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tend so much to the good of society or to our own improvement, as those more fixed employments, which are followed with more perseverance, and from which the person is not continually deviating to go in search of extraneous pleasures or amusements. This persevering industry, whether of mind, or body, as far as it opposes the wayward inclinations of the individual, will often be found attended with vexation; but our conduct is then most praiseworthy, when we act in conformity to God's will, though it may happen to be contrary to our natural inclinations.


In the following imitation of a favourite author, one may easily discern all the spirit of the original. Neither Francis, nor Duncomb, nor Lord Chatham, nor Dryden himself has ever in the form of free paraphrase, exhibited so much of the spirit and genius of Horace. The softness, tenderness, and delicacy of the first stanzas; the vivid description in the third and fourth, the arch allusion in the fifth to the animal Andrews, as described by Fielding; the the whimsical simile, in the sixth, which is of the very essence of Genius, the caution and the description in the closing lines are all of a character so intimately allied with the spirit of the Roman bard, that we should be ashamed, if we did not strive to perpetuate one of the luckiest imitations of his glorious original.


Quid fles, Asterie, &c.


Nay, Fanny, check that falling tear;
The northern circuit over,

Soon shall thy Willy homeward steer,
With ardour greet his wedded dear
And live with thee in claver

Though forc'd from town to town to rove,
For thee he wears the willow;

True, as the mild, mate widow'd dove,
And nightly, with the tear of love,
Bedews a sleepless pillow.

Lais, meanwhile, with flirting skill,

Would fain with thee change places, With Cupid's shaft attacks him still, Hoping to clasp thy constant Will, In contraband embraces.

With many a sad and sly remark,
She moves him to compassion;

Tells him of Osmyn, Moorish spark,
Thrown in a dungeon, deep and dark,
For slighting Zara's passion.

She tells of Joseph Andrews, dead

To pleasure, senseless looby!

Who quarrel'd with his butter'd bread,

And, urg'd by Parsın Adams, fled
The love-sick Lady Booby.

Vain her endeavours to create,
A matrimonial riot!

Deaf as the haddock on his plate,
He hears the wily fair one prate
And eats and drinks in quiet.

But, Fanny, pray beware of Jack,
For Gallantry his trade is,
Lest, swerving from decorum's track,
You take more pleasure in his clack
Than suits with married ladies.

Though none like him can dance a reel,
Head, knees and elbows shaking,

Or o'er the Serpentine can steal
Like Mercury with flying heel,

Ice bending, Sabbath breaking.

Shut, shut your door, at eight o'clock,
Nor walk down Piccadilly:

Firm, as the surge repelling rock,

His rude assailing passion mock,

And think on absent Willy.

Of all the odes of Horace, we remember, with juvenile enthusiasm, that the subject of the following perfect parody, had, and deserved, all our praise. It is impossible for us to enhance the merits of the original; and, in justice to the recent imitator, we must declare that if he and Horace had met at the same banquet with Augustus, the monarch would have pronounced them par nobile fratrum!


Velox amoenum Saepe Lucretilem, &c.


The wood nymphs, crown'd with vernal flowers,
Who roam through Tempe's classic bowers,

And sport in gambols antic

If e'er they quit their native vales,

Will find around my cot in Wales

A region more romantic.

Green pastures, girt with pendant rock,
Along whose steep my snowy flock

Adventurously wanders;

Impending shrubs and flowers that gleam,

Reflected in the crystal stream

Which through the scene meanders.

In sylvan beauty charm the eyes,
While no ungracious sounds arise

Of misery or anger;

The song of birds and insect's hum,
Are never broken by the drum

Or trumpet's brazen clangour.

If sleeping Echo start to mark
The matin carols of the lark,
Or sounds of early labour;
Again she seeks her calm retreat,
Till evening calls her to repeat

The shephrd's pipe and tabor.


Whene'er I woo the Muse serene,
Her magic smile illumes the scene,
And brighter tints discloses:
But e'en the Muse's chaplet fades,
Unless the hands of Cupid braids,

Her myrtle with his roses.

Haste then, my Laura, to my bower,
And let us give the fleeting hour,

To plenty, love and pleasure,

Where wanton boughs an arbour wreathe,
I to thy melting harp will breathe,
My amatory measure.

Let not the town your soul enthral,
The crowded rout and midnight ball,
Those penalties of fashion,

If manners still have power to please,
O hither fly to Health and Ease,
And crown a poet's passion.

No jealous fears shall curb your mind,
Here shall no spirit be confined,

By prejudiced opinion,

My Laura here a queen shall be,

From all control and bondage free,

ave Cupid's soft dominion


SKETCHES IN VERSE. Mecum quære modos leviore plectro. Printed for C. & A. Conrad, Philadelphia, by Smith & Maxwell, 1810, p. p. 184.

THIS is one of the most brilliant and beautiful, if not one of the most splendid and magnificent books, that has ever issued from the press of Philadelphia. The type is broad and bold, the ink is of ebony blackness, and the paper is of a texture, we believe, precisely the same as that of Barlow's Columbiad. In fact, the mechanical execution reminds us perpetually of that

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splendid quarto, which even the severity of Scottish criticism has spared.

It is not often our habit to dwell with so much fondness upon the mere exterior of a volume, however ostentatious and imposing. But in the early epochs of the history of our country, and, in particular, of its literary annals, it is just and honourable to both to record the minutest circumstance which can inflame the ambition of authorship. We have no hesitation in asserting, with all the confidence though none of the dogmatism of Bishop Warburton, that the truly elegant plates, with which this book is adorned, are not only superior to any thing of the kind in America, but when compared with Bensley's designs in the splendid edition of Gray, or with the engravings in Dodsley's Shenstone are still more graphical and in a purer taste. The designs were beautifully painted by Mr. T. Sully, an American artist of high and deserved reputation, and finally transferred to the copperplate by the genius of that excellent engraver, Mr. Leney of New-York, and of George Murray of this city, a favourite pupil of the celebrated Anker Smith, and, in the opinion of the best judges, not at all inferior to his accomplished instructor. Mr. Murray has gloriously distinguished himself by the execution of some of the most masterly and spirited engravings in Bradford's edition of Dr. Rees's Cyclopedia; and the specimens of Mr. M's talents, as exhibited in the interesting volume, now under our review, are of a character so brilliant, as to warrant all the praise which taste and judgment, as well as friendship and affection can bestow.

Our business is now with the literary department of this volume, and we shall startle the sensitive author by an act of flagrant hostility in our first onset against his book. He commences his desultory volume with what he chuses to call an imitation of the style of the sixteenth century. Seduced by the example of Dr. Parnell, Chatterton, Thomson, and the whole tribe of Spenser's imitators, he has conceived that whilom, eftsoons, albeit, certes, and spelling envy with an ie are quite sufficient to transport us back to the æra of king James. But while thus apparently dealing out censure, we have great comfort for our author in store. Though, in our deliberate opinion, the poem,

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