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to which we now allude, is nothing like an imitation of the obsolete and quaint style of a pedantic age, yet it is a great deal better. The orthography may be affectedly ancient, but the sense and spirit of the poetry are fresh and new and sharp, as the most recent gold coinage from the mint of Great-Britain. The compliment in the closing stanza, addressed to a favourite fair one, is a brilliant proof of a lover's genius and affection. It is equally poetical, gallant and sincere.

The next poem, which purports to be an invocation from Oberon to the Queen of the Fairies, would not, in its musical and poetical character, disgrace an Opera, modelled after the Masque of Milton, or the scenes of Armida.

Our author's intimacy with the middle Latinity of the continental scholars has led him in the next place, to a translation from Stephanus Forcatulus, and we discern in this poetical adventure much of the purer manner of Mr. Moore.

Now follows a quizzical string of fourteen lines, in which the drawling and monotonous tone of the modern sonnet is very successfully ridiculed. The author alludes to the literature of Spain and of France, as furnishing a hint for this ingenious sarcasm; but in one of the British miscellanies of classical poetry, we remember to have read what possibly may have produced the seminal idea in the poet's mind. Yet he is nothing like a plagiarist, but a very lucky imitator.

Page 18 introduces us to three sprightly stanzas, precisely of that character, which the French denominate Vers de Societè, a sort of brilliant trifle, such as the Marquis de la Fare might indite, and resembling a lady's watch, at once light and glittering.

The next article is another joke at the expense of modern versemen. The author treats all coxcombical lovers without the least mercy; and the severity and sharpness of his sarcasms are sufficiently provoked by the excessive silliness of the stupid stanzas which are the butt of his satire. The whining, drawling, and infantine style of many of the moderns appears to our author an object of the most implacable disgust. At the least glimpse of affectation in literature he seems to shrink with a

sort of instinctive abhorrence; and while he thus triumphantly derides the bad taste of pretenders, he asserts, in our opinion, most nobly. and successfully the classical purity of his own. (To be continued.)



Dedicated to DUNCAN MINTOSH, deliverer of more than two thousand French people during the massacre of St. Domingo. Translated from the French of V. M. Garesché.*

Preceptress of celestial birth!

Whose lessons oft the sons of earth

Insultingly deride,

Invoked by me, thy suppliant, deign
To animate my timorous strain,

And my distrustful pencil guide.
Dress'd in white robes, divinely bright,
A seraph's form bursts on the sight,
And dissipates the glooms;

At once the inspirer and the theme
With lighted torch from Wisdom's beam,
HUMANITY my way illumes.

Dazzled by Glory's specious gloss
Let Art her busts of bronze emboss
With many a warrior's name,
Who arm'd against the human race
And blazoning his own disgrace

Mistakes the proper path to Fame.

* See Port Folio, vol. I. p. 293.

Charm'd with a different glory quite,
My Muse shall sketch in tints of light,
Heroic worth complete;

Whilst gladly Gallia's sons assist
A never-fading wreath to twist

Of colours bright and fragrance sweet.
On yonder shore where Ocean's waves,
Responsive to the groans of slaves,
Murmur'd for ages past,

Where Afric's sons are slaves no more
What means that horror stiffening roar

Loud sounding in the hurrying blast?
Now they are free, what drives that crowd
With sword in hand and curses loud,

Among the heaps of dead?

High raging see! yon flames ascend;
Nor longer can that roof defend

The wretches who have thither fled

What less than diabolic hate
Can such foul vengeance instigate
'Gainst every sex and age ?
Will, in this all tremendous hour,
No mortal or immortal pow'r

Stop the mad Ethiop's savage rage?

Chaste witness of each giant crime,
That fill'd up every pause of time,
In those tempestuous days.
Daughter of Memory! must thy hand
Unveil the horrors of that land

To consecrate thy HERO's praise?
There on the blood polluted stage,
Where Carnage with unwearied rage,
Acted through many a scene.
When crowds of victims, doom'd to bleed,
Stoop'd to the blow-with lightning's speed
A single mortal stepp'd between.
Suspended by a flimsy thread,


The sheathless falchion o'er his head
Displays its gleaming edge;

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No threats impede; no fears appal;
He only hears the sufferer's call,

And stands for each a ready pledge. That gold which in yon isle of glooms Peopled in other days, the tombs

Which yawn'd their prey to catch, Now, sent on errands by the wise, Lo! with an angel's swiftness flies

To save the hope-deserted wretch. Here purchased at a liberal price, Behold the threaten'd sacrifice

Safe ransom'd from the block! Redeemed from homicidal arms, There see fair Beauty's softer charms

Rescued from many a ruffian shock.
THEE, who couldst turn aside the blow
(When aim'd by the ferocious foe)
With spirit so benign,

Angel of peace! we own thee sent
M'INTOSH, the benevolent

By Providence's care divine.

O M'Intosh! in language loud,
Whilst thy example bids the crowd

Copy what they behold,

Long, in our breasts, may that same fire Which burns so bright in thee, inspire Hearts now indeed no longer cold.

HUMANITY! to mortals dear,

If incense may detain thee here,

Thine altar long shall smoke;

A wreath not earn'd by deeds of death
Adorns thy hero's brows-a wreath

Of laurel mix'd with civic oak.

How evanescent is the fame

Of those who, with destructive aim,
Pursue Atrides' path!

Disgust and horror never fail

O'er every feeling to prevail,

In sight of all their works of death.

Yes! it is transient as the spark
Which being whirl'd about the dark
Is made to disappear;

Or as the bullet when it quits
The life-destroying tube and splits
The unresisting atmosphere.
But fear not thou, distinguish'd Scot,
Whose rare and most peculiar lot
Has, since thy life began,
Been above Envy's reach to shine,
And with benevolent design

Befriend the family of man.

Think not thy glories e'er shall wane
Whilst those of th' Antonines remain,

For children, ages hence,

Shall with thy honour'd name be told

The proper use of life and gold

Is to display benevolence.

Seminary Range, (Ohio.)



Hark! the Maniac fiercely raging,

Howls his sorrows to the wind,

Naught his frantic grief assuaging,

Nought can ease his phrenzied mind.

View him bounding now with anguish
While his eyes, in terror roll,
Now they soften, now they languish,
Marking thus his varied soul.

Hear the far-fetch'd groans of horror

Issuing from his throbbing breast,

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