thy Will be done, "Lord, let thy anger cease." Soft on the wind was borne the pray'r; The spectres vanish'd into air, And all was hush'd in peace.

Now redd'ning tints the skies adorn, And streaks of gold, proclaim the morn; The night is chas'd away. The sun ascends, new warmth he gives, New hope, new joy; all nature lives, And hails the glorious day.

No more are dreadful fantoms near; Love and his smiling train, appear; They cull each sweetest flow'r, To scatter o'er the path of youth, To deck the bridal bed, when Truth And Beauty own their pow'r.

Ah,—could your pow'r avert the blast Which threatens Bliss!—could passion last! Ye dear enchanters tell; What purer joy could Heaven bestow, Than when with shar'd affection's glow Our panting bosoms swell?

Sweet spirits wave the airy wand, Two faithful hearts your care demand; Lo! bounding o'er the plain, Led by your charm, a youth returns; With hope, his breast impatient burns; Hope is not always vain.

"Wake, Leonora!—wake to Love! For thee, his choicest wreath he wove;" Death vainly aim'd his Dart. The Past was all a dream; she woke— He lives;—'twas William's self who spoke, And clasp'd her to his Heart.

Balto. Weekly Mag., I-280, Apr. 29, 1801, Balto.

[G. A. Buerger, Lenore. The last eight stanzas are an invention of the translator.]

For the Portfolio.

Mr. Old School,

If you permit a truant to peep into your literary seminary, he will venture to present you with the inclosed hastily written lines, as a peace offering; but shall not be irritated beyond measure, should you choose to convert it into a burnt offering, as a just punishment for time misspent.

At any rate, the sentence you shall pass, shall not be appealed from.

Your sincere well-wisher,

The Author.

DAMON AND DAPHNE, AN IDYLL, (Matrimonial,) Attempted from Gessner.

DAMON.

The gloomy tempest, Daphne, has blown o'er, The thunder's awful voice is heard no more; Tremble not then, my girl, the lightning's blaze Through the dark cloud, no longer darts its rays. Let us this arbour leave, the blue sky greet, For, see, the sheep that sought this safe retreat, Now from their fleeces shake the drops of rain, And spread them o'er the bright'ning mead again, Let us then leave this fav'rite shelt'ring bower, To taste the beauties of this balmy hour; To view the sunbeams gild the moisten'd ground, And throw their rich and radiant glory round. As from the grotto, hand in hand they past, The gentle Daphne on her partner cast Her swimming eyes, pressing his honest hand.

DAPHNE.

How lovely looks the gay, the smiling land, She said; while through the scattering cloud appears The blue sky, dissipating all our fears. The clouds, as through the air they quickly pass, Hurry their shadows o'er the glist'ning grass. See, Damon, now, o'er yonder hill they throw Their shade o'er herds and cottages, and lo! They're flown, and while o'er flowery meads they run, The hill's again illumin'd by the sun.

DAMON.

The rainbow view, from hill to hill expand, Its radiant arches o'er the laughing land; 'Midst the grey cloud, a happy omen shows; With peace and safety every colour glows: The quiet valley smiles beneath its beams, And owns its beauties in her gliding streams. Daphne with gentle arm embrac'd her swain; And cried;

DAPHNE.

See balmy zephyrs breathe again; More cheerful with the flowers they sport and play, Dress'd by the drops of rain and light of day. The butterflies, in richest coats array'd, And fluttering insects joy to leave the shade, Their velvet wings in quick vibrations shake, While on the surface of the neighbouring lake, Of shrubs and willows, wash'd from every stain, The trembling branches glitter once again; Again the peasant in its bosom sees The heaven's blue concave and the spreading trees.

DAMON.

Daphne, embrace me with thy circling arms, What sacred joy my swelling bosom warms, Where'er we turn what glories meet our eyes, What unexhausted springs of rapture rise. From the least plant to the bright star of day, That kindles nature with its quickening ray, All, all, our admiration ought to raise, And tune our voices to the notes of praise! How my heart swells, when from yon mountain's brow, I view the spreading country stretch'd below. Or, when amid the grass, in rural ease, Laying my limbs beneath the branching trees, I contemplate the various flowers and plants, And their minutely fine inhabitants. Or when amid the solemn hours of night, I view the stars adorn the heavens with light; The grateful changes of the seasons trace, The progress of the vegetable race. When all these wonders thro' my senses roll, They fill with purest awe my swelling soul; Thoughts urge on thoughts in quick successive birth, Weeping, I kneel to him who made the earth; To him, my admiration I confess, Father of light, of life, of every bliss: Nought then my soul with equal joy can move, Save the delight to know my Daphne's love.

DAPHNE.

Damon, around me also wonders rise, And fill my bosom with a sweet surprize. Oh let us then, lock'd in a soft embrace, When Morn approaching lifts her ruddy face, When gentle Eve her milder beauties shows, Or moonlight through the air its radiance throws, Thus let our thoughts upon such objects rest, Whilst to each others beating bosoms prest, In broken accents we our wonder own, And turn our minds tow'rds heaven's eternal throne. How inexpressible is the delight, When transports such as these, with tend'rest love unite.

P. D.

Port Folio, I-171, May 30, 1801, Phila.

[S. Gessner, Damon. Daphne.]

For the Port Folio. THE FLY, A FABLE. From the German of Gellert.

That insects think, as well as speak, Needs, at this day, small eloquence to show; Esop, whom even children prize in Greek, Affirm'd as much, some thousand years ago. Fontaine, in French, asserted just the same; Who then shall dare deny the reptile claim To faculties, the world esteems so low, As scarce to notice, if you think or no?

Within a temple, where the builder's art, Grandeur and elegance at once had join'd; While due proportion, reign'd in every part, And simple grace, with solid strength combin'd. In such a temple's wall, sat perch'd on high, A solemn, thoughtful, philosophic fly. For flies, an air so grave, of wisdom take, And on one leg, the head will often hold, And into wrinkles, oft the forehead fold, Only because they deep reflection's make; And to the bottom dive to know, The source of all things here below.

Thus then, involv'd in contemplation deep, With half a dozen wrinkles on his brow, This fly began, around himself to peep, And question whence the building rose, and how? No maker of this work can I perceive, Quoth he—and that there is one, scarce believe; For who should such a maker be? "Art," said a spider sage. "Art built the work you see, For, wheresoever turns your eye, Fix'd laws, and order you descry; And hence, a fair conclusion grows, That from the hand of Art, the building rose." At this the fly, in his conceptions proud, Laugh'd out aloud, And with a sneer of scorn, replied— "Most learned sir, I oft have tried, At this same Art to get a sight, But never on him yet could light; And now, the more I think, the more I find, Your Art is but a fiction of the mind. Now learn from me how this same temple grew: Once on a time, it so by chance befel That pebbles numberless together flew, And settling, form'd this hollow shell, Where you, and I, friend spider, dwell; Say, what can be more evidently true?" A fly, for such a system, we forgive; But if great geniuses should live, Who deem this world's well-order'd frame, Sprung from blind accident alone, And chance, as author of their lives proclaim, Rather than bow to God's eternal throne, The sole excuse a creed, like this admits, Is, that its votaries have lost their wits.

L.

Port Folio, I-192, June 13, 1801, Phila.

[C. F. Gellert, Die Fliege.]

For the Port Folio. THE SUICIDE. From the German of Gellert.

Oh, youth, from what I now relate, While gentle tears bedew your eyes, Lament the lover's hapless fate, And learn, what woes from love arise.

A youth of exemplary worth, The comfort of his aged sire, Whose virtues, early bursting forth, The fairest hopes might well inspire.

By beauty's potent charms subdued, For Chloe felt a tender pain; Her equal love with ardour sued, But found his fond entreaties vain.

While at her feet he pleads his flame, The cruel Chloe bids him fly; Yes! cried he, yes! insulting dame, You never more shall hear me sigh.

Then, on his sword, his hand he lays, While wild despair his gestures breathe; Draws it—the deadly point surveys, And thrusts it—back into its sheath.

U.

Port Folio, I-192, June 13, 1801, Phila.

[C. F. Gellert, Der Selbstmord.]

FROM THE GERMAN.

While yon enlivening orb of day To William yields its light, He to no other lass will stray Nor faithful Anna slight.

Thus Will to Nance, with ardour, said; And kept his word, I ween, Nor, till the sun had gone to bed, Met Sophy on the green.

Port Folio, I-280, Aug. 29, 1801, Phila.

For the Port Folio. FROM THE GERMAN OF GELLERT. THE DANCING BEAR A Fable.

A bear, who long had danced for bread, One morning from his keeper fled; Back to his native woods retreated, And, by his brother brutes, was kindly greeted: Their joy to see him made the forest roar, They lick'd his chaps, they stroak'd him with the paw; And when each bear his neighbour saw, Their news was, So!—Our Bruin's here once more. Straightway the travell'd youth went on All his adventures to relate, And whatsoever he had seen, or done, Or heard, in foreign parts to state. And when it came the turn to tell His dancing deeds, to capering he fell, As though his former master's chain Were fasten'd round his neck again.

Bears of the woods are seldom trained to dance; Yet, seeing Bruin throw his limbs about, The fancy seiz'd them all, themselves to prance, And strive, with clumsy aim, his motions to make out.

Scarce one of all the brood but quickly trip'd, And stumbling, staggering, fell his whole length down; The more they fail'd, the brisker Bruin skip'd, To show their skill at fault and prove his own. But now, their fury kindles at his play; Away! Begone, you tumbling fool! they bawl; Must you, forsooth, be wiser than us all? And straight, with one accord, they hooted him away.

Your neighbour's hatred would you shun? His talents to surpass beware! And still the higher your attainments run, Conceal them still with greater care. For though, at first, the voice of fame Shall sound your praises to the sky: Anon shall Envy blast your name, And turn your fairest arts to crimes of deepest dye.

L.

27 November 1801.

Port Folio, I-400, Dec. 12, 1801, Phila.

[C. F. Gellert, Der Tanzbaer.]

BENEVOLENCE. A FABLE. Imitated from the German of Galleret.

Balance and Columbian Repos., I-132, Apr. 27, 1802, Hudson (N. Y.).

[Gellert, Die Gutthat. Also in Amer. Universal Mag., I-28, Jan. 2, 1797, Phila.]

AMINTA. An Idyl,—By Gessner.

[Prose translation.]

Weekly Visitor or Ladies' Misc., I-20, Oct. 23, 1802, N. Y.

[S. Gessner, Daphne. Mary Collyer, Gessner's Idyls, 1802, Liverpool. II-121, Aminta.]

INVITATION TO JOY. From the German.

Say, who could mope in joyless plight, While youth and spring bedeck the scene, And scorn the profer'd gay delight, With thankless heart and frowning mien? See Joy with becks and smiles appear, While roses strew the devious way; The feast of life she bids us share, Where'er our pilgrim footsteps stray.

And still the grove is cool and green, And clear the bubbling fountain flows, Still shines the night's resplendent queen, As erst in Paradise she rose: The grapes their purple nectar pour, To 'suage the heart that griefs oppress; And still the lonely ev'ning bow'r Invites and screens the stolen kiss.

Still Philomela's melting strain, Responsive to the dying gale, Beguiles the bosom's throbbing pain, And sweetly charms the list'ning vale; Creation's scene expanded lies:— Blest scene! how wond'rous bright and fair! Till Death's cold hand shall close my eyes, Let me the lavish'd bounties share!

Weekly Visitor or Ladies' Misc., I-64, Nov. 27, 1802, N. Y.

ORIGINAL PAPERS.

For the Port Folio. THE AMERICAN LOUNGER. By SAMUEL SAUNTER, Esq. No. XLIII.

Et vos, O lauri, carpam, et te proxima myrtus, Sic positae, quoniam suaves miscetis odores.

—Virgil.

To SAMUEL SAUNTER, Esq.

Sir,

As I perceive your plan, like that of Coleman and Thornton, in the "Connoisseur," and like that of your relation, Solomon Saunter, in "Literary Leisure," admits Poetry as well as Prose, which one may feed upon alternately, as we eat bread and cheese, I send you a translation, from the German of Lessing, and some fugitive originals.

I am, yours HARLEY.

I ask'd my fair, one happy day, What should I call her in my lay, By what sweet name, from Rome or Greece, Iphigenia, Clelia, Chloris, Laura, Lesbia, Delia, Doris, Dorimene or Lucrece?

Ah, replied my gentle fair, Beloved, what are names but air? Take thou whatever suits the line, Clelia, Iphigenia, Chloris, Laura, Lesbia, Delia, Doris— But don't forget to call me—thine.

Port Folio, III-25, Jan. 1803, Phila.

[Lessing, Die Namen.]

THE NAVIGATION Translated from the French of Gessner.

It flies! the vessel flies, that bears away To distant shores my Daphne, fair as May. Guard her, ye loves! be lull'd each ruder gale; Let Zephyrs only fill the swelling sail; Ye waves flow gently by the vessel's side, While pensive she surveys you idly glide; Ah! softly glide, prolong her reverie, For then, ye Gods! 'tis then she thinks of me. When near the nodding groves that shade the shore, To her, ye birds, your sweetest warbling pour; No sounds be heard, but such as gently sooth, And be, O sea, thy azure surface smooth. Ne'er since thy daughters sought their liquid caves, A lovelier charge, was trusted to thy waves. Her clear, her bright unsullied beauty shews The lilly's white, and freshness of the rose. Not Venus had more charms, more beauteous bloom, When, rising from the sea's resplendent foam, She smiling mounted first her silver car, And shone effulgent as the morning star. The enchanted Tritons left their noisy sport, And nymphs cerulian in their crystal court; Regardless of their frowns, or jealous smiles, While beauty's queen each eager eye beguiles. They gaze, and held in most delightful trance, Pursue her moving o'er the smooth expanse.

H***T.

Boston Weekly Mag., 1-72, Feb. 19, 1803, Boston.

[S. Gessner, La Navigation. French translation of Die Schiffahrt.]

Mr. HOGAN;

The subjoined Pieces under the signature of Oscar, are the production of a gentleman residing in a distant part of the state. They were written solely with a view to amuse his leisure hours. If you think them worthy of publication, you are at liberty to insert them in the Repository.

—A SUBSCRIBER.

MORNING SONG OF PRAISE. From the German of Patzke. "Lobt den Herrn! Die morgensonne."

O praise the Lord! the morning sun, From sleep awakes the cheerful swain; And all creation's joys again, To us, in streams renewed, run.

O praise the Lord! ye sweetest flow'rs, To him your earliest fragrance yield; Ye birds exert your tuneful pow'rs; Praise him in meadow and in field.

O praise the Lord!—Ev'n from his den The desert's savage roars his praise; And, oh! my soul! how much more then, Should'st thou thy voice in Paeans raise?

—Oscar.

Phila. Repos., III-152, May 7, 1803, Phila.

ODE TO SPRING From the German. "Freude wirbelt in den Lueften."

Joy comes laughing with the breeze; Gladness spreads itself around; Songsters warble in the trees; Nature gaily decks the ground.

Heav'n unfolds its richest vesture, Sparkling stars—etherial blue; Fairies dance with antic gesture; Or sip, delighted, morning dew.

Gentle, smiling, Zephyrs, wander, Thro' the groves of verdant green; Toying with the lilac yonder— Here, with the rose of blooming mien.

Humming bees, on wafer pinions, Careful, thro' the blossoms roam: Searching all their flow'r dominions, The nectar tribute gather home.

In th'embroider'd violet vale, Love, attended by the Graces, Tells his soft bewitching tale, While blushing fair ones hide their faces.

How beautiful is the creation, In this time of mirth and joy? All is life—all animation: Nought our pleasures to annoy.

—Oscar.

Phila. Repos., III-152, May 7, 1803, Phila.

[For introductory note, cf. the preceding.]

UNIVERSAL SONG OF PRAISE. A Sapphic Ode. From the German of Buerde. "Alles was odem hat, lobe den Herrn!"

All ye that live and breathe, O praise the Lord! With holy streams of joy, and exultation, Our souls are penetrated.

O taste and see, how great, how good He is! His love and mercy, his truth and grace alone, Leads us to joys eternal.

O ye enwraptur'd souls that serve the Lord Cherubim! Seraphim! Angels and Spirits! Love is your felicity.

Thirst on, our souls—thirst for the living streams; Bless'd and holy! and for ever love Him! Who us, in love, created.

Yes, we'll love and adore Him! yes, the dust Loves its Redeemer; and all our anxious tears Himself shall wipe away.

—Oscar.

Phila. Repos., III-152, May 7, 1803, Phila.

[For introductory note, cf. Morning Song of Praise, preceding.]

THE SHOE PINCHES. A Song of Shoe-maker, William. From Kotzebue.

Though idlers riot, eat and drink, And on soft downy pillows sink, They are not free from woe: For every man must have his share Of trouble, and must know best where The shoe does pinch his toe.

When rainy, wise men boots will wear, But shoes put on when all is fair, And take times as they go; No man that ever wore a shoe Will say if he be fair and true, It never pinch'd his toe.

Balance and Columbian Repos., II-288, Sept. 6, 1803, Hudson, (N. Y.).

BENEVOLENCE.—A FABLE. Imitated from the German of Gellert.

Port Folio, III-352, Oct. 29, 1803, Phila.

[Also in Amer. Universal Mag., I-28, Jan. 2, 1797, Phila.]

THE NOSEGAY.

[Prose translation.]

Phila. Repos., IV-4, Jan. 7, 1804, Phila.

[S. Gessner, Der Blumenstrauss. W. Hooper, New Idylles, p. 37.]

For the Philadelphia Repository. HOFFNUNG.

Wie des morgens helle licht Die dunkeln 'nachts durchbricht, Und die ganze welt erfrout Mit des tages herlichkeit

So wann grosse traurigkeit— Laest den menschen keine freud, Wann verzweiflung angst und schmertze Fuelt das arme, banges hertze.

Geht die sonne Hoffnungs auf, Und im traur'gem brust sein lauf Beginnt; dann flichtet traurigkeit, Und die brust ist voller freud.

Von verzweiflung, angst und schmertze Ist befreyt das bange hertze, O! es bringt die Hoffnungs sonne, Seeligkeit, und grosse wonne.

—ADELIO.

* * *A poetical translation is requested.

Phila. Repos., IV-56, Feb. 18, 1804, Phila.

For the Philadelphia Repository. TRANSLATION Of Adelio's German Lines in last Repository.

HOPE.

As does the morn's resplendent light Dispel the gloomy shades of night, And the whole universe delight, With the day's illustrious sight—

So when the adverse fates decree Nothing to man but misery, When they despair and pain impart To the keen agonized heart—

Then does his course, Hope's sun from rest Take thro' the troubled heaving breast; Then disappears adversity, And leaves behind felicity.

Exempt from horror is the breast, Despair and pain sink into rest; The sun of Hope affords delight, And happiness supremely bright.

Translator.

Phila. Repos., IV-64, Feb. 25, 1804, Phila.

PASSAGE FROM KLOPSTOCK'S MESSIAH.

So at the midnight hour draws nigh to the slumbering city Pestilence. Couch'd on his broad spread wings lurks under the rampart Death, bale-breathing. As yet unalarmed are the peaceable dwellers; Close to his nightly-lamp the sage yet watches; and high friends Over wine not unhallow'd, in shelter of odorous bowers, Talk of the soul and of friendship, and weigh their immortal duration. But too soon shall frightful Death, in a day of affliction Pouncing over them, over them spread; in a day of moaning and anguish.... When with wringing of hands the bride for the bridegroom loud wails; When, now of all her children bereft, the desperate mother Furious curses the day on which she bore, and was born ... when Weary with hollower eye, amid the carcases totter Even the buriers ... till the sent Death-angel, descending, Thoughtful on thunder-clouds, beholds all lonesome and silent, Gazes the wide desolation, and long broods over the graves, fixt.

"Perhaps some other writer will throw this fine picture into blank verse so well, as to convince the public, that the beauties of Klopstock can be naturalized without strangeness, and his peculiarities retained without affectation; that quaintness, the unavoidable companion of neologism, is as needless to genius, as hostile to grace; the hexameter, until it is familiar, must repel, and, when it is familiar, may annoy; that it wants a musical orderliness of sound; and that its cantering capricious movement opposes the grave march of solemn majesty, and better suits the ordinary scenery of Theocritus than the empyreal visions of Klopstock."

From "Criticism on Klopstock's Messiah."

Lit. Mag. and Amer. Reg., I-468, Mar. 1804, Phila.

[F. G. Klopstock, Messias.]

THE GUARDIAN SPIRIT. From the German of Matthison.

Whene'er day-light's parting gleam A smiling form salutes my love, And loiters near the murm'ring stream, And glides beneath the conscious grove: Ah! then my Henry's spirit see: Soft joy and peace it brings to thee.

And when at moon-light's sober ray Thou dream'st perchance of love and me, As thro' the pines the breezes play, And whisper dying melody— When tender bodings prompt the sigh— Thy Henry's spirit hovers nigh.

When o'er the mind soft musings steal, As thou the pleasing past hast scann'd; Should'st thou a gentle pressure feel, Like zephyr's kiss o'er lip and hand;— And should the glimmering taper fade— Then near thee 'bides thy lover's shade.

And when at midnights' solemn tide, As soft the rolling planets shine— Like Aeol's harp, thy couch beside, Thou hear'st the words—'forever thine!' Then slumber sweet, my spirit's there, And peace and joy it brings my fair.

Phila. Repos., IV-160, May 19, 1804, Phila.

[Friedrich Matthisson, Lied aus der Ferne.]

BUeRGER'S LEONORA. [g].

[In an article on Buerger's Lenore, three eight-lined stanzas of Spencer's translation, and two six-lined stanzas of Stanley's translation are given.

W. R. Spencer, Leonora. Trans. from the German of G. A. Buergher. London, 1796.

J. T. Stanley, Leonora. Trans. freely from the German; 2nd ed., London, 1796.]

Port Folio, IV-167, May 26, 1804, Phila.

A SONNET Translated from Jacobi.

Tell me where's the vi'let fled Late so gaily blowing; Springing 'neath fair Flora's tread, Choicest sweets bestowing? Swains the vernal scene is o'er, And the vi'let blooms no more.

Say where hides the blushing rose, Pride of fragrant morning; Garland meet for beauty's brows, Hill and dale adorning? Gentle maid the summer's fled And the hopeless Rose is dead!

Bear me then to yonder rill, Late so freely flowing; Wat'ring many a daffodil, On its margin glowing— Sun and wind exhaust its store: Yonder riv'let glides no more!

Lead me to the bow'ry shade, Late with roses flaunting; Lov'd resort of youth and maid, Am'rous ditty chanting— Hail and storm with fury show'rs, Leafless mourn with rifled bow'rs!

Say where hides the village maid, Late yon cot adorning; Oft I've met her in the glade, Fair and fresh as morning? Swain how short is beauty's bloom, Seek her in the grassy tomb!

Whither roves the tuneful swain Who of rural pleasures, Rose and vi'let, rill and plain, Sung in deftest measures? Maiden, swift life's vision flies, Death has clos'd the Poet's eyes.

Companion and Weekly Misc., I-104, Jan. 26, 1805, Balto.

[J. G. Jacobi, Vergaenglichkeit. W. Taylor of Norwich, op. cit. II-106, Elegy. (Variants in stanza V).]

The following is a German drinking song, popular in the Rhingau, and probably the inspiration of the old Hock, which it celebrates.

Bekranzt mit laub den liebe vollen becher, Und trinkt ihn froelich leer; In ganz Europa, ihr herren recher, Ist solch ein wein nicht mehr.

Ihn bringt das vatterland aus seiner fuelle, Wie war er sonst so gut? Wie war er sonst so edel stille, Und doch voll kraft und muth?

Am Rhein, am Rhein, da wachsen unsre reben; Gesegnet sey der Rhein! Da wachsen sie am ufer hin, und geben Uns diesen lieben wein.

So trinkt hin dann, and last uns alle wege Uns freun und froelich seyn; Und, wisten wir wo jemand traurig laege, Wir gaeben ihm den wein.

TRANSLATION.

The brimful goblet crown with wines, And drink the cordial juice, Europe itself can't boast such vines As these bless'd hills produce.

Yes, Germany's the copious source Of wines that all excel; So mild, so generous, full of force, None cheer the heart so well.

Rhingau alone such grapes can boast, Huzza! here's to the Rhine! And may the wretch, who slights the toast, Forget the taste of wine.

Come, drink about, and let's be gay, With nectar so divine, Is any man to grief a prey? We'll comfort him with wine.

Port Folio, V-110, Apr. 13, 1805, Phila.

EPIGRAMS. From the German of G. E. Lessing.

Adam awhile in Paradise Enjoy'd his novel life: He was caught napping; in a thrice His rib was made a wife.

Poor father Adam, what a guest! This most unlucky dose Made the first minute of thy rest The last of thy repose.

* * * * *

But one bad woman at a time On earth arises. That every one should think he has her, I own—surprises.

* * * * *

A long way off—Lucinda strikes the men. As she draws near, And one see clear, A long way off—one wishes her again.

Phila. Repos., V-128, Apr. 20, 1805, Phila.

In Dr. Cogan's amusing and Shandean Travels on the Rhine, he has preserved a German Ode to Evening. They, who are curious to behold the Teutonic Muse, in the character of a pensive minstrel, may here be gratified.

Komm, stiller abend, neider, Auf unsre kleine flur; Dir toenen unsre lieder, Wie schoen bist du, natur!

Schon steigt die abendroethe Herab ins kuehle thal; Bald glantz in sanfter roethe Der sonne letzter strahl.

All uberal herrscht schweigen Nur schwingt der vogel chor Hoch aus den dunkeln zweigen Den nacht gesang empor.

Komm, lieber abend, neider Auf unsre kleine flur; Dir toenen unsre lieder, Wie schoen bist du natur.

TRANSLATION.

Come, silent Eve, return again, Our homely cottage view, And hear us sing a cheerful strain, To thee, and nature due.

The sun retires yon hills behind, And sinks into the sea, Glancing his rays both mild and kind, Oh, blushing maid, on thee.

To thee he yields the soothing sway, Inviting all to rest; The birds conclude the happy day With singing on thy breast.

Come, silent Eve, return again, Our homely cottage view, And hear us sing a cheerful strain, To thee and nature due.

Port Folio, V-149, May 18, 1805, Phila.

FROM THE GERMAN OF LESSING.

Ah! why am I so transient, ask'd of Jupiter, Beauty? Only the transient is fair, smiling answer'd the God! Love, and Youth, and the Spring, and the Flow'rs, and the Dew, they all heard it; Slowly they turn'd away, weeping from Jupiter's throne!

Port Folio, I-40, Jan. 25, 1806, Phila.

THE WOODEN LEG. [a]. An Helvetick Tale. From the German of Solomon Gessner.

[Prose translation.]

Polyanthos, I-192, Feb., 1806, Boston.

[S. Gessner, Das hoelzerne Bein. W. Hooper, New Idylles, p. 78.]

It is but seldom that the Muses of the North sing more sweetly than in the following strain:

SONG—FROM THE GERMAN.

Scarce sixteen summers had I seen, And rov'd my native bow'rs; Nor stray'd my thoughts beyond the green, Bedew'd with shrubs and flow'rs.

When late a stranger youth appear'd; I neither wish'd nor sought him; He came, but whence I never heard, And spake what love had taught him.

His hair in graceful ringlets play'd, All eyes are charm'd that view them, And o'er his comely shoulders stray'd, Where wanton zephyrs blew them.

His speaking eye of azure hue Seem'd ever softly suing, And such an eye, so clear and blue, Ne'er shone for maid's undoing.

His face was fair, his cheek was red, With blushes ever burning; And all he spoke was deftly said, Though far beyond my learning.

Where'er I stray'd, the youth was nigh, His look soft sorrows speaking; Sweet maid! he'd say, then gaze and sigh, As if his heart were breaking.

And once, as low his head he hung, I fain would ask the meaning; When round my neck his arms he flung, Soft tears his grief explaining.

Such freedom ne'er was ta'en till now, And now 'twas unoffending; Shame spread my cheek with ruddy glow, My eyes kept downward bending.

Nor aught I spoke, my looks he read, As if with anger burning; No—not one word—away he sped, Ah! would he were returning.

Port Folio, I-189, Mar. 29, 1806, Phila.

PASTORAL POETRY.

From Gessner's "New Idyls." THE ZEPHYRS. [b].

[Prose translation.] Weekly Visitant, I-158, May 17, 1806, Salem.

[S. Gessner, Die Zephyre. W. Hooper, New Idylles, p. 16.]

From Gessner's "New Idylles." THE CARNATION.

[Prose translation.] Weekly Visitant, I-159, May 17, 1806, Salem.

[S. Gessner, Die Nelke. W. Hooper, New Idylles, p. 7.]

THE NAME UNKNOWN.

Imitated from Klopstock's ode to his future mistress. By Thomas Campbell, Esq., author of Pleasures of Hope.

Evening Fire-Side or Lit. Misc., II-165, May 24, 1806, Phila.

[F. G. Klopstock, Die kuenftige Geliebte.

The above imitation appeared first in a newspaper, Newport Mercury, No. 2160, Aug. 30, 1803, Newport.]

THE FOWLER—A SONG. Altered from a German air, in the opera of "Die Zauberlote."

A CARELESS whistling lad am I, On sky-lark wings my moments fly; There's not a Fowler more renown'd In all the world—for ten miles round! Ah! who like me can spread the net? Or tune the merry flageolet?

Then why—O why should I repine, Since all the roving birds are mine? The thrush and linnet in the vale, The sweet sequester'd nightingale, The bulfinch, wren, and wood-lark, all Obey my summons when I call: O! could I form some cunning snare To catch the coy, coquetting fair, In Cupid's filmy web so fine, The pretty girls should all be mine!

When all were mine—among the rest, I'd choose the Lass I lik'd the best; And should my charming mate be kind; And smile, and kiss me to my mind, With her I'd tie the nuptial knot, Make Hymen's cage of my poor cot, And love away this fleeting life, Like Robin Redbreast and his wife!

Mo. Anthology and Boston Rev., III-591, Nov. 1806, Boston.

[E. Schickaneder, Die Zauberfloete. Oper in zwei Aufzuegen von Mozart. Dichtung nach Ludwig Giesecke von E. Schickaneder.

James Montgomery, The Wanderer of Switzerland and Other Poems, London, 1806. First Amer. ed. from second London ed., N. Y., 1807. P. 93.]

THE CHASE.

In the third number[33] of the Port Folio we inserted a very humorous parody of the following ballad of Buerger. We understand from the criticks in the German Language that the original is eminently beautiful. Its merit was once so highly appreciated in England that a host of translators started at once in the race for public favor. The ensuing version which is, we believe, by Sir Walter Scott, Esqr., well deserves a place in this journal.

[Footnote 33: Parody on Buerger's Earl Walter in Port Folio, III-44, Jan. 17, 1807. Cf. p. 165.]

[The translation by Scott follows.]

Port Folio, III-100, Feb. 14, 1807, Phila.

[Also in Weekly Mag., II-413, July 28, 1798, Phila.]

The following charming SONG is translated from the German by Mr. Herbert.

"Hail, orient sun, auspicious light! Hail, new-born orb of day! Lo, from behind the wood-crown'd height, Breaks forth thy glittering ray. Behold it sparkle in the stream, And on the dew drop shine! O, may sweet joy's enlivening beam Mix his pure rays with thine! The Zephyrs now, with frolic wing, Their rosy beds forsake; And, shedding round the sweets of spring, Their drowsy comrades wake. Soft sleep and all his airy forms Fly from the dawning day: Like little loves O may their swarms On Chloe's bosom play! Ye Zephyrs haste; from every flower The sweetest perfumes take; And bear them hence to Chloe's bower; For soon the maid must wake! And, hovering round her fragrant bed, In breezes call my fair; Go, frolic round her graceful head, And scent her golden hair! Then gently whisper in her ear, That ere the sun gan rise, By the soft murmuring fountain here I breath'd her name in sighs."

Observer, I-352, May 30, 1807, Balto.

Selected Poetry. THE POEM OF HALLER VERSIFIED. By HENRY JAMES PYE, Esq., P.L.

Ah! woods forever dear! whose branches spread Their verdant arch o'er Hasel's breezy head, When shall I once again, supinely laid, Hear Philomela charm your list'ning shade? When shall I stretch my careless limbs again, Where, gently rising from the velvet plain, O'er the green hills, in easy curve that bend, The mossy carpet Nature's hands extend? Where all is silent! save the gales that move The leafy umbrage of the whisp'ring grove; Or the soft murmurs of the rivulet's wave, Whose chearing streams the lonely meadows lave.

O Heav'n! when shall once more these eyes be cast On scenes where all my spring of life was pass'd; Where, oft responsive to the falling rill, Sylvia and love my artless lays would fill? While Zephyr's fragrant breeze, soft breathing, stole A pleasing sadness o'er my pensive soul: Care, and her ghastly train, were far away; } While calm, beneath the sheltering woods I lay } Mid shades, impervious to the beams of day. }

Here—sad reverse!—from scenes of pleasure far, I wage with sorrow unremitting war: Oppress'd with grief, my ling'ring moments flow, Nor aught of joy, or aught of quiet, know. Far from the scenes that gave my being birth, From parents far, an outcast of the earth! In youth's warm hours, from each restriction free, Left to myself in dangerous liberty.

Ah! scenes of earthly joy! ah, much-lov'd shades! Soon may my footsteps tread your vernal glades. Ah! should kind Heav'n permit me to explore Your seats of still tranquillity once more! E'en now to Fancy's visionary eye, Hope shews the flattering hour of transport nigh, Blue shines the aether, when the storm is past; And calm repose succeeds to sorrow's blast. Flourished, ye scenes of every new delight! Wave wide your branches to my raptur'd sight! While, ne'er to roam again, my wearied feet Seek the kind refuge of your calm retreat.

Now pale disease shoots thro' my languid frame, And checks the zeal for wisdom and for fame. Now droops fond hope, by Disappointment cross'd; Chill'd by neglect, each sanguine wish is lost. O'er the weak mound stern Ocean's billows ride, And waft destruction in with every tide; While Mars, descending from his crimson car, Fans with fierce hands the kindling flames of war.

Her gentle aid let Consolation lend; All human evils hasten to their end. The storm abates at every gust it blows; Past ills enhance the comforts of repose. He who ne'er felt the pressure of distress, Ne'er felt returning pleasure's keen excess. Time who Affliction bore on rapid wing, My panting heart to happiness may bring; I, on my native hills, may yet inhale The purer influence of the ambient gale.

Observer, II-95, Aug. 8, 1807, Balto.

[Albrecht von Haller, Sehnsucht nach dem Vaterlande.]

Walter Scott, Esq., whose honoured name is now perfectly familiar to every lover of poetical description, has lately published a ballad which we are solicitous to preserve in this paper. The gayety of the beginning, contrasted with the solemnity of the conclusion of this terrifick ballad cannot fail to strike all who relish The Castle of Otranto, or The Romance of the Forest.

FREDERICK AND ALICE.

This tale is imitated rather than translated from a fragment introduced in Goethe's "Claudina von Villa Bella," where it is sung by a member of a gang of banditti to engage the attention of the family, while his companions break into the castle. It owes any little merit it may possess to my friend Mr. Lewis, to whom it was sent in an extremely rude state; and who, after some material improvement, published it in his "Tales of Wonder."

[The poem follows.]

Port Folio, IV-134, Aug. 29, 1807, Phila.

[Goethe, Claudine von Villa Bella, Act II. Song by "Rugantino" (Karlos von Castellvecchio).

M. G. Lewis, Tales of Wonder.]

THE LASS OF FAIR WONE. From the German of Buerger.

Charms of Lit., p. 103, 1808, Trenton.

[Also in Phila. Minerva, II, Dec. 17, 1796, Phila.]

THE WOODEN LEG. [b]. A Swiss Idyll. By GESSNER.

[Prose translation.]

Charms of Lit., p. 401, 1808, Trenton.

[S. Gessner, Das hoelzerne Bein.]

FROM THE GERMAN OF GESNER.

Hail, Morning, to thy rising beam That gilds with light the mountain's brow, And shines and glitters in the stream That winds along the vale below!

Joy, and health, and glad delight Await thy steps, thy march pursue; The Zephyr now that slept the night In flowers that weep beneath the dew,

His plumes with new-born vigour tries, And lifts him from his balmy bed; And dreams that round the wearied eyes Of mortals hover'd, now are fled.

Haste, ye Gales, and thro' the air Waft the sweets from every flower, And wave your wings around my Fair, What slumbers in yon rosy bower;

Paint o'er her lips and cheek's bright hues, And heave upon her heaving breast, And when yo've chas'd Sleep's balmy dews, And gently burst the bonds of rest,

Oh whisper to her list'ning ear, That e'er bright Morn had deck'd the sky, These streams beheld me shed the tear, And heard me pour for her the sigh!

Lady's Weekly Misc., VII-112, June 11, 1808, N. Y.

[S. Gessner, Morgenlied.]

MORNING SONG. (Morgenlied) from the German of Gesner.

Welcome, early orb of morn! Welcome, infant day! O'er the wood-top'd mountain borne, Mark its coming ray! Now o'er babbling brooks it beams; Sips from each flower its dew; Now with glorious gladdening gleams Wakes the world anew. Zephyrs first, o'er flowers that slumber'd, Quit their couch, and play; Breathe o'er flowers in sighs unnumber'd, Breathe the scent of day. Fancy now her reign gives o'er, Every vision flies; Chloe's cheek is wan no more, Cupids round it rise. Hasten, Zephyr, waft from roses All their loveliest bloom! Haste where Chloe now reposes, Wake her from her tomb! To the fairest's couch repair, Wanton round her pillow; O'er her lip and bosom fair Bathe thy blandest billow! She wakes the whispers to the gale, Wakes from her morning dream; Whilst so the stream, and thro' the vale, I er'st have breathed her name.

Emerald, n. s., I-562, Sept. 10, 1808, Boston.

[S. Gessner, Morgenlied.]

TRANSLATION OF SHELLER'S "FORGET ME NOT." (From the German.)

Belov'd of my bosom, alas my fond heart Does weep for the fate of my heart-rending lot; To range the wide world, now from me you depart, Yet remember me ever, "forget me not."

If moving in circles of beauty and love, Perchance to adore some sweet maid, be your lot, O! then may my spirit thy wav'rings reprove, And whisper thee gently, "forget me not."

If hap'ly hard fate should you e'er from me sever, How drearily mournful would be my sad lot, In sorrow's dark path I would wander forever, Nor smile more with joy, then "forget me not."

If in the fresh bloom of my life's early blossom, To leave you my dear, and this world, be my lot, Thine be the last sigh that escapes from my bosom, Then think how I love you; "O! forget me not."

Yet tho' we now part, in the bless'd realms above, We will meet soon again, free from life's woeful lot; We will meet to dear joy, we will meet to sweet love, Then no more need I say "O! forget me not."

Z.

Gleaner, I-325, Mar. 1809, Lancaster (Penn.).

TRANSLATION FROM THE GERMAN.

Whoever has perused the prophetick metrical compositions of Van Vander Horderclogeth must surely remember the poem on the 3697 fol. of which the following is a translation; it commences thus—

Vrom Grouter gruder grout gropstock, Zordur zoop, &c.

All gloomy and sorrowful Beelzebub sat, With his imps and his devils around, When the thundering knocker of Hell's outer grate Rang a peal so terrifick and loud on the gate, That all Erebus echoed the sound.

Full swift to the portal the young devils flew, And the long gloomy passage unbarr'd; When a lanthorn-jaw'd monster stood forth to their view, So meagre his figure, so pale was his hue, That the devils all trembled and star'd.

All green were his eyes in their sockets decay'd, His nose was projecting and wide, In a dusty frock-coat was his carcase array'd, On his scull he a three-corner'd scraper display'd, And two volumes[34] he bore at his side.

So foul were his breath and the words that he said, That his teeth had long rotted away— And now to the devils a signal he made, To show him their master, the devils obey'd, And brought him where Beelzebub lay.

Old Beelzebub rose, as the monster came in, And stood for a moment in dread, For they look'd like each other enough to be kin, Save that one had whole feet and a light-colour'd skin, And the other had horns on his head.

'Whence art thou?' said Beelzebub; 'stranger, proclaim, For if Satan can rightly divine, Thou art surely some hero of throat-cutting fame, For ne'er to these regions a spirit there came, With figure so hellish as thine.'

'No throats have I cut,' the lank goblin replied, With voice that was hollow and shrill; 'I have cheated, and bullied, and swindled, and lied, Sedition and falsehood I've spread far and wide, And in mischief I never was still.

'My name is —— ——;' no sooner said he, Than Beelzebub rose with a grin; He embrac'd the foul monster, who also display'd His joy at the meeting; and both of them made All Hell echo round with their din.

Ordeal, I-157, Mar. 11, 1809, Boston.

[Footnote 34: I have not been able to discover what these volumes were. There is a short note in the German, which implies that they were entitled Dulder Soudth.]

THE FOWLER.

A Song. Altered from a German air, in the opera of "Dizauberlote." Gleaner, I-374, Apr. 1809, Lancaster (Penn.).

[Also in Mo. Anthology and Boston Rev., III-591, Nov. 1806, Boston.]

TO CHLOE. From the German of Gesner.

[Prose translation.]

Visitor, I-154, Nov. 4, 1809, Richmond.

[S. Gessner, An Chloen.]

SONG. From the German of Jacobi.

Boston Mirror, II-88, Dec. 30, 1809, Boston.

[Same as, A Sonnet, by Jacobi, in Companion and Weekly Misc., I-104, Jan. 26, 1805, Balto.]

I publish the following new translation of "The Wild Hunter," first on account of its superiority over every other, and secondly because it is my intention in a future number to notice particularly this chef d'oeuvre of the German poet.

THE WILD HUNTER.

Loud, loud the baron winds his horn; And, see, a lordly train On horse, on foot, with deafening din, Comes scouring o'er the plain.

O'er heath, o'er field, the yelping pack Dash swift, from couples freed; O'er heath, o'er field, close on their track, Loud neighs the fiery steed.

And now the Sabbath's holy dawn Beam'd high with purple ray, And bright each hallowed temple's dome Reflected back the day.

Now deep and clear the pealing bells Struck on the list'ning ear, And heaven-ward rose from many a voice The hymn of praise and prayer.

Swift, swift along the crossway, still They speed with eager cry: See! right and left, two horsemen strange Their rapid coursers ply.

Who were the horsemen right and left? That may I guess full well: Who were the horsemen right and left? That may I never tell.

The right, of fair and beauteous mien, A milk-white steed bestrode; Mild as the vernal skies, his face With heavenly radiance glow'd.

The left spurr'd fast his fiery barb, Red as the furnace flame; Sullen he loured, and from his eyes The death-like lightning came.

'Right welcome to our noble sport;' The baron greets them fair; 'For well I wot ye hold it good To banish moping care.

'No pleasure equal to the chase, Or earth, or heaven can yield;' He spoke,—he waved his cap in air, And foremost rushed afield.

'Turn thee!' the milder horseman cries; 'Turn thee from horns and hounds! Hear'st not the bells, hear'st not the quire, Mingle their sacred sounds?

'They drown the clamor of the chase; Oh! hunt not then to-day, Nor let a fiend's advice destroy Thy better angel's sway.'

'Hunt on, hunt on,' his comrade cries, 'Nor heed yon dotard's spell; What is the bawling quire to us? Or what the jangling bell?

'Well may the chase delight thee more; And well may'st learn from me, How brave, how princely is our sport, From bigot terrors free.'

'Well said! well said! in thee I own A hero's kindled fire; These pious fool'ries move not us, We reck nor priest, nor quire.

'And thou, believe me, saintlike dolt, Thy bigot rage is vain; From prayers and beadrolls, what delight Can sportsmen hope to gain?'

Still hurry, hurry, on they speed O'er valley, hill and plain; And ever at the baron's side Attend the horsemen twain.

See, panting, see, a milk-white hart Up-springs from yonder thorn: 'Now swiftly ply both horse and foot; Now louder wind the horn!'

See, falls a huntsman! see, his limbs The pangs of death distort! 'Lay there and rot: no caitiff's death Shall mar our princely sport.'

Light bounds with deftest speed the hart, Wide o'er the country borne; Now closer prest a refuge seeks Where waves the ripening corn.

See, the poor owner of the field Approach with tearful eyes; 'O pity, pity, good my lords!' Alas! in vain he cries.

'O spare what little store the poor By bitter sweat can earn!' Now soft the milder horseman warns The baron to return.

Not so persuades his stern compeer, Best pleas'd with darkest deeds; Tis his to sway the baron's heart, Reckless what mercy pleads.

'Away!' the imperious noble cries; 'Away, and leave us free! Off! or by all the powers of hell, Thou too shalt hunted be!

'Here, fellows! let this villain prove My threats were not in vain: Loud lash around his piteous face The whips of all my train.'

Tis said, tis done: swift o'er the fence The baron foremost springs; Swift follow hound, and horse, and man, And loud the welkin rings.

Loud rings the welkin with their shouts, While man, and horse, and hound, Ruthless tread down each ripening ear, Wide o'er the smoking ground.

O'er heath and field, o'er hill and dale, Scared by the approaching cries, Still close pursued, yet still unreach'd, Their destin'd victim flies.

Now mid the lowing herds that graze Along yon verdant plain, He hopes, concealed from every eye, A safe retreat to gain.

In vain, for now the savage train Press ravening on his heels: See, prostrate at the baron's feet The affrighted herdsman kneels.

Fear for the safety of his charge Inspires his faltering tongue; 'O spare,' he cries, 'these harmless beasts, Nor work an orphan's wrong.

'Think, here thy fury would destroy A friendless widow's all!' He spoke:—the gentle stranger strove To enforce soft pity's call.

Not so persuades his sullen frere, But pleas'd with darkest deeds; Tis his to sway the baron's heart, Reckless what mercy pleads.

'Away, audacious hound!' he cries; 'Twould do my heart's-blood good, Might I but see thee transform'd to beasts Thee and thy beggar brood.

'Then, to the very gates of heaven, Who dare to say me nay! With joy I'd hunt the losel fry; Come fellows, no delay!'

See, far and wide the murderous throng Deal many a deadly wound; Mid slaughter'd numbers, see, the hart Sinks bleeding on the ground.

Yet still he summons all his strength For one poor effort more, Staggering he flies; his silver sides Drop mingled sweat and gore.

And now he seeks a last retreat Deep in the darkling dell, Where stands, amidst embowering oaks, A hermit's holy cell.

E'en here the madly eager train Rush swift with impious rage, When, lo! persuasion on his tongue, Steps forth the reverend sage.

'O cease thy chase! nor thus invade Religion's free abode; For know, the tortur'd creature's groans E'en now have reach'd his god.

'They cry at heaven's high mercy seat, For vengeance on thy head; O turn, repentant turn, ere yet The avenging bolt is sped.'

Once more religion's cause in vain The gentle stranger pleads; Once more, alas! his sullen frere A willing victim leads.

'Dash on!' the harden'd sinner cries; 'Shalt thou disturb our sport? No! boldly would I urge the chase In heaven's own inmost court.

'What reck I then thy pious rage? No mortal man I fear: Not god in all his terrors arm'd Should stay my fix'd career.'

He cracks his whip, he winds his horn, He calls his vassal-crew; Lo! horse and hound, and sage and cell, All vanish from his view.

All, all, are gone!—no single rack His eager eye can trace; And silence, still as death, has hush'd The clamors of the chase.

In vain he spurs his courser's sides, Nor back nor forward borne; He winds his horn, he calls aloud, But hears no sound return.

And now inclos'd in deepest night, Dark as the silent grave, He hears the sullen tempest roar, As roars the distant wave.

Loud and louder still the storm Howls through the troubled air; Ten thousand thunders from on high The voice of judgment bear.

Accursed before god and man, Unmoved by threat or prayer; Creator, nor created, aught Thy frantic rage would spare.

'Think not in vain creation's lord Has heard his creature's groan; E'en now the torch of vengeance flames High by his awful throne.

'Now, hear thy doom! to aftertimes A dread example given, For ever urge thy wild career, By fiendish hell-hounds driven.'

The voice had ceased; the sulphurous flash Shot swift from either pole; Sore shook the grove; cold horror seized The trembling miscreant's soul.

Again the rising tempest roars, Again the lightnings play; And every limb, and every nerve Is frozen with dismay.

He sees a giant's swarthy arm Start from the yawning ground; He feels a demon grasp his head, And rudely wrench it round.

In torrents now from every side, Pours fast a fiery flood; On each o'erwhelming wave upborne, Loud howls the hellish brood.

Sullen and grisly gleams the light, Now red, now green, now blue; Whilst o'er the gulf the fiendish train Their destined prey pursue.

In vain he shrieks with wild despair, In vain he strives to fly; Still at his back the hell-born crew Their cursed business ply.

By day, full many a fathom deep Below earth's smiling face; By night, high through the troubled air, They speed their endless chase.

In vain to turn his eyes aside He strives with wild affright; So never may those maddening scenes Escape his tortured sight.

Still must he see those dogs of hell Close hovering on his track; Still must he see the avenging scourge Uplighted at his back.

Now this is the wild baron's hunt; And many a village youth, And many a sportsman (dare they speak) Could vouch the awful truth.

For oft benighted midst the wilds The fiendish troop they hear, Now shrieking shrill, now cursing loud, Come thundering through the air.

No hand shall stay those dogs of hell Or quench that sea of fire, Till god's own dreadful day of doom Shall bid the world expire!

Rambler's Mag., I-137, [1809], N. Y.

[G. A. Buerger, Der wilde Jaeger.]



III.

TRANSLATIONS OF DUTCH, DANISH, NORWEGIAN AND ICELANDIC POETRY, AND ORIGINAL POEMS REFERRING TO THE GERMAN COUNTRIES.

We hear from Annopolis-Royal that a play was acted the last Winter for the Entertainment of the Officers and Ladies at that Place and that the following Lines were Part of the Prologue compos'd and spoke on that Occasion.

Whilst to relieve a generous Queen's Distress, Whom proud, ambitious Potentates oppress: Our king pursues the most effectual Ways, Sooths some to Peace, and there the Storm allays; And against others, who're more loath to yield, He leads his Britons to the German Field: Where to his Cost th' insulting Foe has found What 'tis with Britons to dispute the Ground: We still enjoying Peace in this cold Clime, With innocent diversions pass our Time, &c.

Amer. Mag. and Hist. Chron., I-348, Apr. 1744, Boston.

WINTER, A POEM. By the same [i. e., Annandius].

The twelfth stanza:

Thrice happy they! but why my muse, To rural pastimes so profuse? The crouded city surely yields, More joy than ice and snowy fields? Here folks are witty and well dress'd, And blooming beauty is caress'd In ev'ry form art can devise— } With soothing flattery solemn lies, } And all that nymphs deluded prize } Here fashions reign, and modes prevail, And in twelve moons again grow stale, Thus ever vary, ever change, Yet ever please—a thing most strange! And here each thing is told that's new } What Loundoun or what Richlieu do, } Each secret expedition too— } And then great FREDERICK'S noble feats, When he th' imperial forces beats. Such themes the lazy hours beguile; There's nothing else that's worth our while. * * * * *

Amer. Mag. and Mo. Chron., I-238, Feb. 1758, Phila.

To the Proprietors, &c.

GENTLEMEN:

The honour of becoming a father has made me desirous of ushering the following Ode into the world, which is my own true, honest, and lawfully begotten birth. I, therefore know of no better method than to commit it to the care of gentlemen of your abilities and public character; for if it remains with me it must live and die in obscurity.

Philadelphia, February 25th. PHILANDREIA.

ON THE COMPLEAT VICTORY GAIN'D BY HIS PRUSSIAN MAJESTY OVER THE FRENCH AND IMPERIAL ARMY, THE 5TH OF NOVEMBER, 1757.

A Pindaric Ode.

'Tis he! 'tis he! I hear him from afar, Thundering like the God of War; To Rosbach's plains, in dread array, The god-like hero bends his way! Hark! the rattling rumbling noise of drums! He comes, he comes! See, Prussia's awful king's at hand! He speaks, he speaks! attentive stand! His well known voice, the gallant warriours hear, And bend their wide-extended wings both front and rear, Which half enclose him round. Stern as the face of war, and yet serene, } With grace attractive, and majestic mein, } Was the mighty monarch seen. } With martial rage each bosom glow'd, While from his lips those moving accents flow'd— 'My valiant troops, my dear and trusty friends, 'The hour at last is come, in which depends 'What ever is, or should to us be dear, 'Upon the sword-unsheath'd, and glitt'ring spear. 'For PROTESTANTS-unborn you fight: Your cause is good, 'Which you have yet maintain'd, thro' seas of richest blood. 'And, bear me witness, that your Prince thus far, 'Hath shar'd each danger in this glorious war; 'Nor shall it e'er by envious[35] tongue be told 'Your leader shrunk from watching, hunger, cold, 'And left the burden to his vet'rans bold 'Oh! no; my faithful bands! 'With you your FRED'RICK stands, 'For Freedom ready to impart 'Those crimson drops that roll around his heart'— He spoke: And acclamations loud, Like thunder bursting from a cloud, Struck th' approaching foe with awe; And the madly-floating sound Fill'd the wide extended plains around, With the wild Huzza. Each warrior, big with rage, Stands panting to engage; And now the voice of furious Joy Again bursts forth into the vaulted sky; And the rude rocks rebound The warlike trumpet's solemn sound— "Destroy! destroy! destroy!" As water roaring from a mountain's side Tears down whole rocks with its impetuous tide; And rolling through the plains with furious sweep, } Bears off the shepherd's cottage, and his sheep, } Into the surging of th' astonish'd deep; } So each band, Sword in hand, Pour'd on the foe; Thund'ring, flashing, Fiercely clashing Arms on Arms— Glory's Charms, Fir'd each breast with martial glow, Ah, see what piteous scenes appear. When warriors yield their breath; Now dying groans invade the ear, They sink in glorious death. Prussian rage the foe confounds, Some stagger, fall, are slain, Some cover'd o'er with blood and wounds, Lie weltring on the plain, Surpriz'd and confounded, With horror surrounded, And pale fear half dead, They're vanquish'd and fled. Hark! hark! the trumpet's sound A shout for Victory spreads around; And Victory the vales, And Victory the dales, And Victory the tufted hills rebound! When muttering thunders roll along the sky. You may have seen the winged lightnings fly; Quick as thought, the flashes glance Thro' th' immensurable wide expanse— So nimble warriours flew, When they gave their foes the rout, With this universal shout, "Pursue! pursue! pursue!" O'er carcasses of heroes slain, The mighty victors rode, Where shiver'd armour strew'd the plain Empurpled o'er with blood; Now thund'ring on their broken rear, He spreads destruction, death and fear, Till day forsakes him, and the sullen night, In thickest gloom of hov'ring shades, descends To the assistance of her ghastly friends, And screens the vanquish'd from the victor's sight!

Amer. Mag. and Mo. Chron., I-240, Feb. 1758, Phila.

[Footnote 35: We have taken the liberty to make two or three small alterations here, which we flatter ourselves the ingenious author's judgment will approve of and excuse, as they do not affect the sense.]

ODE ON THE LATE VICTORY OBTAINED BY THE KING OF PRUSSIA, By the same [i. e., Annandius].

I.

Hail matchless monarch! prince renown'd! Long be thy head with laurels crown'd, By victories obtained! For liberty long hast thou stood, In crimson fields of war and blood That peace may be regain'd.

II.

When Austria and aspiring Gaul Determin'd kingdoms to enthral, Lo Prussia's pow'rful prince! With watchful eye and warlike hand, Makes them aghast and trembling stand, Rais'd up by providence.

III.

As when a Lion rears his head, The forest wide is fill'd with dread, Each creature seeks his den; Or when Leviathan the great Displays himself in finny state He terrifies the main.

IV.

In fair record shall long remain The DAY, when on Thuringia's plain SOUBISE before him fled; When HILBOURGHAUSEN'S num'rous band 'Gainst Prussian valor could not stand, With terror almost dead.

V.

With haste they fled, and bless'd the night, Which hid them from the victor's sight, And favoured their retreat. Near Freybourg walls, the Unstrut pass'd. On hills of Eckersberg harras'd, They mourn'd their adverse fate.

VI.

O glorious prince! O warlike train! Who hunger, cold and toil sustain With brave unyielding mind! To you proud Austria shall submit, And LOUIS lovingly shall greet The Prussian as his friend.

VII.

In characters of purest gold Thy speech deserves to be enroll'd, Before the battle made; Each Soldier stil'd great FRED'RICK'S friend, Who can his country's rights defend When her fierce foes invade.

VIII.

Who would, in battle lag behind, That serves a prince so great, so kind, In every danger near? When monarchs' lives are laid at stake, What subject would his king forsake? What room is left for fear?

IX.

Europe on thee has fix'd her eye, Great monarch! All on thee rely Her balance just to keep. May this great end thy labours crown, Be sempiternal thy renown, When thou in dust shall sleep.

Philadelphia, February 10, 1758.

Amer. Mag. and Mo. Chron., I-240, Feb. 1758, Phila.

The same worthy motives that induced the author to send us the following poem, will induce us to give it place this month, altho we are already crowded with materials. We think it our duty, as Britons and Protestants, to take every opportunity of celebrating such an illustrious hero as the King of Prussia; and, however unequal the strains may be thought, yet if they contribute ever so little to raise an imitation of his noble and almost divine atchievments, in the cause of Religion and Liberty, our end will be fully answered.

ON THE GLORIOUS VICTORY OBTAINED BY THE HEROICK KING OF PRUSSIA OVER THE IMPERIAL ARMY NEAR NEWMARK IN SILESIA THE 5TH DECEMBER 1757.

I.

My muse! again attempt the lyre; Rouse! rouse! thy whole poetic fire! Great FREDRICK'S deeds do still require More ample praise. Let his great acts the verse inspire, And tuneful be thy lays.

II.

Illustrious HANNIBAL of old, CAESAR the brave and SCIPIO bold, For battles won stand high enroll'd In hist'ry's page! Let Fred'rick's name with theirs be told, The HERO of his age!

III.

Rosbach! thy plain the VICTOR owns! 'Twas fill'd with shrieks and dying groans, And mangled limbs and shatter'd bones— In heaps they lay! The vanquished Gaul as yet bemoans That inauspicious day.

IV.

Yea FRED'RICK bent on conquests new, Doth ALEXANDER-like pursue, As if the world he would subdue— Undaunted prince! That thou 'rt a Hero great and true Each action doth evince.

V.

Silesia first demands relief, His losses there augment his grief; Thitherward the Prussians and their CHIEF, To BEVERN'S aid Make hasty marches; and in brief Their parts they nobly play'd.

VI.

See! see! the godlike MAN proceed! And vet'ran bands to battle lead, Inur'd to toil, and warlike deed, A hardy race! Such troops are princes' friends indeed, And do their LEADER grace.

VII.

The trumpet's sound, and loudest noise Of martial drums, increase their joys; Not by compulsion led, but choice, And bold to fight, Their Country's cause in mind they poise; War! War! is their delight!

VIII.

Now they engage with furious shout; And join in battle fierce and stout, Th' invet'rate Foe at length they rout; And loud they cry— O! matchless Prussians! ne'er give out; Pursue! Cut off! Destroy!

IX.

Th' intrepid victors far and near Spread fierce destruction on the rear, Their enemies with trembling fear Their arms lay down; Who whilom haughty and severe, Had deem'd the field their own.

X.

See them triumphant bear away Th' imperial standards waving gay! A thousand trophies line the way; As they return, Beneath their feet, a hapless prey, The vanquish'd mourn.

XI.

Behold the blood impurpled plain, And shiver'd armour of the slain! Their dreams of honour, ah! how vain? Gasping they lie! Now of their wounds complain, Now sink and faint and die.

XII.

Such is th' event of human things, The fates of emp'rors and of kings; Death in the rear disaster brings, Dreadful to see! Such as great POPE or HOMER sings, Strains far too high for me.

XIII.

But CHARLES and valiant DAUN retreat, Who lately led an army great— At Breslau now in shatter'd state They rendezvous: And there bemoan their adverse fate, And dismal overthrow.

XIV.

The Prussian Chief pursues with speed, At his approach they're fill'd with dread, From whose terrific arm, dismay'd, So late they flew! O FREDRICK! matchless prince, proceed, Thy glorious course pursue!

XV.

To him those Heros yield the town, And him a greater Hero own; Who soon its walls could batter down, And lay them low. Long may he wear the Prussian Crown, And curb each haughty Foe.

—Annandius.

March 11th, 1758.

Amer. Mag. and Mo. Chron., I-279, Mar. 1757, Phila.

A LITERAL TRANSLATION OF THE KING OF PRUSSIA'S ODE.

I.

Oh God! all powerful God! Invincible, unknown! Creator, father of all; Whom every nation implores; Whom the Barbarian worships in the wind. By what name will it please thee That I shall address thee? Oh infinite, All wise, and eternal spirit! At the foot of thy sacred throne I most humbly bow my head.

II.

Forsaken by my only friends, In a strange country, Where winter was near killing us; The enraged enemy on every side, With their savage instruments, The sword and fire consuming, As if sacrificers, They came with their deadly rage, And hasten'd to destroy us with cries of triumph.

III.

But in thy penetrating view, How vain are powerful troops! I, still intrepid, dare the combat; My buckler and my lance being my cause: And behold the armies meet; They turn their backs, we following to punish: Victorious each of my soldiers Seems to carry of war The most terrible thunder; And every arm is a thousand in the fury of the combat.

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!