flammatory than the modern furniture of a circulating library; for in that part of his romance which tells of the loves of Theagenes and Chariclea, the heroine is warmly rebuked by her lover, for bestowing on him, in a frolicksome moment, an innocent kiss.

With respect to literary sacrifices, the present hour exhibits an instance highly injurious to the cause of science; the chymical pursuits of an excellent, an exemplary and highly endowed bishop have been thought, by his brethren, incompatible with episcopal dignity; reluctantly yielding to their suggestions, he burnt his papers and quitted the elaboratory with a sigh; while the coy nymph, who frowns on so many, but whose smiles and favours he had so peculiarly enjoyed, laments that the early object of his tender vows is forsaken; that the calls of religion and the allurements of clerical honour and emolument, have gained an inglorious victory over an attachment once so ardent.

Those who may praise the Grecian, at the expense of the English bishop, must make some allowance for superiority of temptation: a spiritual peerage, with two or three valuable commendams, and a foreshortened prospect of Winchester, Durham, York, or Canterbury, must have operated far more powerfully on the feelings and imagination of an aspiring churchman, than the obscure and unproductive diocese of Tricala in Thessaly.

STANZAS

WRITTEN IN THE SPRING.

Returning Spring, with gladsome ray, Adorns the earth, and smooths the deep; All nature smiles serene and gay,

It smiles, but yet, alas, I weep! But why, why flows th' unbidden tear? When Fate such precious boons hath lent? The lives of those who life endear,

And tho' scarce competence-content.

Sure when no other bliss was mine,

But that which still kind Heav'n bestows;

I fondly thought where Virtue dwelt
That those who scorn'd me Time would
That happy bosom knew no ill;
melt,

And those I love be faultless still :
Enchanting dreams! kind was your art,
That bliss bestow'd without alloy;
Or if soft sadness claim'd a part,

'Twas sadness sweeter far than joy.
Ah! whence the change, that now alarms,
Fills this sad heart and tearful eye;
And conquers the once powerful charms,
Tis harsh Experience! fatal power,
Of Youth, of Hope, of Novelty?

That darkens life's meridian hour;
That clouds the gay, illumin'd sky;

And bids each fairy vision fly.

She paints the scene, how different far, From that which youthful Fancy drew; Shows Joy and Prudence oft at war,

Our woes increas'd, our comforts few; See in her train cold Foresight move, Shunning the rose to 'scape the thorn, And prudence every fear approve,

And Pity harden into scorn.

The glowing tints of Fancy fade,

Life's distant prospects charm no more. Alas! are all my hopes betray'd?

Ah! what can now my bliss restore? Relentless pow'r! at length be just, Thy better skill alone impart; Give caution-but withhold distrust, And guard--but harden not my heart.

ELEGY

ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY.

BY JOHN GREENSHIELDS, ESQ.

Dear to my soul, oh early lost!
Affection's arm was weak to save,
And Friendship's pride, and Virtue's boast,
Have sunk to an untimely grave.

Clos'd, ever clos'd, those speaking eyes,
Where sweetness beam'd, where candour

shone!

And silent that heart-thrilling voice, Which Musick lov'd and call'd her own.

That gentle bosom now is cold,
Where Feeling's vestal splendours glowed;
And crumbling down to common mould,
That heart where love and truth abode.

Yet I behold the smile unfeign'd,
Which doubt dispelled and kindness won;
Yet the soft diffidence, that gain'd
The triumph it appear'd to shun.

Delusion all- -forbear my heart,
These unavailing throbs restrain;
Destruction has perform'd his part,
And Death proclaims thy pangs are vain.

Vain tho' they be this heart must swell
With grief that time shall ne'er efface;
And still with bitter pleasure dwell,
On every virtue, every grace.

Forever lost! I vainly deem'd,
That Heaven my early friend would spare;
And darker as the prospect seem'd,
The more I struggled with Despair.

I said yet a presaging tear
Unbidden rose, and spoke more true-
She still shall live-the unfolding year
Shall banish pain, and health renew.

She yet shall tread the flowery field,
And catch the opening roses' breath;
To watchful Love Disease shall yield,
And Friendship ward the shafts of Death.

Alas! before the violet bloom'd,
Before the snows of winter fled,
Too certain Fate my hopes consum'd,
And she was numbered with the dead.

She died deserving to be mourn'd,
While parted worth a pang can give:
She died-by Heaven's best gifts adorn'd,
While Folly, Falsehood, Baseness, live,

Long in their vileness live secure
The noxious weed, and wounding thorn;-
While snatch'd by violence ere mature,
The lily from her stem is torn.

Flower worthy Heaven-and Heaven alone,
Thee, good and pure, deserved to share-
On earth a stranger, only shown
To teach what angel natures are.

Yet, who shall blame the heart that feels,
When Heaven resumes the good it gave?
Yet, who shall scorn the tear that steals
From Friendship's eye at Virtue's grave?
Friend, Parent, Sister, tenderest names,
May I, as pale at Memory's shrine
Ye pour the tribute anguish claims,
Approach, unbalm'd, and mingle mine?

Long on the joys of vanish'd years,
The glance of sadness shall be cast;
Long, long, the emphatick speech of tears
Shall mourn their bloom forever past.

And Thou! who from the orient day
Return'st, with Hope's gay dreams elate,
Falsely secure, and vainly gay,
Unconscious of the stroke of Fate,

Maria, from the earth removed,
Maria, lovely and beloved,
Has hastened to the realms of air,
To pay an angel worship there.

Ah, she has filed! and never more
Shall time the gentle maid restore,
No more these eyes again discern
The dear companion's kind return,

For she to Death's cold arms has fled,
Maria, sweetest maid is dead!
Oh thou! who for a transient space,
Wert once our plains' transcendant grace,

Nor can our steps approach, with thee,
The holy fanes of Deity,

Nor, on that high and heavenly shore,
Can we with lifted hands adore.

How oft, and oh! how high in fame Is breathed the lost Maria's name, Of manners, gentle and benign, With soul of piety divine.

Let then funereal honours rise,
The gifts we bring, are tears and sighs,
The reasoning, answering Echo hears,
But finds us speechless in our tears.

Seen thus to weep along the way,
We, who this mournful service pay,
View the dear cause with bursting sighs-
Maria, our Maria dies!

To the cold urn we then intrust
These relicks of the fair and just,
And now our trembling voices swell
Thrice raised-Maria dear, farewellj!

Yet, still to earth preserved by Fame,
Long shall endure thy honoured name,
Thy brilliant praise, thy virtues rare,
And all that grace, so heavenly fair.

For The Port Folio.

MR. OLDSCHOOL,

I know not whether you will recognise the Wanderer's signature with

pleasure or disgust. But the attention you once showed a few lines from the same pen, induces me to inclose you the following; and to confess that it will give me pleasure should they meet with the same reception. Though the "feuille morte" is not a favourite colour with you, the garb of real sorrow certainly deserves an indulgence, which is, with propriety, denied to the flaunting weeds of factitious affliction.

A PROSPECT OF FUTURITY.
Tormenta nulla territant,
Quae finiuntur annis.

Soon the fatal hour is coming,
When I leave this mortal life;
Soon I quit my restless roaming,
In this idle scene of strife.

Long, too long, my spirits failing,
Have I borne envenomed pain,
All my efforts unavailing,

Misery's empire to restrain.

From my early youth infested,
With a pang beyond relief,
Scarce an hour my heart has rested,
From the panting throbs of grief.
Now a frenzied fever burning,
In each wide distended vein,
Swells the purple tide returning
To the throne of life again.
Now a deathlike coldness chilling,
Shivers in my bosom deep,
Through each tortured nerve instilling,
Pangs which break my troubled sleep.
Thus, her efforts grief redoubling,

Speeds me to those mansions bless'd
"Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary take their rest."
LURCANIO.

THE KISS.-To

When soft thy yielding hand I press'd,
And strove to wake one tender feeling,
When friendship's softest joys confess'd
My every beating pulse revealing:

The kiss I breath'd upon thy cheek,
Was pure as that by angels given,
When disembodied spirits seek,

In ecstasy their native heaven.

Why then, ah cruel, did'st thou chill,
The streams of bliss around me flowing,
Why, with a frown indignant kill

The raptures in my bosom glowing?

Ah why, unfeeling fair, disdain
To share those transports pure and holy;
To chace the life destroying pain,
Of sad desponding melancholy?

O could'st thou once perceive the joy,
Of calming such a troubled ocean,
Thy heart would hail the sweet employ,
And fondly share such bless'd emotion.
LURCANIO.

THE FAREWELL.
Quis desiderio sit pudor aut modus
Jam cari capitis. Horace..

Too cruel Laura, whence this harsh command!

Thine eye averted, why this mandate

stern,

To dash the plaintive pencil from my hand,

And the soft solace of thy presence shun?

Ah what my crime? that I have dar'd to love,

Yes, with a brother's love, a sacred flame, Thy guardian angel smiling would approve, Nor virtue's self could blush to own the claim.

Thou coulds't not think, I ever basely sought,

To rob thy bosom's lord, or vainly strove, In thy chaste mind to raise one impious thought.

Which darkly pointed to illicit love.

No, thy pure soul could never stoop so low, Could ne'er descend, suspicions false to frame.

Nor could thy piercing mind have failed to know,

A tender friendship was my only aim.

Yet thus, sweet fancy's airy visions fled, Are friendship's beaming rays obscured in gloom,

Now must I bow to earth a frenzied head,

And unlamented seek the silent tomb.

Then be it so; too long I've sought in vain
To cheer with friends the mournful hour
of care,
And ill my haughty spirit brooks disdain,
Or fond affection slighted by the fair.

Be thy stern mandate to the full obey'd,
That I have prized your virtues is too

true;

And since thy friendship's but a fleeting shade,

Adieu, fond, flattering, dear-bought dreams adieu.

Yet will I often breathe an ardent prayer, That every blessing may encompass you, And though I sink oppress'd by dark despair,

May all your hours be tinged with roseate LURCANIO.

Mr. G. examining a witness, asked him what his business was? he answered, "A dealer in old iron." "Then," said the council, "you must of course be a thief." "I don't see," replied the witness, "why a dealer in iron must necessarily be a thief, more than a dealer in brass."

A lady going into Drury-Lane Theatre, one evening that Garrick played, was so roughly jostled by the crowd, that her ruffles were torn off. She entered her box in a perfect fury, which was not a little innotwithstanding the rude usage she had creased by Mr. W. complimenting her, that met with, she was unruffled,

Mr. Hare, formerly the envoy to Poland, had apartments in the same house with Mr. Fox, and, like his friend Charles, had frequent visits from bailiffs. One morning, as he was looking out of his window he observed two of them at the door;"Pray, gentlemen," says he, "are you Fox hunting, or Hare hunting this morning?"

A tanner having invited a supervisor to dine with him, after pushing the bottle about pretty freely, the supervisor took leave, but in crossing the tan-yard, he unfortunately fell into a vat, and called loudly for the tanner's assistance to take him out, but to no purpose: "For," says the tanner, "if I draw a hide without giving twelve hours notice, I shall be exchequerbut I will go and inform the excise

ed;

man."

A physician being one day rallied on the inefficacy of his prescriptions, said, he defied any of his patients to find fault with him. That," answered his friend, "is exactly what Jack Ketch says."

Vol. VI.

For The Port Folio.

TRAVELS.

LETTERS FROM GENEVA AND FRANCE.

Written during a residence of between two and three years in different parts of those countries, and addressed to a lady in Virginia.

LETTER LX.

IF you cast your eyes on the plan of Paris, you will easily find in the north-west corner of it, the street of the Ferme des Mathurins; suppose me setting out thence, and passing by the streets des Mathurins and Caumertin, as far as the Boulevards, crossing them, and proceeding by the street des Capucines, as far as the opening of the Place Vendome on the right is the Place Vendome, from which a street leads into the street St. Honori, on the other side of which a passage has been made through the ruins of the CapuchinChurch and Convent, to a door which opens into the Gardens of the Thuileries-near this door, was the extremity of the riding school, where the Convention sat when Louis XVI took shelter on the 10th of August, with his family; and it was

No. 26.

here that he was afterwards so unjustly condemned to death. Another opening has been made to the left, from the spot I supposed myself arrived at, in the street des Capucines, which communicates with the Boulevards, over the place which was formerly covered by the Convent and Garde of the Capucine Nuns-they went barefooted, lived upon vegetables, and had no reliance but on the charity of the pious. At the suppression of the religious houses, a part of their Convent was converted into a manufactory of assignats, and millions continued to flow thence, until a pound sterling was equivalent to 18,000 livres; the other parts were let out for taverns and retail stores, for puppet shows and panoramas, and for the Amphitheatre of Franconi, while the idle boys of the neighbourhood, found amusement in what remained of the gardens-a few steps along the Rue des Capucines (I wish you would allow me, for the future, to say Rue, though as an Englishman in one of Foote's plays observes, it is a very strange way of calling a street) a few steps then, along the Rue des Capucines, would bring one.