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The old Maid's Prayer to Diana.

ATTRIBUTED TO LADY ELEANOR BUTLER,

One of the Ladies of Llandgollyn.

Since thou and the stars, my dear Goddess decree
That old maid as I am, an old maid I must be,
Oh! hear the petition I offer to thee;

For to bear it must be my endeavour.

From the grief of my friendship all drooping around,
Till not one that I loved in my youth can be found;
From the legacy-hunters that near us abound,
Diana, thy servant deliver!

From the scorn of the young, and the flouts of the gay,
From all the trite ridicule rattled away

By the pert ones who know nothing wiser to say—
Or a spirit to laugh at them, give her.
From repining at fancied neglected desert,
Or vain of a civil speech, bridling alert,
From finical niceness, or slatternly dirt,
Diana, thy servant deliver!

From over solicitous guarding of pelf,

From humour uncheck'd, that most obstinate elf,
From every unsocial attention to self,

Or ridiculous whim whatsoever

From the vapourish freaks, hypocritical airs,

Apt to sprout in a brain that's exempted from cares,
From impertinent meddling in other's affairs,
Diana, thy servant deliver!

From the erring attachment of desolate souls,
From the love of Spadille, or of Matador boles,
Or of lap-dogs, or parrots, and monkeys, and owls,
Be they ne'er so uncommon or clever;

But chief from the love with all loveliness flown,
Which makes the dim eye condescend to look down
On some ape of a fop, or some owl of a clown,
Oh! Diana, thy servant deliver,

From spleen at beholding the young more caress'd,
From pettish asperity tartly express'd,

From scandal, detraction, and every such pest,
From all, thy true servant deliver!
Nor let satisfaction depart from her lot,
Let her sing if at ease, and be patient if not,
Be pleas'd if remembered, content if forgot,
Till the Fates her slight thread shall dissever!

For the Port Folio.

Sweet and Sour.

I love to rise at morning dawn,

When fragrant flowers their sweets unfold,
To trip it o'er the dewy lawn,

But then I always catch a cold!

I love with Mary by my side,

When dusty roads prevent our walking,
To start upon a pleasant ride,

But then my horse is always baulking!
I love to skim along the lake,

And watch my sail-boat's rippled track,
But soon the tide arrests the wake,

And then-I have to row her back!

I love in sultry summer's day,

When sleep sits heavy on my eyes,
To lay me down and nap away-
But then-I'm eaten up with flies!

I love the cold delightful glass,

Of sweet ice-cream, and iced sweet cake;

But often eating it alas!

My head is always sure to ache!

I love to taste the bottle's joy,
The brandy's ruby tint to view;

But even this has its alloy,

I drink too much-and then I'm blue!

Wrightsborough, Ga.

EPIGRAMS.

Cease, fairest Julia, lovely railer, cease,
Of Edith's faults the number to increase;
Into her failings with less rigour pry,
Nor view her beauties with so keen an eye.
"Tis clearly seen, and you'll allow 'tis true,
Her greatest fault is not resembling you.

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Miss Wright's Views of Society and Manners in America, finds no quarter among the critics of her own country. They are incensed and disgusted at the malevolence which is betrayed by the lady when she speaks of the land of her birth. The Quarterly Review attributes the book to one of those wretched hirelings, who, under the assumed name of travellers, supply the radical press with the means of mischief. Ridiculous and extravagant as may be some of her panegyrics on the government and people of these states, and detestable as the feelings are, which she manifests towards her own country, we are not apprehensive that her VIEWS will do any harm at home. What the English suffer is felt too acutely in every man's business and bosom to need a prompter in Miss Wright, and the advantages, by which these evils are balanced, are no less evident.

Mr. Thomas M. Palmer, an accurate and industrious Printer of this city, has completed a very ingenious chart of "the constitutions of the United States." We have no doubt that the author has taken the proper pains to secure the praise of fidelity to his work.

Mr. William Henry Ireland, who made himself pretty notorious, some years ago, by his "genuine remains" of Shakespeare, for which he will never be forgiven by the English critics who were deceived by his forgeries, has lately published a singular tissue of absurdity, under the title-" France for the Last Seven years; or the Bourbons." He represents Napoleon weeping over the duke of Enghein,-declares that the Dauphin is still alive-and attributes the death of Ney, the double traitor, to the Duke of Wellington's jealousy! In his dedication he thus addresses the Spaniards.

"Cortez! Spaniards! hear ME: and may the lesson I inculcate sink deep into your hearts. I would warn you of the Bourbons: your king is of the stock: therefore let the following unvarnished truths stand forever recorded as foremost in your remembrances, which" (remembrances?) "demonstrate the policy of that Royal House from the year 1789 to 1822.”

The indefatigable pen of Mr. Southey is employed upon a life of the Protector.

From both public and private sources we learn that our countryman, Geoffrey Crayon, continues to enjoy the friendship and the munificent patronage of the British people. He is a good humoured gentleman, who sees every thing about him with a disposition to be pleased; and therefore no man is better entitled to chant the words of the old song "My mind to me a kingdom is." His varied excellencies have been extolled by all parties:-even the radicals of the Examiner, and the whigs of the Edinburg, have for once exchanged the whine of complaint for the notes of praise.

The memoirs of the life and writings of Lord Byron, with anecdotes of some of his cotemporaries, is a contemptible catch-penny.

The Rev. A. Bishop has published "Unitarianism a Perversion of the Gospel of Christ." On this subject we should suppose that Dr. Miller's "Letters" had left nothing further to be said. His book is emphatically a replique sans reponse.

Halidon Hill, from the pen of Sir Walter Scott, has excited great attention in the critical fraternity of England. It is extravagantly praised by some writers, whilst others condemn it as altogether unworthy of the distinguished author. We do not agree with either class of these critics. The character of Swinton is sketched with the hand of genius; that of Gordon is too feminine for an aspiring young knight, and the Regent is represented in such a light as to inspire the reader with contempt. He has no sense of honour or feeling in his composition. The dialogue is feebly conducted, and if it were not for some animated descriptions of "the tented field," we should seek in vain for the spirit-stirring strain of Sir Walter's muse, and that richness of invention which irradiates the dialogues of the Waverley novels with a perpetual sunshine of wit and humour.

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The British Review speaks in the following manner of Graydon's Memoirs, which we have repeatedly recommended to public notice; We now lay aside this piece of auto-biography, with our best thanks to the unknown author for the amusement and information he has afforded us. He has spoken some truths, which, though not likely to be very popular among his countrymen, are not on that account, the less useful. His candid spirit towards this country deserves our acknowledgments. Happily, circumstances have so greatly changed since his volume was first published that we would hope some of his remarks will soon become ob

solete. The despot of Europe is no more; England and France are no longer embattled in arins, and even their policy is, or ought to be, scarcely at variance. The same pacific relation exists between us and our transmarine descendants in the new world. MAY NOTHING SHAKE THIS MUTUAL AMITY!* Let the United States be content with their own peace and prosperity; let them wisely concentrate their union, and extend their commerce, and promote their rising agriculture and manufactures, without mixing in the affray of European contests, or increasing their already too widely stretched territories by an ill-advised ambition. If they are ambitious, let their ambition take a nobler range, let them exhibit to Europe a pattern of virtuous dignity and unperturbed peace; let them aspire above the artifices of foreign or intestine faction; let them expend their energies in promoting the morals, and education, and piety of every hamlet in the Union, and not content even with this, let them stretch northward and westward a friendly hand, not to destroy, or melt away, the pacific aborigines of their territories, but to extend among them the arts of civilized life, and the blessings of that holy religion, which their own ancestors carried with them from these happy shores!"

A complete translation into French of Dr. Johnson's Lives of the Poets, is now, for the first time, printing in Paris. The strong and massy sense of the moralist, arrayed in the light idiom of the gay nation, will certainly offer a curious speculation to the student. We are pleased to observe the eagerness with which the sound literature of all parts of Europe is sought, and, by means of translations, carried to the closet of every reader. In proportion as this useful intercourse is cultivated, national prejudices will disappear, and public writers become ashamed of ministering to the worst passions of human nature by partial and exaggerated exhibitions of national depravity.

*An aspiration in which the critics will be joined by every man of sound head, and sound heart, in both countries. Ed. P. F.

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