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With soul on fire,
The strain of epic praise prolongs,
Or tunes to melancholy songs

His pensive lyre.

'Tis when, as fabled poets say,
The woodland fairies, sylph or fay,

Weave their light dance,
And revel all the live-long night,
But vanish at the earliest light

Of morning's glance.

''Tis when, as Superstition says,
The soul departed oft betrays

Some secret crime,
Holds converse with its mutual heart,
Or leaves Elysium to impart

Some truth sublime.

Oh, still I love thy tranquil light,
Nor noontide sun, nor morning bright,

With thee compare,
For e’en when sorrow swells my breast,
Thy beams can sooth my soul to rest,

Sweet orb! most fair.

FOR THE PORTFOLIO

EPIGRAM.

Written in a volume of Pratt's Gleanings.

Troth, master Pratt, I've toil'd, in vain,

Through these same “Gleanings” more than half; And quit them :—for there's little grain,

But, zooks! a nation deal of chaff.

VARIETY.

The celebrated Constantina Philips, one of the most fascinating courtezans of the age, the envy of one sex, and the admiration of the other, after witnessing the decline of her charms, the perfidy of mankind, and the malice of fortune, died miserably at Kingston in the island of Jamaica, without a single friend to attend her to the grave! What an instructive lesson to imprudent beauty!

Tue following statement may be profitably perused by the managers of some of our American theatres, which to the confusion of the audience, and the disgrace of the comedians, are most pitifully and penuriously light

ed up.

On the opening of Drury Lane Theatre in the year 1765, the audience were agreeably surprised to see the stage illuminated in a clear and strong manner, without the assistance of the rings, hitherto used for that purpose. This is done by the disposition of lights behind the scenes, which cast a reflection forwards, exactly resembling sunshine, greatly to the advantage of the performers, but more to that of the spectators, who have now no longer the air they breathe tainted with the noxious smoke of between two and three hundred candles, nor their sight obstructed by them and the rings supporting them. The French theatre has been long illuminated without those offensive rings, though not to that perfection attained by Mr. Garrick, who, however, is supposed to have taken the first hint from it.

Lord Henry Poulet, says a necrologist, was a captain in the British navy, but whose exploits, while in tha: service, did not entitle him to rank with our naval heroes. He was at the siege of Carthagena in South America, in 1743, where Smollet has consigned his memory to posterity though not in the most flattering colours. He is the captain Whiffle of Roderick Random. The ridiculous republican doctor in Peregrine Pickle was unquestionably Akenside, whose factious sentiments and conversation fully justified the accuracy of Smollet's sketch.

Thomas Campbell, who has immortalized himself by his beautiful poem, The Pleasures of Hope, has lately produced Gertrude of Wyoming, which the reviewer's rank with Thomson's Castle of Indolence, and Spenser's Fairy Queen. They conclude their enlogium in the following style, which must undoubtedly animate an ambitious author.

We close this volume with feelings of regret for its "shortness, and of admiration for the genius of its author. There are but two noble

sorts of poetry; and we think he has given very extraordinary proofs of his talents for both. There is something too, we wili venture to say, in the style of many of his conceptions, which irresistibly impresses us with the conviction, that he can do much greater things than he has hitherto accomplished ; and leads us to regard him, even yet, as a poet of still greater promise than performance. It seems to us, as if the natural force and boldness of his ideas were habitually checked by a certain fastidious timidity, and an anxiety about the minor graces of correct and chastened composition. Certain it is, at least, that his greatest and most lofty flights have been made in those smaller pieces, about which it is natural to think be must have felt least solicitude ; and that he has succeeded most splendidly where he must have been most free from the fear of failure. We wish any praises or exhortations of ours had the power to give him confidence in his own great talents ; and hope earnestly, that he will now meet with such encou. ragement, as may set him above all restraints that proceed from apprehension; and induce him to give free scope to that genius, of which we are persuaded that the world has hitherto seen rather the grace than the richness.

ܪ

North and South Wales, Switzerland and Scotland, are justly described by a majority of travellers, as remarkably cheap countries. An interesting section of France, according to the report of a recent tourist, rivals the above regions in this particular so completely, that an economist, living upon a moderate annuity, ought to make Tours his domicile.

Tours is justly called the garden of France, from the mildness of the climate and from the fertility of the soil. Tasso has very well described Touraine and its inhabitants, in the two following beautiful lines:

La terra molle, lieta, e dilettosa
Simili a sè gli abitator produce.

nance.

Indeed the abundance of all the productions of the earth, the excellency of its fruits, its richness in corn, wines, cattle, game, and poultry, present a view of prosperity, which inspires, no doubt, the inhabitants, with that natural cheerfulness, which is displayed in every counte

The better to support this opinion, I shall only say that being desirous to know, with precision, the expense of living at Tours, I gave a dinner to two friends, and I calculated the expense. We had soup and boulli, a course consisting of perdris aux choux, a hare, a roasted fowl, with vegetables, a plentiful desert of the best fruits in Europe, and two bottles of excellent wine. The whole cost me five shillings English! twenty years have elapsed since, and, in spite of all the miseries of the French revolution, every thing has remained there in exactly the same state, which is owing to that province being in the centre of France, and not subject to the changes and calamities which have desolated the frontiers. I should add that I had an apartInent of seven rooms on a floor, properly furnished, two rooms for servants, and a kitchen, at twenty-five louis, for six months.

A COLLEGE recluse, in that hermitage, his cloister, studious to be married only to immortal verse, and striving to suppress the warmer sensibilities of his soul, thus fervently expresses his creed of celibacy.

“I shall never, never marry. It cannot, must not be. As to affections, mine are engaged as much as they will ever be, and this is one reason why I believe my life will be a life of celibacy. I pray to God that it may

be
So,

and that I may be happy in that state. I love too ardently to make love innocent, and therefore I say farewell to it. Besides, I have another inducement; I cannot introduce a woman into poverty for my love's sake, nor could I well bear to see such a one as I must marry, struggling with narrow circumstances, and sighing for the fortunes of her children! No, I say forbear! and may the example of St. Paul, of St. Gregory, of Nazianzen, and St. Basil support me.”

As the ladies will deem the above little better than heresy, by way of atonement we copy from the same writer, the following animated eulogium upon marriage and its multiplied blessings.

" I hope you will soon find that a wife is a very necessary article of enjoyment in a domesticated state; for how indeed should it be otherwise. A man cannot cook his dinner, while he is employed in earning it. Housekeepers are complete helluones rei familiaris, and not only pick your pockets, but abuse you into the bargain. While a wife, on the contrary, both cooks your dinner, and enlivens it with her society; receives you, after the toils of the day with cheerfulness and smites, and is not only the faithful guardian of your treasury, but the soother of your cares and the alleviator of your calamities. Now, am I not very poetical? But on such a subject, who would not be poetical? A wife! a domestic fireside! the cheerful assiduities of love and tenderness. It would inspire a Dutch burgomaster! and if with all this in your grasp, you shall still choose the pulsare terram piede libero still avoid the inepta copula, still deem it a matter of light regard to be an object of affection and fondness to an amiable and sensible woman, why then you deserve to be a Fellow of a College all your days; to be kicked about in your last illness by a saucy bed maker; and lastly to be put in the ground in your college chapel, followed only by the man who is to be your successor.”

The following hint may prove very salutary to juvenile students, who are too impatient to sit long with nothing before them but the tough meat of literature.

“In reading, I am upon the continual search for improvement. I thirst after knowledge, and though my disposition is naturally idle, I conquer' it when reading a useful book. The plan which I pursued in order to subdue my disinclination to dry books was this, to begin attentively to peruse it, and continue thus one hour every day: the book insensibly by this means becomes pleasing to you; and even when reading Blackstone's Commentaries, which are very dry, I lay down the book with regret.”

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Among the poems of White, England's second Chatterton, we find the following, written when he was a mere boy. Few productions of a maturer age have more merit. The interest which this little poem excites in every breast of sensibility is greatly heightened by the plaintive air which the invalid bard, prescient of his early doom, has given to. his mournful thoughts.

TO THE HERB ROSEMARY.*

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I.
Sweet scented flower, who art wont to bloom

On January's front severe,
And o'er the wintery desert drear

To waft thy waste perfume!
Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now,
And I will bind thee round my brow;

And as I twine the mournful wreath
I'll weave a melancholy song,
And sweet the strain shall be, and long,
The melody of death,

II.
Come, funeral flower, who lov'st to dwell

With the pale corse in lonely tomb,
And throw across the desert gloom

A sweet decaying smell.
Come, press my lips, and lie with me,
Beneath the lowly alder tree,

And we will sleep a pleasant sleep,

And not a Care shall dare intrude,
To break the marble solitude,

So peaceful and so deep.

* The Rosemary buds in January. It is the fiower commonly puc in the coffins of the dead,

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