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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.)
FOR THE PORT FOLIO.
ODE TO HUMANITY.
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
Invoked by me, thy suppliant, deign
And my distrustful pencil guide.
At once the inspirer and the theme
Dazzled by Glory's specious gloss
Mistakes the proper path to Fame.
* See Port Folio, vol. I. p. 293.
Charm'd with a different glory quite,
Whilst gladly Gallia's sons assist
Of colours bright and fragrance sweet.
Where Afric's sons are slaves no more
Loud sounding in the hurrying blast?
Among the heaps of dead?
High raging see! yon flames ascend;
The wretches who have thither fled
What less than diabolic hate
Stop the mad Ethiop's savage rage?
Chaste witness of each giant crime,
To consecrate thy HERO's praise?
The sheathless falchion o'er his head
No threats impede; no fears appal;
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.
Angel of peace! we own thee sent
By Providence's care divine.
O M'Intosh! in language loud,
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
Of laurel mix'd with civic oak.
How evanescent is the fame
Of those who, with destructive aim,
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
Or as the bullet when it quits
Befriend the family of man.
Think not thy glories e'er shall wane
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.)
FOR THE PORT FOLIO-THE MANIAC.
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
Hear the far-fetch'd groans of horror
Issuing from his throbbing breast,