Gt THE POETICAL WANDERER : CONTAINING, DISSERTATIONS ON THE EARLY POETRY OF GREFCE, ON TRAGIC POETRY,AND ON THE POWER OF NOBLE ACTIONS ON THE MIND. TO WHICH ARE ADDED, SEVERAL POEMS. By the Author of Mifcellancous Works. - - - - For what are all The forms which brute unconfcious matter wears ? Not reaching to the heart foon feeble grows The fuperficial impulfe. Not fo the moral {pecies, nor the powers Of genivs.and defign ; the ambitious mind ‘here fevehprlelfs By thefe cohgenial forms Toukd aad awahened with iptenier art co She bends each nerve and mcditates well pleas’d Her features in th¢ mirror: AKENSIDE, New-York: Prinptd fae the Au THOR ; by Gs ToRMAN, Oppofite the Poft-Ofices 1796. ° ooxX Asnes/ € Aveu Noy. 2744 JAADVERTISEMENT. I T was intended that this litle work fhould have been put to pre/s immediately after the iffuing of the propofals ; but Jeveral circum- flances have delayed that intention, and pre- vented its appearance until now.— The binding of the work 15 the beft that the price of the vo- lume, and the number of the fubfcribers Would allow. Into whatever hands the Poctical Wanderer Shall come, it 1s hoped, that feverity of criti- cif will give way to a milder inveftigation ; to which the author (from having but lately affumed his toga virilis) 15 intetled.CONTENTS. DISSERTATIONS. THE early Poetry of Greece. Tragic Poetry. The Pathetic in Tragedy. The Conduét and Unities of Tragedy. Remarks on Cabal and Love. The power of Noble A€tions on the Mind. Rinaldo: a Gothic Fragment. =— POEMS. OSCAR (in imitation of the manner of Ofian) Orlando : the Melancholy Shepherd. Oenone: the Deferted Shepherdels. Lines written on Ruins. The Maid of the Cot. Ode to Superftition. Hope: an irregular Ode. Author’s Elegy over the Remains of his Pen.The earlp Poctrp of Greece, Res geftcee regnumque ducumque, ct triftia bella Quo feribi poffent numero monftravit Homcrus, Archilocham proprio rabies armavit iambo. Horace Art of Poetrys T HE aétons of the warrior have always been the favorite theme of the antient bards. The love of their country and the beauty of virtue, have always animated their Jays.— Struck with the majefty and ardour of Achil- les, the lofty Homer ftrung his lyre and fang the wars of Troy; the manners of thofe days had never elfe been handed down to pofterity ; and the fimplicity, virtue and magnanimity of that heroic age had forever funk in oblivion.— The poet in the age of Homer, and until cor- ruption of manners and principle was intro- duced in Greece, was held as the moft exalted character ‘among men—all reverenced him for his facred profeffion ; the duties of religion were his peculiar care, and he celebrated the( 8 ) praifes of his country’s deity in pious and mufical compofition ; he taught the favage moderation, and infufed into the fpirit of the chieftain an invincible patriotifm : the foft ac- cents of love added melody to his ftrains ;— trom the peaceful groves, facred to this gentle paffion; from the fmooth ftreams and nature’s delightful landfeape, he drew his defcriptions and fimilies : the roving youth learned’ from them to reftrain the irregular defires of nature, and to glow with a conftant attachment for fome favorite fair. Iw this early dawn of poetry, we are afto- nifhed to meet with that perfection which has never been furpaffed. Homer has never yield- ed to any in invention, fublimity of defcription and comprehenfive knowledge of human na- ture ; furrounded by the glooms of poverty, he retired to his folitary grotto, fnatched his magic pencil, and formed his daring defigns. ARCHILOCHUS, Called the divine, who flov- rifhed fhortly after Homer, claims nearly an equal rank as a fatirift; fo fevere were the far- cafms of this writer upon fome of the princi-( 9 ) pal charaters of his country, that his fa- cred profeflion could not reftrain their _perfe- cution, and he was forced to fly and wander from his native home. From the time of Archilochus, until the perfection of dramatic poetry in Greece, the moft diftinguilhed bards were thofe of the lyric clafs. Among the nine which bear this name, the mo memorable are Sapho and Pindar, The poetry of Sapho is melodious and lively 3 fhe was an accurate defcriber of the human keart—her female breait, fo tender and fufcep- tible cf the gentler paffions, beat with, a con- flant love for the youthful Phaon : the roman- tic fcenes of Ionia often received the forrows of her lyre : fhe there breathed in the folitary fhade her unfortunate attachment—It was there fhe formed that beautiful ode defcribing the miferics of jealous love, which Longinus fo juftly admires—dhe paints her own feelings and endeavors to lull her cares by her melting mufe. Pinpar’s genius was wild and luxuriant ; forcible, but too obfcure. He was the laft of A2( 10 ) the nine, and is entitled the prince of the lyric poets. In every conteft at the olympi¢ games, he generally bore away the prize. His per- formances attraéted the admiration and ap- plaufe of all Greece, and Thebes his native ci- ty, ere@ed a monument to his memory. Tut epic ftrain, the ode and elegy claimed moftly the attention of the antient mufe ; and all were brought to that refinement which has feldom been furpaffed—The Epopee, one of the moft auguft and dignified kinds of poetry, owed its origin to Homer : It is the reprefen- tation of characters ; it cafts its extenfive view over human nature, and furnifhes its favorite hero with each attractive and magnanimous virtue, and draws other perfofiages with trea- chery, deceit, and vices which degrade man- kind. When the youth traces the warrior through 4 feries of foblime aGions, he glows and burns with an emulative ardour; his tranfported imagination paints the contending bands; it fingles out the champion from the throng by his majeftic ftatare and waving plume—witnefs his daring deeds and his fword( mm ) ftained with the blood of the foe.—The epit mufe not only forms her hero with the warlike virtues, but likewife with the tender and fym- pathifing.——One time we behold him arrayed in the glory and terror of a vitor—at another, mourning over the calamities of war, and foothing the anguifh of the bleeding foldicr.— Epic poetry, while it teaches human nature, holds out objects for our imitation ; drefled in the fplendid ornaments of fidtion, it tells us 6 not what we are, but what we ought to be.” * Tue ode, or lyric ftrain, is remvarkable for its force, and collection of ftriking ideas con- veyed in few words : fometimes it flows fmooth and plaintive, like a calm and unruffled tream; and fometimes irregular and majeftic, like the troubled ocean. It was applied to various purpofes—it breathed enthufiafm into the breaft of the warrior ; difplayed the beauty of patriotifm ; celebrated the glory of the victor at the olympic games, and fometimes mourned the forrows of love. The fubjects molt fuita- :( 32 ) ble for the ode, Horace has noticed in thefe three lincs, Gods, heroes, conquerors olympic crowns, Love’s pleafing cares and the free joys of wine, Are proper fubjects for the lyric fong. To reprefent the misfortunes and miferies of life is the defign of elegy. It chufes for this purpofe a ftrain melancholy and fweet in the highelt degree: it draws chiefly its reflec tions from the depravity of our nature, and by thefe and its mufic, lulls the breaft to a penfive but delightful meditation. From this fhort view of the rife of poetry in Greece, in what a confpicuous light does it ap- pear ! Its votaries were not only held as the moft exalted characters by their country, but by its enemies. Poetry in Greece was the p¥incipal refiner of the manners: in thofe ftates where it was excluded, civilization and virtue made but tardy progrefs—while it fired the warrior with valour in his country’s caufe, it reftrained his brutality and licentioufnefs— while it proclaimed the glory and magnani- mity of a favorite character, it exhorted the( 13) youth to imitate the noble example—while it defcribed in melancholy verfe the ftate of the unhappy, it taught the hardy veteran piiy, and commanded tears from the melting eye of the female—while it painted the captivating charms of liberty, it expofed the frightful form of anarchy—while it addreffed its pious fongs to the Deity, it infpired the bofom with devo- sion and reverence for his awful power.On Tragic jeetryp. Hos edifcit et hos ardto ftipata theatro Spectat Roma potens ; habct hos numcratque Poetas Ad noftrum tempus, Livi Seriptoris ab zvo. Horace ab Aucustum-: Fr OM the earlieft age of its in- vention the Drama has been a fource of delight and improvement.—-In Greece it was an ex- tenfive prometer of kuowledge and virtue— It exhibited the magnanimity of the hero and fired the bofom with a love of freedom and an invincible patrictic, zeal. It muft not howe- ver be denied, that it was at a certain period the cause of difquictude and corruption to Athens ; for the effects cf the writings of the licentions Aritophanes are too well known, That poet infead cf following the paths of Efchuylus, Scphocles and Euripides, iutro-( 16 ) ducing obfcenity on the ftage, and by the ve- nom of his fatire, in fome meatfure fpoiled the tafte of the generality of his countrymen for the more noble reprefentations of his immortal co-temporaries. This fa& evinces the bad ef- fe&ts which may {pring from impure comedy, but detraéts not from the true dignity and be- neticial influence of tragedy. Tue Roman drama was built on the Gre- cian model; and while it deviated from it in sume exccllencies, it made improvements upon cthers.* As they were fimilar in their man- ner, fo they were in their effects upon the yub- lic fpirit of the two countries. Tue drama of the prefent day is different in its conftruction from that of Greece and Rome; and without obferving in a particular manner their variations, we may fufely con- clude that it is much more perfect. ‘’HE continued reprefentation of the Grecks while it gives the poet no refpite, is not capa- ble of that variety, and of keeping awake and * The Romans firft changed the continued reprefen+ tation of Greece itito Acts, :( 17) exciting that curiofity, which are fome of the excellencies attending the divifion into A&s.— The chorus appears to modern tafte an unna- tural means of explanation—a rude invention of the infant dramatic mufe. Tracepy, the mot noble fpccies of the drama, has been confidered by Ariftotle and fome eminent modern critics,* as the nobleft production of human genius ; not only on ac- count of its difficulty of execution, but the example and inftruétion which it conveys. Ir fhall be curforily attempted in the folluw- ing pages to trace the juftnefs of this decifion, the nature of tragedy, the caufes‘of its bene- fits, and the rules to which it is necefurily confined. : * Asaperfcdt tragedy is the nobleft produdiion of buman nature, fo it is capable of giving the mind cae of the moft delightful and improving entertainments.— Diverfions of this kind wear cut of our thoughts every thing that is mean and little. They cherifh and culti- vate that humanity which is the ornament of our na~ ture. ‘They foften infolence, foothe affidlicn, and fub« due the mind to the difpenfutions of providence. ADDISON.( 18) Epre poetry and tragedy have both the fame ends in view—they are both the reprefen- tations cf characters—they have both their he- ro, whom they trace through various actions aid events. Bur between them a great and obvious dit tin&ion exifts.—Epic poetry is narrative, there the poet appears himfe]f as the fpeaker ; but in tragedy the chara@ers {peak for themfelvcs, the poetis entirely excluded, the events pais before our eyes—the language of misfortune, and difrefs flows from the hero himfelf—we are not only told what he feels—what actions he performs , we fee them, we are ourlelves the fpetators,—From thele diltinguilhing fea~ tures in the two moft noble productions of ge- nivs 3; the obfervations which would naturally follow, would in many refpedts be to the fupe- riortty of tragedy.—If an affecting circum- flance is related to us—-truc, we feel the me- Juancholy and fympathizing glow—but how much preater is the imprefion, how much more powerful and lating the influence when we are an cye wiinels,( 19 ) Seanrus irritant animos demiffa per aurem Quam que funt sceulis fubjecta fidclibuset qua Ipfe fibi tradit fpeator. Wirn fefpest to exprefion, the dificulty is much greater in tragic than epic poetry ; ‘for it is certainly cafier to fpeak as the fecond perfon than the firft~in the Iatter cafe, the write muft exprefs himfclf in the language of real paffion—he muft place himfelf in the chi- racter of his hero, and'cnter into all the fecling of his fituation.—Blait has made’ a juditious criticifm on this paflage in Addifon’s Cato. Fix'd in aftonifhment I gaze upon yoy Lilse onc juft blafted by the ftroke of Heaven, &c. Hap the fpeaker (fays hc) beendefcribing this in another perfon inftead of himfelf, and faid, Pix'd in aftontfeinent’ be gaz'd upon her, (Fc, the paffage would have been proper and fine ; but as it ftands it is faulty, for no lover under the fun in the fame ftate would fo exprefs him- felf. Tuis fingle example will ferve as an illuftra- tion of the difficulty which the greateft writers have to overcome in the feleétion of their( 20 ) words, and that the fame care and refinement of feeling is not fo requifite in epic poctry.—fr then tragedy requires more feeling or pathos in the writer, it muft certainly convey more to the reader and {pectator.—There is an argu- ment however in favor of the power of epic po- etry, which perhaps will ballance the advantage ftated in favor cf tragedy.—It is that the epic ftrain is more gradual and extenfive than the other in its progrefs; It takes a wider furvey cf nature, and is not confined tothe narrow Timits and unities of Acts ; It’s hero has a more fpacious field for action ; It is more at Icifure, nor is in fuch hafty fteps to it’s conclufion ; It’s operations are not fo immediately violent, but ifs cure is more tardy. Ir would be hazardous, from the preceding remarks to make a decided conclufion in favor of either of thefe branches of poetry—but without entering into a further comparifon, we may with fafety pronounce—that if the Epopee has moft influence on the manners, tragedy operates moft powerfully “upon the paffions.”’* * Dryden.( 21) Mawnxinp are always delighted with the re- prefentations of nature; they derive know- ledge and conjolation from tracing the many feenes of forrow and misfortune incident to mortality—while they melt in pity over the unhappy, they imbibe a portion of the magna- nimity of the hero, and learn like him to bear againft adverfity and to “ rife fuperior to their fufferings.”” For this the tragic mufe firft trod the ftage, Commanding tearsto ftream thro’ every age ; Tyrants no more their favage nature kept, And foes to virtue wonder’d how they wept. Human nature however-depraved, admires the noblenefs and beauty of virtue, and farts back at the hideoufnefs and deformity of vice. —There is in it a natural principle which prompts to the imitation of what it admires, and the advoidance of what it diflikes.—Were it not for this inftin@ive quality the mind would be indeed truly bafe, and the dictates of virtue would be difregarded as a fhadow or the burit- ing of a bubble.—It is this quality of the mind which gives all relative. and imitative writings B 2 :( 22) their great ulefulnefs.—-Hiflory owes to it it’s power, and tragedy’s effects flow chiefly from it. Tragedy either~lays it’s foundation upon fome hiftorical event, or upon fome ficticn which probably may have been tranfacted, and may again happen.—lIt clothes itfelf in the moft captivating garb, and holds in view fome important precept which it means to illuftrate by its cataftrophe.—If it exaggerates in its defcriptions and charatters, it is to render them more ftriking and feducing—and on this account and the fweetnefs of its ftrain, it boafts a fuperiority over hifory.—A plain ftatement of faés mutt yield in its force to the more dig- nified and fanciful tale.—-We are more fired by the patriotic fpirit of the Brutusin Shakefpeare’s Julius Cefar, than the one reprefented by the accurate Hiftorian.~-The form of impious am- bition appears no where fo cxecrable as in the fame author’s Richard the Third.—The fixed brutality and hellifh defigns of cunning and revenge, no where excite fo much rage and deteftation as in his infamous charaéterof Iago. —The mind by bcholding thefe, and receiving impreffions correfponding to their different na~( 23 ) tures—receives a portion cf the fublinity of the hero, and turns with additional difirat from the treacherous and villainous knave. Ir has been fometimes the cafe, that per- fons who were meditating a wicked deed, have been deterred from the commillion of it, by beholding reprefented on the Rage the horror and torture ofa culprit after the exccuticn of a crime fimilar to what they intended.* Sentiment operates molt ufcfully by di- reQing and regulating our behaviour in the purfuit of what is proper, and tends to our happinefs.—Such feniiments as are not drawn from the common praStice of life, are without meaning, and anfwer no good end: too much arc molt of thofe books fled with them which draw from the hidden recefles of fancy their wild and unnatural tales.—It would be an in- veltigation truly metaphyfical to attempt to afcertain the powerful force of juft and noble fentiments upon the mind; as what are accu- rate {pring from a feeling and contemplative * A remark fimilar to this,is made by fome writer whofe name is not at prefent in my recoll Aion,( 24 ) genius, the reader of tafle and difcernment will eafily perccive by appropriating them to his fenfations, whether they are of a {purious or elevated birth.—IE he feels their beauty and jauttnefs, he will become willing to be governed by them.—In Greece when books were re- markably fcarce, the enlightened and philofo- phic fage convened his affembly of afpiring youth in the {hades of retirement, and deliver- ed to them thofe fentiments which were necef- fery fcr their conduc in their various fituaticns —as citizens, as fons, and as fricnds.—It was there and in this manner the wife Socrates and Plato taught.—Sophocles, who brought the Grecian tragedy to its greateft refinement, clothed his precepts in a different form from thefe phtlofophers, and had them delivered m a more public manner.—His obfervations were equally pertinent to the ftations of life, and they were more enforced by the reprefentation of thofe events to which they led—We will further obferve, that while the heart is melted by tender and affecting fcenes, it is more open to reccive the greateft influence from fentiment. —If it-witneffes in the fceng the remorfe and( 25 ) pangs of difappointed ambition, which had exercifed impiety and cruclty in endeavoring to obtain its views, the reflection will be forci- ble, «* That fame and power mult be founded on virtue and efteem—that the wrath of God difappoints the aims of the wicked, fo that they, inftead of obtaining that fleeting phantom which they imagine will contribute to their happinefs, work their own mifery and down- fall.” When the eye moiftened with tears looks on the brave man expiring a victim to his inte- grity, how feelingly will occur the fublime ob- fervation ! “ There is no fpedlacle more worthy theattention of the Deity intent upon his works, Sc.”? May is not truly wife until acquainted with human nature. All the learning which ge- nius and application can obtain, will be unqua- lified without this to pafs happily and quietly through the world, and to rife fuperior to guile and treachery. Where are we taught this in- valuable knowledge more pleafingly and accu- rately than in tragedy ? where are the paflions | ©( 26 ) more july defcribed ? Tragedy is the lan- guage of the paffions—Its chief ftudy is hu. man nature. [t exhibits man in his mo? exalted and depraved flate: We fee the hero fuperior to degrading acts him{clf, and not fafpecting them in others; while the rufian beguiles him with hypocrify, and fecretly ftabs him to the heart. In no production is there fo exquifite a paint- ing of this as in Othello, the mafter-piece of Shakefpearc. Inflexible depravity, revenge, and cunning, are there reprefented in their true torms, and become triumphant over the heart honeft and fincere. The noble moor falls a victim to the artifices of Iage, and becomes the murderer of the mnocent Defdemona.—It would require an analyfis of the principal per- formances of Shakefpeare, to give a full view of his amazing knowledge of the heart—This has been done by Richardion in a mafterly manner—but too metaphyfically refined. Tose who preferring the fequeftered fhades of folitnde and peace, fecluded themfelves from cheerful companions, have found in the im- mortal bard (in the hour of melancholy and( 27) dejecion) charadiers in part fo Amilar to their own, that with them they have forzot forrow and misiortune, and been thrilled with de- light in tracing the admirable thoughts and flow of events.—Tlow fvere was the talk Jor Shakefpeare to obtain his information ! how eafy for thoie who fudy the characters with whomhe converfed! Among them we can view the ambitious and cruel wretch rejoicing Cver the pangs of his fallen and degraded enemy.— The melancholy man and mifiathvep i, ve tired from the feenes of buly Tite in woeds and defarts, and moralizingy cn the deecit and ini quity of manxind.—The Leroie youth perfe- cuted by adverfe fortune, but Ql virtuou, and brave.— The murderer tertured with the pangs of confeience, and farting at the appurition of his butchered friend.—The man of benevo- lence courted by all, when in aifluence ; who fed with his bounty throngs of pretendiiss fricnds—but in poverty deferted and cespiled. Ir would be needlefs to deferibe any more of his numcrous portraits, or to remark that they are generally juft—for this the experience( 2 ) of all eminent critics has confeffed ; and the voices of all men of tafte, have united in be- ftowing on their poetic painter the appellation of the child of nature and of fancy.* * Or fwecteft Shakefpeare, fancy’s child, Warble his native wood notes wild: Mitton.Che Pathetic in Crageryp, Se vis me flere, dolendum eft Primum ipfi tibi. I T has been remarked by fome writers (who I do not now remember) that they who moft excel in tragedy are thofe who have expericriced negle& and misfortune in the world. The truth of this may ina confidera- ble degree be acknowledged.—The fenfibilities and tendernefs of our natures are wonderfully infuenced by the chaftening hand of adverlity, and blunted by the diflipating pleafures of wealth and fplendour. Whether evils are( 30) imaginary or real they equally deprefs the me- lancholy Poet, who is feldom without caufes of forrow. The fublime and pathethic are not often united in the fame perfon.—Human ge- nius is generally reftricted to fome predominant quality, and the emotion which every perfor- mance beflows, depends upon the prevailing di{pofition of its author.—Some wriicrs how- ever, have foared beyond thefe confined limits; to whofe capacious fight no rules can fet bounds.—Efchuylus was equally capable of fublimity and pathos; Shakefpeare had not only thefe under his controul, but excelled alto in ridicule and humour. TENDERNFss in tragedy is more neceflary than fublimity ; the latter elevates and thrills us with its grandeur, but it does not leave fo lafting an impreffion as that which moves us with pity.—Pity is the moft powerful of all our refined feelings, it is a chord which when flruck, communicates its motion to all the concomitant paflions, and breathes harmony and compofure. Thongh we may be fora time pleafed with fhew and {plendor, yet alltragic writings which takenot hold of thy heart, will foon Toole all power to pleafe, and excite no fecling but cold indifference. Tuat which is pathetic, is more evily felt than defcribed.—We can fy no more of it than that it conffs in fuch fentinenis as are delivered from a feeling and contemplative mind in a flute of forrove and unhappinefi—ar the dfoription given by one coho fies the diflre,s of another. —Vhis de- finition is not accurate, nor indeed ean fuch be written.x—As the philofopher can give no defeription of colours, or notify the marks by which he diitinguifhes one from another ; no more canhe who is melted into pity, by what he has heard or read, exprefs what be fcls. Orway isawriter who will ferve to exem- plify much of what has been faid on ure pathe- tic in tragedy. —He was perhaps the moll un- fortunate of all poets—funk to the loweft de- gree of poverty, negle@ed and treated with contempt by every licentious wit of his time : —He feldom rifes to the fablime, but m pathes, he has never been furpafled, even Shakefpeare in this cannot claim a fuperiority,( 32 ) —His Orphan, though it has many faults, has many beautiful feenes—his Venice Preferved, a later production, is much the molt perfect of all his works.—Although in giving extracts from a compofition, we deprive them of that coaneéted ftate in which they ftand, yet we fhall venture the following—the firft from the Orphan, the latter from Venice Preferved. fonimr1a having been treated with indig- nity and cruelty by her lover Caftalio, for rea- fons and condué unknown to her, and of which fhe was the innocent caufe, was weeping and lamenting, when her brother Chamont enters, CHAMONT. In tears Monimia ? MONIMIA. Whoc’er thou art, Leave me alone to my belov’d defpair. CHAMONT. Lift up thy eyes and fee who comes to cheer thee, ‘Tell me the ftory of thy wrongs, and then See if my foul has reft till thou haft juftice, MONIMIA, My brother !( 33 ) CILIAMONT. Yo: Monrimie, if thou think’ft ‘What Ideferve the name, I am thy brother. MONIMIA. Oh Caftalio ! CHAMONT. Ah! Name me that name again! my foul’s on fire Till] know all: there’s meaning in that name. I know he is thy hufband: therefore truft me With all the following truth, MONIMIA. Indeed Chamont There's nothing in it but the fault of nature I'm often thus fciz'd fuddenly with grief, 1 know not why. CHAMONT. You ufe me il], Monimia 5 And] think with juftice moft feverely, Of this unfaithful dealing with your brother. MONIMIA. Truly I'm not to blame : fuppofe I'm fond, And grieve for what as much may pleafe another. Should Lupbraid the deareft friend on carth For the firit fault ? you would not do fo—would your? Ca( 34 ) CHAMONT. Not if I'd caufe to think it was a friend. MONIMIA. Why do you then call this unfaithful dealing ? I ne’er conceal’d my foul from you before : Bear with me now and fearch my wounds no farther Yor every probing pains me to the heart. CHAMONT. Tis fign there’s danger and mutt be prevented. Where's your new hufband? ftill that thought diilurbs What only anfwer me with tears? Caflulio / {you Nay now they ftream, Crucl, unkind Cuffafio is't not fo? MONIMIA. 1 cannot fpeak, grief flows fo faft upon me it chokes and will not let me tell the caufe. CHAMONT. Oh my Monimia, to my foul thou’rt dear As honor to my name : dear as the light To eyes but juft reftor’d, and heal’d of blindnefs ; Why wilt thou not repofe within my breatt ‘The anguish that tcrments thee ? MONIMIA. Oh ! 1 dare not. CHAMONT. Y have no friend but thee : we muft confide In one another: two aphappy orphans( 35) Alas we are; and when I fee thee gricve Methinks it is a part of me that fuffers. MONIMIA, Oh fhouldf# thou know the caufe of my Jamenting, I'm fatisfy'd, Chamont, that thou wouldf feorn me, Thou would defpife the abject loft Monimia, No more wouldft praife this hated beauty ; but When in fome cell diftraded, asi fhail be Thou feeft me lie ; thefe unregarded locks Matted like furics treffes; my poor limbs Chaia'd tothe ground, and ’ftead of the delights Which happy lovers tafte, my kecper’s flripes Abed of ftraw, anda coarfe wooden difh Of wretched fuftenance ; when thus thou fecf me Pr’ythee have charity and pity for me. Let me enjoy this thought. Cuamont after having obtained from Mo- nimia the caufe of her forrow, and the treat- ment which fhe had received ; jealous of her’s and his honor, and breathing revenge, fecks for Caftalio.—When he meets with him in the company of his father Acafto, he gives way to the natural impetuofity of his temper, and bids them both defiance: fuppofing their con- duct partly to proceed from contempt, for his poverty and deferted condition he makes ule im(30) the ccurfe of the dialogue of thefe werds—- which are traly noble and affecting. No ; nor fhall Monimia though a hciplefs orphan, dcftitute Of friends and fortune, though th’ unhappy fifter Of poor Chamont, whofe fword is al] his portion, Be oppreft by thee, thou proud imperious traitor. 50 many beauties abound in Venice Pre- ferved, that itis difficult to make choice of a feene.—The firft. meeting is however feleéted between Jaffer and Belvidera, who having been driven with curfes from the houfe of their rich father Priuli, were wandering without a roof for fhelter.—~No other comment fhall be offered upon it, than that the perfon is cold and infenfible to love and pity, who can read it without more than common emotion. BELVIDERA. Lead me, lead me my virgins To that kind voice. My lord, my love, my refuge, Happy my eyes when they behold thy face f My heavy heart will leave its doleful beating At fight of thee, and bound with fprightly joys. Oh fmile, as when our loves were in their {pring And cheer my fainting foul.( 37 ) JAFFIER. As when our Joves Were in their fpring? has then my fortune chang'd? Art thou not Belvidera ftill the fame, Kind, good and tender, as my arms firft found thee ? If thou art alter’d where fhall I have harbour ? Where eafe my loaded heart? oh ! where complain ? BELVIDERA. Does this appear like change, or Jove decaying, When thus I throw myfelf into thy bofom, With all the refolution of ftrong truth ? Beats not my heart as ‘twould alarum thine To anew charge of blifs ? I joy more in thee Than did thy mother when fhe hugg’d thee firft, And blefs’d the gods for all her travel paft, JAFFIER. Can there in woman be fuch glorious faith ? Sure all ill tories of thy fex are falfe ; Oh woman! lovely woman! nature made thee Totemper man: we had been brutes without you, Angels are painted fair to look like you : There's in you all that we believe of heaven, Amazing brightnefs, purity and truth, Eternal joy and everlafting love. D{ 38 ) BELVIDERA, If love be treafare, we'll be woitd’rous rich ; J have fo much my heart will furely break with't, Vows can’t exprefs it—when J would declare How great’s ny joy, Pm dumb with the big thought ; I fwelland figh, anddabour with my longing. O lead me to fome defart wide and wild, Barren as our misfortunes, where my foul May have its vent; where J may tell cloud To the high heavens and every liftcning planet, With whata bound]fs tock my bofom’s franght ; Where [ may throw my cager arms abcut thee, Give loofe to love with kiffes kindling joy, And let off all the fire that’s in my heart. JAFIIER. Oh Belvidera! doubly I'ma beggar, Undone by fortune and in debt to thee ; Want, worldly want ! that hangry meager fiend Isat my heels, and chafes me in view. Canft thoa bear cgld and hunger ? can thefc limbs Fram’d for the tertder offices of love, Endure the bicter gripes of fnarting poverty, When banifl’d by our miferics abroad, (As fuddenly we fhall be) to feek out (In fome far climate where our names are ftrangers) For charitable fuccour; wilt thou then, When in a bed of raw we fhrink together,( 39 ) And the bleak winds fhall whiftle round our heads ; Wilt thou then talk thus to me ? wilt thou then Hufh my cares thus, and fhelter me with love ? BELVIDER.A. Oh I will love thee, even in madnefs love thee. Tho’ my diftraéted fenfes fhould forfake me, I'd find fome intervals when my poor heart Should "fwage itfelf, and be let loofe to thine. Tho’ the bare earth be all our refting place, Its roots our food, fome clift our habitation, Vil make this arma pillow for thy head ; As thou fighing ly’ft, and fwell’d with forrow, Creep to thy bofom, pour the balm of love Into thy foul, and kifs thee to thy reft ; ‘Then praife our God, and watch thee till the morning. JAFFIER. Hear this ye heavens, and wonder how ye made her Reign—reian ye monarchs that divide the world, Buly rebellion ne'er will let you know ‘Veanquillity and happinefs like mine,ye Conduct and Unities of Cragedp. “s T HE language of tragedy, (fays Addifon) ought to be blank verfe, which often enters into our common difcourfe, tho’ we do not attend to it; and is fuch a due me- dium between rhime and profe, that it is won- derfully adapted to tragedy.” Ariftotle, on the fame fubject, fays, “ The expreffion ought to be very much laboured in the unactive parts of the fable, as in fimilitude, defcriptions, and the like.” By following thefe dire@ions, authors have acknowledged their juftnefs ; but many have gone too far, by beftowing on the active parts that labour and figurative ornament, which is only due to defcription.( 42) Tue plots of moft the tragedies of the pre- fent day are founded on love, a paffion beneath their dignity ; the fanatacifm of the haplefs lovers! their vows of eternal conftancy and truth! their lait farewell and tender fighs, are incidents too common to produce an ex- alted effe&: they do not captivate the mind to virtue; they prefent no true picture of he- roifm, nor teach mankind ‘triumphantly to perfevere in calamity.—With what more ani- mating glow would we behold The brave man flruggling with the ftorms of fate, And greatly falling with a falling ftate. Tue orphan of Otway, although abounding with tender and natural fentiment, and writ- ten in the higheft degree of the pathos, is very reprehenfible for its foundation and indecency of conduct. To draw accurate deferiptions of charaers is one of the chicf difficulties of the drama.—- It requires a comprchenfive knowledge of na- ture, a delicate and energetic penci]l.—In this excellency no writer has equalled Shakefpeare ; when viewing his performances, we become 1( 43) introduced to chara&ers which intimately ate tra@ us by their natural coincidence—Wha has not laughed with Vallaff, and wept for the gallant Othello and the princely Hamlet ? ++Shakefpeare has had many imitators, but all in this refpect fall fhort of the great origin, al.— Young in his revenge, has endeavored to improve the character of Tago, but although his zanga is a bold picture, it is fill be- neath its model. Luar tragedy may have its belt effet, the Tnitics ought to be preferved as ninch as pofli- ble; and the plot ought to be of the fimplex nature ; the nearer the performance approach- es to fit probability, the greater will be its operation on the mind; the writer ought not to tranfport the fpectator to feenes far dillant from the place where the drama is founded ; nor reduce within the fhort {pace cf the per- formance, events which in the regular courfe of nature would occupy years ; we cannot conceive thefe as poilible, and they confequent- ly are not fo powerful as otherways they would be—If Shakefpeare excels cll authors( 44) in moft tragic requifites—with refpeét to (what arc commonly called) the three unities, none are more faulty.x—In his Othello and Hamlet, his two beft pieces, we find many and flriking deviations from them; particularly in Hamlct. Tue fimple plot moft critics have recom- mended ; but it is much oftener neglected than obferved.—Writers chufe for variety and cn- largement to fupport counterplots during the progrefs of the main defign.—Thefe while they tend to draw the cye from the principal ob- jects, require ftrict obfervation to follow their connection, weary the attention, and make but feeble imprefMfion on the memory.—How much more natural, forcible and affecting, when the {cenes follow each other in regular fucceflion, and all in one climax tend to one point: then the mind not led aflray by epifodes, is fixed wholly on the advancement of the grand de- fign, and looks forward with thrilling expec- tation to the final cataftrophe. Norwitusranpinc this advice of Horace, “Neve minor, neu fit quinto produdtior au « Fabule.”( 45) Tiras is nothiag more absurd than the des nyiny Che mame of tragedy dramatic per- furmances fallmg thert acts—Lt is YW fife with the risk Oo cyst A » Which cenfids red no paems as epic bur ticifm once pres vale thafe which followed the footiteps of Tlomer and Virgil—Many tragedies have been fpeiled by the obfervance cf this prejudice 5 myny feenes have been introduged, languid and dit conaeted from the regular courfe whish would never have feund admittance, had the nature and limit of the plut been alone confidered. Turse remarks however are to be confi- dered, in a great degree confined ; five acts if the plot is extentive, offer the moft noble exer. tion and the greatet difplay—it is only con. tended that the want of five acts is not an im- perfection, and that the rule which aflerts it to be fuch is in the higheft degtce arbitrary. Karmrs and Dlair whole judicious criti- cifm none will doubt, have led the way in oppofing the contra@ed (pirit of imitation with refpet to the epopee and the drama.—The D2( 46 ) following are the words of the firft of thefe authors. “Tue divifion of every play into five acts has no other foundation than common _prac- tice and the authority of Horace.—It is a di- vilion purcly arbitrary—there is nothing in the nature of the compofition which fixes this number rather than any other, and it had been better if no fuch number had been afcer- tained.”?Benarks on Cabal and Lote: A TRAGEDY. By Scuirrer. T HIS tragedy if cxamined by the fevere rules of dramatic criticifm, particu- larly by thofe of Voltaire and the rigid French fchool, would be found in many refpeéts faul- ty—the unities of time and place which it has not preferved, the frequent indulgence in fo- liloquy, the ludicrous character of Baron Mindhcim, the letter fabricated by Worm, and written by Louifa; the manner of the ca- taltrophe, would probably be alledged again it—Mobft of thefe objeétions however, except- ing that of time and place, would pafs moftly uncenfured by the liberal Englifh critic—for(48) this appears to be cf moft force on the feore of regalarity.—The letter that excites the jea- loufy of Ferdinand, is not however an happy device, for it is an inflrument too cemmai oithe Raye; and though jealeufy is eafily ex- cited, yet Baron Mindheim appears too ccn- temptible a being to excite fu/picions in a fonl fo neble and generous as Verdinand’s, while he knew that plots were preparing to tear Louisa forever from him. Tues and whatever fmaller faults it may poilefs, vanith from the view in comparifon of its fupertor excellencies—The charasters are portrayed in the moft matterly and finifhed manner—Schiller feems to have ftudied the reprefentations of the immortal Shakefpeare.— Equally capable to draw luman nature, in its moft depraved and in its mot noble and beautiful form—he in this piece exhibits the con‘eft of virtue and innocence, with treachery, horrible ambition and, hellith cruclty.—Nevyer were drawn characters more hidcous than count Faulkener and Worm! Never were repre- feated a combination of more fublime and{ 49 ) amiable qualities than thofe united in the gal- fant conftant Ferdinand, and the fweet, tender, lovely Louifa.—Lady Milford though a fe- condary character is not without her peculiar excellencies. Tue language is wild, figurative and fluent, as is common with the German writers; it often breathes energy and fire, and often irre- fiftible pathos—with the livelieft emotion we trace the fuffermgs occafioned by a pure and unconquerable attachment ; with deepeft: for- row behold Louifa forced by filial affeétion to devote herfelf to horror and defpair ! ' Few writers have fhewn more knowledge than Schiller, in opening and preparing his drama, for the fcenes and courfe of action which are to enfue—during the fpace of the firft a&t all the principal charaéters are intro- duced and the preparatory narration brought to a happy clofe. What afterwards follows paffes chiefly before the eye. Tue tragedies of Hamlet and Venice Pre- ‘ferved, are I think eminent examples of grand E¢ jo) and pertinent commencements, as much {0 a8 any in the Englith language. Shakefpcare there inftantly at the rifing of the curtain ex- cites in us fublimity and awe; and Otway di- rectly leads to the grand caule of all the events that follow in his feenes.—Cabal and Love though not fo friking in its introduction as cither of thefe, yct leaves us equally prepared at the end of the firft act for the events that take place. Schiller has alfo artfully refrain. ed the fulnefs of his powers until the fifth a@, which preferves its eflccts upon our feelings, ina higher degree than we have hitherto ex- perienced in the play, until the laft words faulter on the dying lips of Ferdinand. Scwitrer is moft celebrated as the author of the Robbers. That performance, the firt of his dramatic works is a wonderful difplay of originality, imagination and powers of execu. tion--no tragic writers that I have met with except Efchuylus and Shakefpeare have excell. ed him in the terror and awe which he in that piece imprefles on our mind.—One fcene in particular at the tower, where Moor meetses) with Herman, and delivers his father from confinement, is wrought to the hizheft pitch of force and excellence-—it falls not beneath any feene I have ever read of the fume nature and kind. Casar and Love is not however inferior to the Robbers in any cffect but terror; and this wholly refults from the diferent plan and con- ftrudion of the two tragedies. In many ref petts itis fuperior, it violates not fo much th: bounds of probability, preferves more atten- tively the mof important rules of the drama, and isin general more highly finithed. Tue following extrad from the Tower Scene of the Re dbews, fpoken of in the preceding remarks, will fhew the powers of Schiller more than any criticifm. A forsft frene by moonligh!—In one park of the femne a ruined Tower—The bund of Robbers fleeping on the ground —Charles Dew Moor walks acrafs the besth—a difiant bell Sfrikes treeloc, Eater Herman, whi fers, andis anfwered by a vsice Srom the tower. flerman. Wulh! Hath! Tow the howlet cries! The village clock ftrikes twelve ;—all falt afleep—cx- cept remorfe—and vengeance, (He goes to the tower acd( 52 ) 4nocks.) Come up, thou man of forrow ? Tenant of the tower ! Thy meal is ready. Moor. (Draws back fouddering.) What can that mean? Voice from the tower. Who knocks there ?—Is it thou, Herman, my raven? Herman. Yes, ’tis thy raven Herman—Comne to the ‘Thy comrades of the night make grate, and cat. fearful mufic.—Old man, do thou relifh thy meal ? Voice. Yes—hunger is kecn.—O thou who fend’ft the ravens ! accept my thanks—for this thy bread in the wildernefs !—How fares it with my good friend Herman ? Herman. Wufh! hark.—What noife is that >—Do you hear nothing ? Poice. No.—Do you hear any thing ? Herman. The wind whiftles through the rents of the tower—a mufic of the night that makes the teeth chats ter, and the nails turn blue-—Hark, ’tis there again.—. Thear a murmuring noife, like thofe who groan in flecp. —You have compiny, old man—hu! hu! hu! Voice. Do you fee any thing ? Herman, Yarewel, farewel! Your delivery is at hand | your avenger! (He is going baflily out.) Moor. i (Approaches fouddering,) Stop! Herman, Who is that?i) Moor. Stop! fpeak! Who art thou? What haw thou to do here? Speak! Herman. (Coming forwards.) "Tis one of his fpies Yve loft all fear. (Draws bis —that’s certain. fwordl.) Defend yourfelf, coward! you have a man be- fore you. Moor. V\lhave an anfwer. (Strikes the feword ont of bis hand.) What boots this childifh fword-play ? Didit thou not fpeak of vengeance ?—Vengcance belongs cx- clufively to me—of all the men of carth.—Who dares infringe my rights ? Herman. By heaven ! ’tis none of woman born—for that arm withers like the ftroke of death. Poice. Alas, Herman ! is it you who wre Speaking ? —Whom do you fpeak to ? Moor. What! ftill thofe founds ?—What is a-doing here ? (Raws towards the tower.) Some horrible myf- tery, for certain, is concealed in that tower. ‘This fword fhall bring it to ight. Herman, (Comes forward trembliny.) Terrible firan- ger ! art thou the wandering fpirit of this defert—* or perhaps one of the minifers of that unfathomeble retri- bution, who make their circuit in this lower world, and take account of all the deeds of darknefs?” Oh! if thou art, be welcome to this tower of horrors ! Moor, Traveller of the night ! you have divined my furGion—the Exterminating Angel is my name—but |(54) am fichh and blood, as thou art.—-Is this forne miferable wretch, caft out of men, and buried in this dungeon? | will loofe his chains—Once more fpeak ! thou Voice of terrors! Where is the door ? Herman. As foon could Satan force the gates of hea- ven, as thou tut docr.—Retire, thou manof itrength! the genius of the wicked foils the contmon intelled of man. (Strikes the door with bis fword.) Moor. Bat not the craft of robbers. (He takes forme loys from hit potket.) For once I thank my God Pve learnt that craft! Thefe keys would mock hell’s forefiht. (He takes @ hey, and opens the gate of the tower. —An oid man comes from below, emaciated like a Sreleton. Moor fprings back with afright.) Horrible {pectre ! niy failir! Enter from the dungeon, the Old Count de Moor. 0. Mor. thank thee, O my God! the hour of my deliverance is come ! Lfoor, Shade of the aged Moor ! who has difturhed thy afhes in the greve? Haft thou brought with thee into the world of fpirits fome foul crime, that bars the gates of paradife on thy foul ?—I will fay prayers and mafles of the dead, to gain thy fpirit peace. —Haf thoe hid in the earth the widow or the orphan’s gold ; and now in the expiation of that guilt, pour’ft at the mid- night hour the fhrick of mifery ?—I'll dig that treafure up, tho guarded by hell’s dragons.—Or coimeft thoy( 55) now, at my requeft, toexpound to me the dread enige mas of cternity ? Speak, fpeak! I will not blanch, nor flop the affighted car ! 0. Mor. Tam no fpirit—but alive, as thou art!— O life indeed of mifery ! Moor, What! waft thou not in thy grave? O. Moor. 1 was indeed interr’d*.—Three complete moons have I languifhed in this dark dungeon, where not a ray of light can penctrate—where no fiweet air or healthful breath can enter—where the hoarfe ravens croak, and the owls fhrick ! Moor. Weaven and earth ! Who has done that ? Herman, (With favage joy.) A fon! * Germ. Dasheift, cin todter hund leigt in meinen vater gruft, Tiat is, a dead dag lies in my father’s tamb, —An esprefion of whib the Tranfator dees wt foo the Sirce, and therefore Le bas omitted it.On tye JPatuer of Mable Ghions on the Oind. E VERY one is fenfible of the impreffion made by viewing the fublime ob- jects of nature—the blazing fun, the fpacious firmament, the fpangled heavens, the tower- ing mountains, the variegated landfcape, the expanded ocean, are all grand and beautiful, and we contemplate them with delight.—But when the howling tempeft agitates and tofes the fea, proftrates forefts and citics ; or when the black cloud obfcures the face of the hea- vens, the lightnings flafh, the thunders roar 3 or when the earthquake fhakes the folid globe; or when the dread volcano fends forth its co- lamas of fmoke, dies is livid dames, throws. 2(53) its mafly rocks, and pours its defolating lava all around—the pleafure experienced is ming- led with the mof profound awe—thefe though fublime in themfclves, yet are too terrible to be viewed with fufficicnt compofure; and chiefy pleafe in recollection or defcriptien. Tur fenfations which arife on viewing the neble ations of men, and which proceed from an innate greatnefs of mind, afford a pleafure more placid and more ufeful.—This greatnefs of mind may be defined to be a condué fuit- able to the charaéter and fituation in which a perfon is placed—though it is not confined to any particular fphere in life, yet there are cer. tain circumftances, which render it the more conspicuous, and'exhibit it in its. greate% luf- tre—All who difcharge with diligence and propricty the dutics of their refpective ftations ; all who under every difficulty and temptation, are wholly devoted to the fervice of mankind, are entitled to our admiration and praife ; not lefs fo than he who fills the chair of ftate, or than he who fighting in his country’s caufe gathers laurels in the crimfoned field.—To2 598 few men is granted the opportunity of exere cifing their talents on a public theatre. Too’ much has every age beea captivated and dazzled with the exploits of heroes and conquerors. Happily we now begin to ftrip them of their falfe {plendor, and to confider their actions only fo far great, as they tended to the welfare of the human race.—Alexan- der, Cefar and the late Vrederick of Piua, are deemed the pelts of fociety, and the name of Howard conveys the idea of more exczl- lence than them all. Talents mifapplicd like a meteor or comet call forth wonder, while they excite fear, but talents well directed like the bright orb of day fhed a fleady and eali- vening light. ' Macnanimity is tried moft in fcenes either very profperous or adverfe—in profperity it is not fo much the objeé of attention, and does not gencrally obtain fo much praife ; but per- haps its exertion is greater than in any other cafe—at leaft many who have acted nobly un- der the moft prefling dangers, have remitted their watch and- difgraced ‘their former cha-{ 6 ) racers, when in the funfhine of profperity ; Patriots whom no oppofition could filen ce, have been corrupted by court favors! Coi.- querors who a thoufand times braved fe ath, have been enervaied by luxury! And the mott fternly virtuous in appearance have becn feduced from their path, by the glitter of wealth and the enticement of pleafure—how exalted the conduét of him who fteadily per- fevcres, anvidft all the flattering profpeéts which the world canhold out! he better deferves the name of hero, than he who hath vanquifhed armics, or put hofts to flight.—Cyrus and Alexander are more juitly celebrated for thoie inftances recorded of their felf denial, than for all their fplendid vittories—nothing can refcue thofe from eternal infamy, who meanly fub- mitted to the government of unlawful paflions, and for thefe acrific ed their happinefs and their fame. . In adverfity likewife magnanimity is great- ly tried, and here it fhines the moft confpicuous —to encounter dangers and fufferings with re- folution and perfeverance, is a principal part of( 6 ) its defeription, Ne quality has received more general approbation than courage, and none more general contempt than cowardice—it is the manner in which Homer prefents the ac- ticns ef his principal heroes, which gives him his chief fublimity, and by which he continually enraptures his readers. When Neftor or Ulyiles with glowing words animate to decds of renown! when IleGor ftrides the champion of the ficld, and death and carnageawaithis dreadful {pear! when Ajax rears aloft his tow’ring bulk, and moves behind his feven-fold fhicld! when great Achilles raifes in vengeful ire his voice aloud, and hofts with terror drop their arms and flee ; attention is arrefted, every thought abforbed, we feel, we burn with an ardour fimilar to theirs! this is an evidence how much we are tranfported, in beholding that ftrength of mind which is undaunted by the greatefl dangers. The character rifes ftill high- er when the mind retains a perfevering firm- nefs, and is unfubdued by the molt grevious calamities. We can conceive of nothing more grand and interefting—a heathen philofopher t( 6 ) difcourfing concerning adverfity, fays There is not a fj-cétacle more worthy the regard of a Creator intent on his own works, than a brave man fuperior to his fufferings—that it mutt be a pleature to Jupiter himfelf, to look down from heaven and fee Cato amidit the ruins of his country preferving his integrity.” Tue fublime in fentiment elevates us with its loftinefs and grandcur—but. being more particularly dependent on our refinement cf intelle@ual ideas ; docs notas the fublime in action, keep awake thofe paffiens which lead to emulation and enterprize ; and which be- long more generally to all men. Contemriation, the fource of pureft de- light to the intclligent being, and however va- aunble iniuelt, is refpected as fubfervicnet to action.—The moft fublime fintiments of the poct, touch not the heart with that rapturous glow, which the dcfeription ofa hero infpire ! Not the bright glory of the orb of day; not the drear horrors of the infernal fhades, whefe clofing gates, “ grate harth thunder,” fo firike ther mind cr wrap the imaginaticn, as when(oj the poet burfts forth in the terribly fublime defcription ef Satan preparing tor battle. On the other fide Satan alarm'd ColleQing all his might, dilated ood Like Teneriff or Atlas unremov'd: His ftature reach’d the fky and on his creft Sat horror plum’d. Nor all the murmuring ftreams of Para- dife, its blooming gardens, and its lonely bow- ers, prefent a picture fo delightful, fo inter- elting to the view, as the majellic form of Adam, and the foft beauty of his partner Eve. For contemplation he and valor form'd, For foftnefs fhe and fweet attractive grace: His fair large front, and eye fublime declar’d Abfolute rule; and Hyacinthin locks Round from his parted forelock manly hung Cluft’ring, but not beneath his fhoulders broad : She as a veil down to her flender wait Her unadorned, golden treffes wore DiMhevel’d, but in wanton ringlets wav'd. So pafs'd they naked on, ner fhun’d the fight Of God or Angel for they thought no ill: So hand in hand they pafs’d, the lovlicft pair That ever fince in love’s embraccs met.Rinaldo: A Gothic Fragment. Rervurnine from the con- quelt of Jerufalem under the renowned God- frey ; Rinaldo, a knight of the illuftrious or- der of Malta, wandering from his companions, loft his way in the dreary forelts of F -—— Hop- ing foon to find a termination to the woods, fo that he might again know the courfe he fhould purfue, alighting frorn his ftced, he directed his way over frightful heaths, thro’ wilds and thickets where he could not trace the marks of any human being.—Night came on without the completion of his hopes, and the profpe lay before him more gloomy and boundlefs than ever.—Faint and fatigued, Rinaldo threw himfelf down and reclined his head on the turf —the winds fighed hollow and fulemn through( 6 ) the trees, and fpirits feemed to fhrick from the neighbouring glooms.—Rinaldo ftarted with dread and unfheathed his fword—although foremoft in the field of battle, andthe cham- pien moft feared that fought under the chriflian banners—yet a fuperflitious awe chilled his heart, when by the pale glimpfes of the moon, which trembled thro’ the openings of the woods, he viewed. the fcene which furrounded him.—Nature feemed there to have affumed her moft dreary and terrific form—the fullen fubiimity of horror.—Rinaldo endeavore to banith his fituation from his mind, and to feek quietnefs and ftrength from fleep. He had fearce clofed his eyes, when he thought he heard the toll of a diftant bell—he ftarted and liftened, and diftin@ly heard the found repeat- ed.—Yielding at firft to the ideas and appre- henfions which the place infpired, he fuppofed it the voice of fomething more than human— but thinking that perhaps it might be the cur- few of fome monattry, he refolved to follow the way, which from-the found he judged would bring him to the place from whence it( 67 } came. With drawa fword he wandered cau- tioully along.—¥le had not proceeded tar, when the towers of acale riding abeve all the trees that furrounded it, cameht his eye— Ammated by the fight, he foreed his wey with perfeverance through the cntaneled ds until by chance he difcovered a path which led direGly to the caftle—When he approached fo near as to obferve by the meon the form of the building, he pauled, doubtful whe to attempt an entrance into it—TVhe curfew had now ceafed its tolling.—Rinuldo looked if he comld perceive any light to glimmer thio’ the lattices—he lene. tithe could cidiacuith any founds within the walls ; but he could not tee or hear any—ell was flent as the boule cf death—nothing feemed to molei its “aneiert folitary reign.” —"The moat which furroundsd the rampart, was in part filled with fragments of ruins—and what water remained in it was Qagnant ; the bridge over it broken and de- cayed—the gothic towers and battlements of the calle, fill dared the attack of a foc—the walls covered with mols yet frowned defiance( 63 ) to time, although they appeared to have bray- ed already the fury of feveral centuries. — Ri- naldo after he had attentively viewed the caf- tle, refulved to cbtain en entsance if pofible, whether inhabited or not.—Curiofity and un- daunted boldnefs, prompted him cn.—He had not advanced many fteps unto the bridge, when he perceived on the oppofite fide of the moat, atall figure muilled ina garment, glide fwitly along towards the caftern tower, und vanith from his view; this confirmed the knight that the cattle was inhabited, but the appear- ance und movement of the figure excited no hope of rclicf; but rather warned him of the dun- ger of his defign.—Rinaldo however a ftranger to fear, after he had crcfled the moat, fought the fpot where the figure had difappeared, but he could not difeoverany opening or entrance; firm and refolved, he then approached the tottering porch fituated nearly about the centre of the building. —The mafly door refifted all his force —feveral times he raifed the rufted knocker, and heard the hollow founds roll through the mouldering lialls—he defifted, and all was fi-( 69 ) Jent—he waited for fome time in anxious fuf pence, and at length heard a foot-ftep move along the floor and approach the door—the lock with hideous recoil, gave way to the force withn—the door flew open with a fudden crath—Rinaldo undauntedly rufhed in with his fword drawn and extended—the door with ir- refiftible violence clofed again upon its hinge —and the knight was heard of no more. mee ee ee there ee ere eh he woe OR eee te keer ek ee OePOEMS. Bur hail, ye mighty mafters of the lay, Nature's tiue fons, the ftiends of man and truth ! Whote fong fublimely fweet, ferenely gay, Amus’d my childhood and informs my youth— O let your fpirit my fend bofom footh, Lidpire my dreams, and my wikl wanderings guide ! Beartie.Dear: A Poem, in imitation of the manner of Offian. O SCAR was the fon of Offian, the youngeft and the moft celebrated of all the warriors of Fingal. Wherever Offian fpeaks of him in his battles, he feems to burn with more than ufual enthufiafm; and when he mentions him at and after his death (as related in the firft book of ‘Temora) he no where excites more pity and tendernefs. Tue following poem is reprefented to have been written by Offian after Ofcar’s death, in which he endeavors to comfort himfelf for the lofs of his fon by relating his exploits, and triumph over Orla, when Fingal fir gave G( m4 =) him the command of his troops—though the author has made ufe of feveral of the names | which Offian mentions in his works; the bat- tle here defcribed againft Orla, is entirely fic- titious and founded upon no fads related by Offan, | EE Tz beam of morn arofe, the found of bat= tle fpread around 5 each warrior flruck the boffy fhicld of his father, and lifted his afpen fpear, bright in their dazzling arms and bold in their ftrength, the warriors of Fingal ap- pear: ‘the tribes of Orla, like the noife of many freams, g& her around their dark-ey’d chicf ; Fingal was ‘abfent at the hall of Cormac, the fon ‘of Offian Iced his men to the battle, for Ping: il rejoiced in the youth and Rtrength of my Ofcar, and gave him in his abfence the fpear of command—lovely waft thou then my fon, as the unclouded dawn.of day, thy fteps were like the roe on the heath of Morven, thy Boldnefs like ‘the ea gle that fits on the chifts of Tromathon ! ‘Phy heroes beheld thee as a benzm of light, thou didft-gladden their hearts ; but awful wert thou to the foe, they could not( #5 ) fland before the. terror of thite eye: thoi did move dvér the field graceful and mhajeltic ‘as Loda,* thy arms glitter’d to the beam, and death was on thy waving plame-—Orla ftood fullen ke a blafted ‘pine of the forcft; in a voice of rage he called his chiefs, pride was on his loweriiig brow, and he defpifed the youth of Ofcar.” “ Behold (faid he) the weaknefs of the foe, Fingal retires from the ‘battle before the fame of Orla, ‘he fears the weaknefs of his hoary locks, and the lighthing of my blade: were Fingal in the {miles of his‘ youth, he alone of mortal men could contend: with Orla, but his arm is now weak and he fliés before me—the pride of Ofear now leads the foe, his feeble youth hardly fupports the weight of his thield, few are the battles he has feen, few are the feats of his fume;.he now firft lifts in command the. {pear of his fathers; yet proud in his weaknefs he dares the, might. of Orla, I difdain the flrife of the feeble, yet I will ex- tinguifh this beam of light that cometh to his ruin.” He faid and indignant fruck again . © An ancient Caledonian deity.( 76 ) his fhield and ftrode towards the foe—the tribes of the defert ftarted and trembled at the found—the fons of the fea heard it, and af. frightened turned their barks from the fhores of blood—The friends of Fingal followed to the ftrife of {pears the fteps of Ofcar—Gaul the fon of Morni rear’d his ftrength by the fide of the youth, for Offian prayed him to be near his fon—the heroic beauty of Fillan followed clofely behind, and the might of car-borne Ardvin, many chiefs of deathlefs name pour’d along dreadful inarms. Like the ftar that firft glitters from the heavens at the dufk of the eve, and is the firft in brightnefs and beauty among the wandering train of the night ; fo before the reft fhone the darling fon of Offian. Fingal the firft of mortal men furpaffed thee not my Ofcar in the morning of his days. Tue foe came on in his wrath; Orla breath- ed flaughter and death, earth trembled be- neath his haughty ftride,* like the ftorm which for a time fits brooding in filent horror * Grimly he fmil'd, carth trembled as he ftrode. " Popg.( 77) over the deep, but fuddenly awakened pours its fearful wrath and fpreads deftruaion over land and fea; fo met the heroes ; fo before the {word fell the men of fame—the fongs of the bards were not heard—the noife of their battle fpread far around—the warriors ftrode in blood—death followed quick behind the fteps of Morni’s fon—his fteel was dyed in the blood of many of the foe, laid low by the power of his arm—the youth of Fillan was like the fwift blaft that fkims the lake of Lego—his rage terrible as the young tiger thirlting for prey; but my gallant Ofcar in the firft field of his fame was himfelf an hoft; wherever he came death ftrewed his paths, none could ftand be- fore the youthful hero ; the ghofts of his flain fhrieked from the hills and melted in the blaft from the lightning of his blade—Orla in his fullen foul beheld the deeds of Ofcar—he be- held his warriors fall beneath his arm—he rolled his dark eye awfully upon him, and darted where he fought; Ofcar eluded his in- tent and received his fword, harmlefs on his fhield, the rage of Orla increafed, and Ofcar( 78 ) panted for fame—who can deferibe the ftrife of the chiefs? ‘twas like the mtecting of two mighty freams; ‘twas as the battle of two fpirits in the clouds—the warriors of each reft- ed upon their fpears, and beheld in filence the confit—the fongs of the bards died upon their harps—all was fafpended in awe : weep ndt daughter of Tofear! Malvina dry the tear from thy fadly mufing eye! here thy hero did not fail, he triumphed, the pride of Orla fell beneath him, his boaftings were humbled in the duft.—After the dexth of their chief the foe fled, and thy Ofcar purfued them over the plain. Sucn was among the firft of the feats of my fon—but where Offian is thy darling now? where is now the fupport of thy evening days? where is thy only branch—where is thy Ofcar ? His farne is now only with the bards; he now refts with the fpirits of his fathers—the fod of the valley covers the young prince of heroes ; weep forrowful Malvina,* weep with Offian “ Ofcor was engaged to be married to Maivina within a few days when he was lain: her beauty andG Fo) {n his beauty he has fallen—in the early dawn of his days, he has fallen, fighting the battles of Temora. Offian is now alone, no hopes of him furvive ;. the laft of his race will fink with him to the grave.* Who will hereafter {peak of OMan ? who will tell of the king of bards > the umes will-be when Oflian’s fame fhall be her affeSion for Ofcar are tenderly defcribed by Offian 3 with whom after Ofcar’s death fhe lived and aflited ta comfort in his cid age and bl:indnefs, “Tr is the voice of my love! few arc his vifits to my dreams. Ect thou dwelleft in the foul of Malvina fon of mighty Ofizn—my fighs arife with the beams of the eaft; my tears defcend with the drops cf the night. | wasa lovely tree in thy prefence, Ofcar, with allmy branches round me; but thy death came Jike a blaft from the difert and laid my green head low—the fpring teturn’d with its fhowers, but no green leaf of ming arcfe.” Porm or Croma. * Roll on ye dark brown years, for yc bring no joy or your courfe, let the tomb open to Offian, for his firength has failed. The fons of the fong are gone to reft: my voice remains like a blaft that roars lonely on the fea, furrounded rock, after the winds are laid, The dark mofs whiftles there, and the diflant mariner fees the waving trees.” Poem or BerRaTuon,( 8 ) darkened—when men will not believe in his fong. Soon, and Offian fhall be no more— foon and all who now live, fhall fleep with their fathers. —-Man is of to-day ; but to-mor- row they who knew him, fhall fee him and know him—no more. Tuis is the laft of Offian’s fongs—his ftrength fails—his fpirits are frewed with the blan.Denone : The Deferted Shepherdcfs. T HIS cpiftle is imitated from Ovid, but not literally t'anflated—Several paffages have been here omitted whiclr are in the original, and fome additions made which it does not contain.—I mention this that T may not be fuppofed to have deviated from the latin through miftake, and that thefe verles may not be confidered as a ftrikt copy. Paris the fon of Priam, celebrated in fa- bulous hiftory for his elegance and beauty ; while he kept a flock in Ida’s grove, fel] in love with Oenone, and received her hand in marriage.—During his refidence with her, he was made umpire between the rival goddeffes, Venus, Juno and Minerva, to decide who ex-Mrianda: The Melancholy Shepherd. Ty truth he wes a ftrange and wayward wight, Fond of cach gentle and cach dreadful fcene 3 In darknefs and in ftorm he found delight, Nor tefs than when on ocean wave ferene 3 The fouthern fun diffus’d Iris dazzling. shehe-— Fven fad viciffitude atnus'd his foul; And if a figh would fometimes intervene, And down his check a tear of pity roll, A figh, a tear fo fweet he wifh’d not to contra], Beat. Minst, Bock l, W ix will this world refume its wonted flate ? When will thofe Grecian dayd again return? If ever fuch there were——when honeft worth And not curs’d gold ; alone exalted man. When love was won by manly form and’ vittués, And not corrupted by the proud man’s wealth ; When friendthip fiow'd from the congenial fev), Ga( 8 ) Nor cringing follow'd {plendor’s gaudy car.— Had young Orlando liv’d in fuch ble times He had not been the humble wight he was; Then not dependent for his homely fare He had not kept alordly mafter’s theep ; Then no gay female had defpis'd his love, Or met his modeft diffidence with frowns, His mufe would then have won immortal fame, His {word the conqueror’s wreath—his virtue, friend hhip —For moft thofe qualities which grace the poet, ‘he foldier, and the man Orlando had; But poverty conceal’d them from the world, Nor culture rear’d the tender plant to bloom.— No pipe fo often in the fill of eve Breath’d its foft warbbings o’er the drowfy plain, As young Orlando’s, and none fo pleafing Told its melting tale ; No fhepherd lad of brave Orlando's years, Could with fuch vigour launch the pond’rous ftone, Or with fuch fkill direQ the arrow’s point. No fhepherd with fuch fwift and eafy grace Could fkim along the plain ; or daring leap ; None in the wreftler’s hardy fkilful art, Could match the youth, or caft him on the turf. Thefe rural paftimes once he dearly lov’d, Once none more eager to bear off the prize Beftow’d on thofe who in thefe arts excell’d— But foon as nineteen yearg had told their tale,( 83 ) Their former pleafure and their relifh vanith'd, Nor more ambition led him to the conteft; For then the youth more kcenly knew dependence, Then firft fair Anna drew his cyc of love.— The village youth had met upon the plain, (As often was their fond and rural cuftom) To imitate the ancient Grecian games, All ranks that dwelt within the little townfhip With joy conven’d to fee the fhepherd’s ftrife. Among the maids the fmiling Anna came Infpiring love ; rich Alner’s only child : Hung carelefs on her back her darlzifh hair ; And floated o’er her half-feen lovely limbs Tor robe of {nowy hue-—Upon her check Shaded with artlefs curls, health blufhing fat ; Her bright blue cye rov’d tranfient o'er the lawn, Oft tow’rdsthe fhepherds bent a melting glance. She fhone fupreme the beauty of the plain, Like a rich flower unrival’d by its fellows. The bold Orlando with his comrade fwains, In hop’d fufpence ftood ready for the race ; His pleafing thoughts then no fond female drew, Tall and erect he waited the command, Tocleave the air and dart acrofs the green ; The flufh of manly beauty ting’d his cheek, And animation fparkled from his eye : His fprightly limbs in ftri@t proportion form’d His eafy movement and engaging air,( 84 ) Drew every eye among the female train — Then Anna firft beheld him and admir’d, And often on the fhepherd fix d her eye ; ile cafting heedlefs his dark eyes around Met her fweet killing look ; and felt his breaft With foft and unknown palpitation heave. ‘Then firft the flame of tyrant love was kindlcd, Then firft Orlando's furrows took their date. Unhappy fwain recal thy heart again ! No flock is thine that crops the verdant ficld, ‘Thou only art a poor dependent lad ! And Anna’s rich and cannot count her wealih 5 H:r only admiration was thy form— He mutt be wealthy who would feek her hand. The werd is given—and {wilt as cag’s wings, Start the young fwaius, and fcarcely fecm to prese Or touch the verdure with their fleeting feet ; But far before the reft Oriando fies, (iis loofc locks waving on the puliag wind) And gains the goal—and claiins his eafy prize. But {mall the joy and pleafure to the victor, He does not triumph as he did Lefore ; For lovely Anna moft attracts h’s thoughts. But eh ! what torment pierc’d his genile feelings, When firit he learnt her parent's wealth and pow’r, Aad fill more keenly Anna’s pride and fcorn. Then vanifl’d from his breaft the cheerful glew, Content aad peace, unteach’d by envy’s fling,( 85 ) The love of pleafure and of rural fports. In folitudes alone he found delight ! Where banifh’d from all human obfervation, He might bemoan his fad unpitied lor, And trace thofe {cenes congenial to his foul. How oft ye fircams unconfcious of his woe, Has his lone mufic ftole acrofs your bofam, And mingled with the murmur of your wave ! How oft ye groves {urrounded in your fhades When twilight fpread its gradual dufky veil, Has the fond fhepherd pour’d his unheard fong, And trac’d the moon, pale rifing thro’ your trees; How oft your brows ye lofty rifing mounts Which frown with fullen pride upon the vale ! Mas he with wandering devious foot{tep climb’d, Call’d lonefome echo from its diftant haunt ; a\nd view’d the landfcape fpread beneath his eye. But now no more ye folitary fcenes! Will ye behold your haplefs youth return, No more hikpipe fhall wake your ftilly gloom, And of proud Anna’s cruelty complain— Beneath yon willow bending o’er the brook, And kiffing with its weeping boughs the ftream; Cover’d with earth and with the graffy fod, The youthful fhepherd refts his humble head ; A feeling lad—a victim of difdain. Unknown to many, few Jament his fate,( 8&6 ) Few molften with their tears his early tomb Or fpread Orlando's genius and his worth: For he was poor—~and who that’s poot has friends, In thefe cold days of felfifthnefs and wealth. Orlando was a {fad romantic youth, His boform glow’d with every generous warmth: Enraptur'd with the mufe, he often told His fimple paftoral lay, but it ran not In lively numbers but in penfive fweetnefs. Nature he lov’d, for who that has the foul Of poefy, of tendernefs and virtue, Can view with cold indifference her charms? If any can, not {uch this feeling fwain ; His greateft joy was tracing her fair fcenes. Oft when the morn firft trembled in the eaft, And banifh’d darknefs from the flumbering earth, Orlando left his bed, and little cot, Clamber’d the hillock’s height to mark the fun Firft tinge the fky with blufhing ftreaks of gold, And gradual birft with his whole pomp ard {plendor 5 The tow’ring mountains all are tipt with red— The lake flow winding thro’ its fedgy bed, Refleéts the radiance trembling o’er its wave. The plains with gladnefs meet the god of day And echo to the bleatings of the flocks— Forth from the grove the joyful mufic wakes, Varying and wild; fweet nature’s tuneful band, The faepherd calling to his ftraying flock,{ 87 ) 1s diftant heard amidft the thankful frains And now and then is wafted to the ear, The mufic of the mountain goatherd pipe. At noon when panting with the feorching heat, Orlando drove his flock to cooling fhadeg, Where foft and bubbling from the floping hill, The limpid rill in eafy windings ftole; There while his fheep lay bafking on the grafs Or lave their fnowy ficeces in the ftream; He on the moffy bank at length reclin’d Would view the peaceful fcene; and penfive mule, And to his flock attentive tune his pipe ; } Tho’ dull misfortune’s fon, he lov’d to look On happinefs, nor fullen envy’d blifs. But moft when evening filent in her fteps, Threw o’er the landfcape her dim mifty thade, And nature mourning wept the clofe of day ; The fhepherd lov’d to take his lonely walk :-~ His favorite fongftrefs then refym’d her tale, And every fadnefs hung upon the breeze ; All that waé cheerful faded from the view, And melancholy held alone her reign. Then while the little families of peafants Gather together on the level turf : Orlando flowly bent his heedlefs way, Along the wood which fkirts the river’s bank With downcaft, thoughtful eye, and folded arma. When the far diflant curfew with drear toll,( 88 ) Struck fuperftitious dread in fearful minds ; Not fo it met Orlando’s liftening ear, It was afolemn mufic to his care, And gave a deeper mourning to the fcene. The river wafhing with its waves its bank, And now and then the boatman’s dafhing oar, Are founds which ever pleas’d his brooding foul. But Philomela’s warbling moft he lov’d, When from the branches of fome fpreading tree, She fill’d the thickets with her love-fick tale : Bufy remembrance when fhe fweetly fung, Would trace paft fcenes and dwell on Anna’s charms: The moralizing fwain would {peak of man, How foon his pleafures pafs in hafte away, And morning find him ina chilly grave. ‘The mufe records thefe feeling lines he wrote With pencil—lighted by the full orb’d moon, When the fad fongftrefs had her forrows told, And all was hufh’d to ftillnefs in the grove. “ Thou fweet companion of my lonely hours, © Who like Orlando fhun’ft thy fellow tribes “ To pour thy forrows to the liftening night !— « Not like the world thou giv’ft thy little favors © To thofe who moft are bleft with fortune’s finiles, “ Dut to the vaffal equal with his Lord. “A youth unfortunate, a prey to love, « Unknown to any tendernefs but thine ; © Who loft his parents in his infant ycars,£ ( 89 ) And ever fince has been a fhepherd boy, (Attendant on a haughty mafter’s flock) Repays thy gently foothing ftrain with tears; When few his favors moft he feels thofe few. Say fongftrefs, doft thou mourn unhappy love? Thou fure muft mourn it—for thou fing’ft fo fad ! But ah ! thouare not like Orlando fcorn’d, For all among thy feather’d race are equal ; The paffion is not fway’d by rank, but inftind: But poor Orlando's fpurn’d becaufe he’s poor ; Anna difdains him—for fhe’s rich and fair, Bright as yon moon—but even more deceitful. But foon {weet bird, andall thy fongs fhall end, That little throat be clos'd which pours fuch warblings, And he who mourns with thee amid this bower Soon to this world of care fhull bid adieu, Nor longer buffet poverty and woe. Perhaps then Anna may bedew his turf, With one kind tear—and fay the fwain had virtues ! But ah ! deceiving dream—fhe who has heard So many ardent vows—with killing fcorn, Becaufe her pleading fwain was poor and humble, Will never think with pity on his death ; But all isone—what fhe, or what the world Think of Orlando when he’s in his grave, For {corn or pity cannot reach him there.Dlcar ; A Poem, in imitation of the manner of Offian. Os CAR was the fon of Offian, the youngeft and the moft celebrated of all the warriors of Fingal. Wherever Offian {peaks of him in his battles, he feems to burn with more than ufual enthufiafm; and when he mentions him at and after his death (as related in the firft book of Temora) he no where excites more pity and tendernefs. Tue following poem is reprefented to have been written by Offian after Ofcar’s death, in which he endeavors to comfort himfelf for the lofs of his fon by relating his exploits, and triumph over Orla, when Fingal firft gave G( 80 } darkened—-when men will not believe in his fong. Soon, and Offian fhall be no more— foon and all who now live, fhall fleep with their fathers. —-Man is of to-day ; but to-mor- row they who knew him, fhall fee him and know him—no more. Tuis is the laft of Offian’s fongs—his ftrength fails—his fpirits are flrewed with the blan.Menone : The Deferted Shepherdcs. T HIS cpiftleis imitated from Ovid, but not ‘literally tranflated.—Several paffages have been here omitted which are in the original, and fome additions made which it does not contain—I mention this that I may not be fuppofed to have deviated from the latin through miftake, and that thefe verfes may not be confidered as a ftrict copy. Paris the fon of Priam, celebrated in fa- bulous hiftory for his elegance and beauty ; while he kept a flock in Ida’s grove, fell in love with Oenone, and received her hand in marriage.—During his refidence with her, he was made umpire between the rival goddefles, Venus, Juno and Minerva, to decide who ex-( 92) celled in charms. He declared in favor of Venus, who promifed him the hand of the molt beautiful of women.—Soon after this he failed with a fleet to Greece, faw the celebrat- cd Helen queen of Sparta, and neglectful of Oenone, prevailed upon her in her hufband’s abfence, to efpoufe him and accompany him to Trey. Ocnone ftill faithful to the cruel Paris, and unable to conquer her attachment for him, is reprefented writing this epiftle in order to excite him to a return cf his affection for her.MDenone to Paris, R EAD cruel Paris this deje@ed ftrain, And do not treat it with a proud difdain ; Feel as you did when by my faithful fide You fought carreffes from no fpartan bride ! O read it o'er, it is my Jaft requeft ! It breathes no threatenings to difturb your reft The far-fam'd nymph of Phrygia’s tufted grove, Here mourns your abfence and ungrateful love. Still would my heart call treacherous Paris mine, If thou would’ft call the fad Ocnone thine. What god oppofing my once peaceful lot Has borne my fhepherd from this fertile {pot ? What have I done, what crime lurks in my breaft- ‘That Ym no longer of your love poffefs’d ? When we deferv'dly fuffer pain and ill, ‘We ought to bear it with refigning will ; But heavily we droop-bencath the blow, Which leaves difgzace and undeferved woe. la( 94 ) Ycu was but poor, a lowly fhepherd fwain, and kept a little flock upon the plain, When I of neble birth beheld your charms, And firft receiv’d you to my loving arms ; Tho’ now great Priam’s fon and prince of Trey, You then was only a mien fhepherd boy ; Norin that rank, did you I fcorn to wed, But took a youthiul rranger to my bed. Often beneath the ftill fequefter’d fhade Amidtl the flocks which wanton'd o’er the glade, Cheerful we've fat fecluded from the heat, While zi phyrs whifper’d thro’ our cool retreat— Oft in our little cot fecure from hail, Defeending rains and midnight’s hollow gale ; In bed of ftraw upon cach othcr’s breaft, Happy we've lain, and {weetly funk to reft. Who led you to the caverns hung with rocks, Where favage beafts conceal’d their infant flocks ? Who led you to the forefts ftock’d with game, ‘Yo the lone waters where the rein-dcer came ? 1 loft Oenone there your footfeps Iced, The knotted net with thefe foft hands have fpread, Follew’d your paths the mountain’s giddy rounds, And with my prefence cheer’d your fweeping hounds. Leneath the beach-trees, weeping oft I ftand And read my name carv’d by your gentle hand, vas their round trunks increafe, expands the nanae,( 95 } To fhew and vindicate Oenone’s claim. Vhere grows a poplar on the river’s fleep, (Ah well I know it, there I fit and weep) Which blooms and thrives your treachery to preve, And bears the motto of our early leve: Flourifh thou poplar by the waters fed, On whofe green bark, thefe well-known lines are read “ Sooner fhall Xanthus leave his channel dry, “ Than Paris live without Ocnone’s by;” Xanthus flow back! ye murm’ring ftreams decay, Paris ftill lives, is faithlefs, far away. Cu that unhappy day began my wae, When wandering thro’ the woods with benJed bow, Venusand Juno and the queer of arms, Made you the judge who moft exceil’d in charms ; Then jealous fears bade every tranfport coufe, Then blackening ftorms o’ercaft my former peace ; My bofom heav’d, my ftrength and colour fled, When you return’d and the dread tidings fpread ; To aged matrons I exprefs’d my fear, Who all agrced that forrow’s hand was near. When your bold veffels waited your command, To bear you from me toa forcign land, You wept and prefs’d me witha warm embrace And kils’d the tears that trickled down my face, Still Joth to part you gaz’d upon my charms And clofer held mg fainting in your arms, You fcurce had fpitits when you fad withdrew( 96 ) To bid your fhepherdefs a laft adieu! ‘The white fea foams beneath your fteady oare, And gales propitious waft you from the shores ; ‘The leffening canvafs my dim eyes purfue And with their tears the moiften’d fand bedew, With ardent prayers the Nereids | implore, To {peed your paflage and my peace reftore ; Have then my prayers brought you thus back again To mock my love and to infult my pain ? Tiave I call'd heaven for bleflings on your head, To fee you partner of a harlot’s bed? A towering rock o’erlooks the boundlefs waves, Which frowns defiance and thcir fury braves; There firft I fpy’d from its bleak giddy fteep Your fails approaching o'er the foaming deep, Scarce in my tranfport could I then refrain From plunging headlong in the paffing main. Borne by propitious winds your fhip drew nigh And firft my rival mct my fearching cye, Round her lov'd form your faithlefe arms were prefs'd Her head enamour’d hung upon your breaft: With furious hands I tore my floating hair, And beat my breaft in wildnefs of defpair; My cry refounded thro’ fair Ida’s grove The happy fcenes of once our bappy love. May gaudy Helen too like me complain, And mourn like me forfaken lover’s pain!(oy Y May fie in future feel thofe threbbing woes Which now on poor Ocnone fhe beftows! You now love one whofe falfe and roving mind, Tis left for you her princely fpoufe behind ; But when a fhepherd here your flock you fed Inade you offer of my virgin bed ; A little cot was all my peaceful home, fought not riches nor a coft]y dome, Tlov’d you not for being Pristm’s fon, Nor pomp nor fplendor cer Oenone won ; Yet Priam and his wife need not difown Mess unworthy of their blood and thrown; Confort to you my merit could command, Nor would a feeptre ill become my hand. "Ts ne difgrace that I have lain with you Onnew fall'n leaves that glitter’d with the dew ; Moream I fitted to afeend your bed Where diamonds dazzle and their luftre fhed ; Then in my arms you might fecurcly fleep, No hoftile fhips would plow your angry deep ; But Helen’s dowry will be wars alarms, Greece will demand her with revengeful arms ; And pride will fwell the haughty fair one’s breaft, To fee for her two nations in conteft. Shame to the man who for a treacherous bride Will ftab his hcnor, and his country’s pride ! K( 98 } Shame to the man who for a ftol'n embrace, Will bring deftruction on the trojan race. And do not think this Helen will prove true, Fulfe to all others fo fhe’ll be to you ; Now young Atrides mourns his ixjur’d love, You in your turn fhall his difhonor prove. When chaftity once droops its fullied form, No more ’twill bloffem, and furvive the ftorm ; One little ftain fecludes it from the day, Nor rolling years can mold that ftain away. Ifelen’s warm paffions now on you are turn’d, So once for Sparta’s prince they lively burn’d, But now his gallant unfufpicious heart, Feels his difgrace and her diffembling art. Ohappy woman! gedlike Hector’s wife How fweet thy flumbers, how ferene thy life ! No jealous fears thy virtuous love controul, Conftant as warlike, isthy Hetor’s foul ; Had J, in Paris, Hector’s virtues found Like thine, my days had pafs’d their fleeting round. But lighter than the autumn’s wither'd Icaves, Scatter’d and blown by every pafling breeze ; Paris forfakes me for anothcr’s charms, Nor longer finks enraptur’d in my arms : But ftill my Paris, ftill for you I figh, For you the tear fill gliftens in my cye ; Faithful to you J fpurn with cold difdain, The love and offers of each wealthy fwain.( 99 ) Not heaven or earch with ull its bounteous ftore, Can eafe my bofom, or my joy reflore, To you alene I piead my languid grief, *Tis you alone can bring me {weet relief ! Pity a faithful, fad, neglected inaid, Revilt Ida's melancholy fhade ! Pity a maid who loves with tendercft woe, And merits all your sity can below ! Aily'd with me no bloody wars you'll dread, Solt peace frall hover o’er our blifsfal bed. Iam your own; Lam your only wife, And pafs'd with youmy virgin years of life ; Kiey heaven look down with mercy on my tears, And crown with Paris my remaining ycars,Lincs written on feeling the Reprcfen- tubs ef a City in Rusiss. 4 ELIS lonely battlement, this Pehing hall, Thele f ‘Turo’ which the tempeft pours ter'd fresonents aed this meus ring wail, its folomm found, And per five ivy folds iis wreaths around, Mark the deewr fpoc that once acity fpread, Where the tall column record its heuehty hoods _ i ee. .sses And fplender roll’d its dazzling: pomp alouy, Where regal pride fat fmitine on his throne And wifdem, valor, foft-cy'd beauty fence. a: ss Prides, pomp and erandvur moulder in decay 5 Mirth’s voice is hufh’d and o’cr the filent pun, A fearful horror holds its Gothic reiyn ; Dull melancholy ftrikesits feepy fring And fuperftision fpreads her raven wing.{ 102 ) The moon the emprefs of the gloomy night, Looks down with forrow on the tragic fight, While mournful wandering her eccentric way She lights the ruine with her trembling ray ; ‘The bird of night efpies her grateful beam And from fome crevice flings his hallow fcream. Approach proud man, behold this fallen ftate, Learn human grandeur, and the word of fate? “ All earthly fcenes fucceflive pafs away pe “ All earthly glory haflers to decay !Che Maid of the Cot: A Paflorel, 5 ENEA THI that lone forrowful thed, Py whofe door the brook murmuring flows, Where the poplar clates its tall head And blooms the negleted wild rofe ; Liv'd Aline the maid of the cot Reclin’d on the bofom of reft, No honors, no riches fhe fought, No forrows invaded her breaft. Ske tript in her rambles the plain And drove her flock playful along, She ftole the kind love of the fwain And hail’d the chafte eve with her fongz: Delightful her feelings to pleafe The lonenefs and ftillnefs of groves, The hollow complaint of the breeze, The birds fweetly warbling their loves.(104 } Peace copfact attended her ways And markd the fond fpots which fhe chofe, a ii... Ske funk on her lip to repofe 5 But ceas'd is the voice of her lay, Dforted her fleck and her cot, Her virtue is flolen away, And Aline’s repole is forgot.Ope to Suyperfition: In Imitation of Collins. y \ HENCE that horrid fight, Stalking through the gloom of night! Darting o’cr the heath its eye And fhricking with a fpirit’s fhrill and death-like cry } Fell vifion hence—approach not here, The foul that’s upright and fincere Thou cant not harm; Thou canit not flupify with magic fpell, Or clutch it with thy frightful arm, Or fink it in thy fhivering cell. Hence with all thy darkling brood ! Throbbing fear and horror bath’d in blood, Terror with his briftling hair Ghaftly as death ; inflexible defpair. K 2Damon avaunt! thy hellifh reign is o'er, Pound tothy natve home thou fialt ditturb no more ; Thy favar’d reign cf Gothic night is fled Redume thy chains, and fuk thy impious head !mye ¢ de arreculur Ode, PART LL ‘—D FCK'D in blooming amaranthine wreaths, Sweet hope at diftance files, Her genial {pirit joy aml rapture breathes, And cunningly beguiles. The tinge of health glows blufhing on her check, Fler hair waves on the wind, Her eyes bewitching, eloquently fpeak, Her accents fteal the mind. Along the laughing pluia, The graces in her train ; Fair, young and gay She fwilily glides, Searce the thin robe her heaving botom hides. Qn all fhe bends her mild and placid Jook, Allfecl her foft alarms, The humble fhepherd Icans upon his crook, Aud ponders on her charms,( 108 ) From the fad lover’s drooping languifh She ileals away the figh, She rears histhoughtful head from anguih, And darts a luftre in his melting cye ; Where Philomela pours her penfive forg, And peace and quiet lull the rural fhade Mufing he roves with folded arms alorg, While hope in whifpers calls the haughty maid ; She breathes her fpirit thro’ the lonely grove, She bids the breeze waft fumbers to his Lreaft, The happy youth believes Perdita’s love, And gives his forrow to the arms of ref; No more he calls on terror and defpair, Nor fury with her haggard eye, ber ftiff and clotted hair, Upon the face where difcontentments dwell, She lights the anumating glow ; She cheers the author in his wretched ccll, Bids magic fcenes before his raptur’d vifion flow, Soft he hears the tinkling fountains Flowing down the facred mountains, Around his brows the laurels bloom, Honors hail him with careflings Peace and plenty add their bleffings, The bard looks pleas’d and fmiles away his gloom. She cheers the hero's foul Whcn the fierce charge the awful trumpets found, When dezth’s hoarfe thunders roll ;( 109 ) When human blood with crimfon flows the ground And groans of horror rife upon the pafling blatt. Pyke i it The cheering glimmering of 2 diftant light Revives the courage of the traveiling boor, While lone and fearful in the darkfome night He fecks fome hofpitable ftranger’s door ; Put when with weary trembling ftep he gains The f.ot where fhone the luminary bright; Par diflant 270 che flattering ray remains And twinkles on the mountain’s dufky height. The gathering flerm rears fullenly around The unheopy man sill onward holds his way, Sudden he plunges in the gulph profound The night owl fhricks—a0 genius Lids his Spiric May. So faithlefs hope invites Like her own fex too often falfe and fair She fpreads with fmiling guile the tempting {nare, And Julls her vetary with her feign’d delights, High from Leucadia’s brow Her treffes forrowfully flowing Love on her languid afpeét glowing, Sapho look’d down upon the ftream below ; The winds were hufh’'d—no murmur left the fhade Sweet breath’d the accents of the love-fick maid. LTo the blue tky She rais'd her hand, and mild poetic eye e:C~—™”C=CisCOMC¥aiCCaCCidwCizsW She murmur’d Phaon’sname, ard frem the feep Piung'd in the bofom of the pafing deep. Keen difappeintment, poverty’s cold gloom Were all the trophics that poor Rowley won, Mope lung her mantle o’er his crafty tomb And mourn’d too late the fufferings of her fon.* Genius hed rais’d this feeling child, Yancy unroll’d her vificns to his view Spenfer furvey’d his daring fon and finil’d ; Fate fhook his fable plumes—his poifon'd arrow threw, Swect be thy flumbers in the fod below Vou mufes darling and thou fport of woe! * A gentleman well known in the literary world bearing cf the wonderful performances of Chatterton, who publifoed arany foems under the name of Rowse, fought the place of Lis reulence witd the écfign of afihing bim in bis impover= ihed fiate, but arrived too late—the unfortunate youth had iccome his cavn executioner, and gone beyond the recih of bun rian chari'y and of prejitn.Che Guthee’s Cleqy over che eoinding of bis joen, ane er Hatt trac'd the wanderings of a youthful heart, Thy worn remains I now betow the dcuft, And fadly mourn that we are fore'd to part. end who zealous in thy traf, How patiert thou haf borne thy tircfome !ct, And faithful follow’d where Uchofe to lead ! mm Mark’d what was p And told the worl ginny bufy though, what they wid acver read ! Duh lines ornet, twasellihe Same to thee, ,rt~r~—”,.C.U..C«C¥isé)sS¥NCNCiszisiCiC;icCW Thy zeal wes guided by a iove for me, a i. ..2.42=—_ Thon wait atone the folitary friend That watch'd my mufing in my little cot ; And not like fome—thou didft thy comfert lend, Upoa a wicur whom hosors never fought.( 312 ) Now in my fervice thou art fad decay’d, Perhaps I’ve been a malter too fevere ; Who much too often has requir’d thy aid, And yet may mourn this ufage with a tear. Farewell thou pen—a tender laft farewell! Thou muft for ever leave this mufing eye. We all muft part and feek the mouldering cell, Weall muft ficken, and we all muft die. How long the wicut who mourns o’er thy remains, Will live beyond thee none on earth can tell ; Perhaps thy elegy may clofe his ftrains, And no more Penshe’ll cver bid farewell ! The CnT HE volumes are delivered flitch- ed in blue at the defire of feveral fub(cribers, who preferred them fo rather than common binding. —Complete binding could not be per- formed without lofs, calculating from the prefent number of fubscribers.