Chapter IV: Letter LXI: Of the Sorrows of Werter, Versified (1)

Though Homer fired my youthful breast,
My tender fancy deep imprest,
Ere grief had made me smart:
Yet of him Ossian has ta'en place;
His woe-fraught strains, with solemn grace,
Now occupy my heart.

To what a world of direful kind,
The Bard illustrious leads my mind,
'Midst heaths and wilds to stray;
Where the fierce whirlwinds sweep the plain;
Where the moon feebly holds her reign;
And ghosts elude the day.

To hear from off the mountains steep,
The plaintive sounds, from caverns deep,
Of water's dismal roar:
To hear the maiden's doleful cries,
That on her warrior's tomb-stone dies,
Who her did much adore.

I meet this bard of silver hair,
He wanders in the valley drear,
Whilst grief his mind consumes:
His father's footsteps tries to trace
In vain, for time does them efface;
He only finds their tombs.

The pale moon sinks, amid the waves,
He contemplates her as she laves
Her tresses in the sea:
Reflects on time for ever gone,
When danger pleased and spurred him on,
Till every foe did flee.

When he returned on evening grey,
The moon shone on his Bark of prey,
His trophies won, displayed:
When by his countenance, I find
Deep-rooted sorrow fill his mind,
That youth so soon decayed.

When I perceive that glory bright
To fade so soon, to sink in night,
And tottering to the grave:
And when around he casts an eye
On the cold earth, where he must die,
The fate of e'en the brave.--

The traveller will come, he cries,
He'll come who saw my beauty rise,
And anxiously enquire;
Where is the bard and warrior gone,
Where is Fingal's illustrious son,
Whither does he retire.

Then searching o'er the field and mead,
He lightly on my tomb shall tread,
But me he ne'er shall find:
Then I, my friend, like a true knight,
My sword shall draw, my prince to right,
And ease his troubled mind.

And this atchieved, with grief opprest,
Could plunge it deep in my own breast,
And eager for him bleed:
To follow him now half divine,
Hero of the Fingalian line,
Who by my hand was freed.

_Universal Asylum and Columbian Mag._, VI-50, Jan. 1791, Phila.

[Goethe, _Die Leiden des jungen Werthers_. Letter dated Oct. 12, 1772.]

AMYNTAS. [a].
A Pastoral Fragment.

[Prose translation.]

_Mass. Mag._, IV-351 June 1792, Boston.

[S. Gessner, _Amyntas_. "Bei fruehem Morgen kam der arme Amyntas...." Idyllen, Erste Folge.]

PASTORAL ECLOGUE.
THYRSIS AND CHLOE.

[Prose translation.]

_Mass. Mag._, V-195, Apr. 1793, Boston.

[S. Gessner, _Thyrsis_.

_New Idylles By Gessner._ Trans. by W. Hooper, M.D., 1776, London. P. 25, _Thyrsis_.]

AMYNTAS.
A Pastoral Fragment from Gessner.

_N. Y. Mag. or Lit. Repos._, IV-584, Oct 1793, N. Y.

[Also in _Mass. Mag._, IV-351, June 1792, Boston.]

THE MORNING.
BY HALLER.

The moon retires--Nature's dark veil no more obscures the air and earth--the twinkling stars disappear and the reviving warmth of the sun awakens all creatures.

Already are the heavens adorned with its purple hues and its sparkling sapphires. Aurora, fair harbinger of the day, graciously dispenses smiles; and brightness of the roses which wreath her forehead dissipates the mists of night.

The flaming of the world advances from the eastern gate, triumphantly treading on the shining splendours of the milky way; clouds covered with Heaven's rubies, oppose him with their lightning, and a flame of gold spreads itself around the horizon.

The roses open to salute the sun with genial dews; and the lilies exhale delicious odours from their sattin'd leaves.

The vigilant hind flies to the labour-giving field; he guides with careful pleasure the earth-piercing plough; in the meantime his ears are delighted by the lightsome band of minstrels, which sweeten the air and the woods with their melodious notes. Thus doth benignant Heaven lighten the heavy pressure of toilful industry! O Creator! all that I see are the effects of thy power! thou art the soul of nature and doth actuate every part! the stated periods and glittering appearance of yon orbs, and the unquenched fires of the revolving sun, proceed from thy hands, and boast thy impression!

Thou illumest the solemn moon to guide us amid darkness; thou dost lend wings to the unseen wind, and by night thou dost enrich the earth with fruitful dews.

From the dust thou hast formed yon proud-topt mountain; from sand hast thou produced metals; thou hast spread yon firmament, and thou hast clothed it with clouds, that it may remain unpolluted by the exploring eye of man.

Thou hast wonderfully formed the veins of that fish which causes rivers to overflow, and which makes whirlpools, and spreads devastation with the flappings of his tail. Thou hast built the elephant, and thou hast animated its enormous bulk, that it resembles a moving mountain. Thou supportest yon splendid arches of the heavens upon the vast void; and with thy word thou hast produced from chaos this wondrous universe, filling it with order, and giving it no other limit than its grandeur.

Great God! created spirits are too insignificant to raise the glory of thy works! We lose ourselves in their immensity. To tell them one must resemble thyself on infinity. Humbly contented, I remain in my own prescribed circle. Incomprehensible Being! thy resplendent glories blind the presuming eye of man! and He from whom the earth receives its being, needs not the praises of a worm!

_N. Y. Mag. or Lit. Repos._, IV-720, Dec. 1793, N. Y.

[Albrecht von Haller, _Morgen-Gedanken_, Den. 25, Merz, 1725.]

MORNING.
From Haller.

_Phila. Minerva_, I, May 30, 1795, Phila.

[Also in _N. Y. Mag. or Lit. Repos._, IV-720, Dec. 1793, N. Y.]

TRANSLATED POETRY.
For the New-York Magazine.

THE ZEPHYRS, AN IDYL. [a].
(Translated from the German of Gesner, by W. Dunlap.)

[Prose translation.]

_N. Y. Mag. or Lit. Repos._, VI-760, Dec. 1795, N. Y.

[S. Gessner, _Die Zephyre_.]

TRANSLATED POETRY.
For the New-York Magazine.

FIRST IDYL OF GESNER.
(Translated from the German by Wm. Dunlap.)

DAPHNE--CHLOE.

[Prose translation.]

_N. Y. Mag. or Lit. Repos._, n. s., p. 49, Jan. 1796, N. Y.

[S. Gessner, _Daphne. Chloe._ "Sieh, schon steigt der Mond hinter dem schwarzen Berg...." First idyl--Zweite Folge, 1772.]

THE OLD MAN.
Translated from the German of Gessner.

_Phila. Minerva_, I, Jan. 16, 1796, Phila.

[Also in _The Royal Amer. Mag._, p. 14, Jan. 1774, Boston.]

FABLE
Imitated from the German of Gellert.

While a nightingale chanted in the midst of a forest, the neighbouring hills and vallies were delighted with her exquisite melody. Every wild bird forgot to sing, listening with fond admiration. Aurora tarried behind the hill, attending to her musical cadences; and Philomel, in honor of the goddess, warbled with unusual sweetness. At that she paused, and the lark took the opportunity of thus addressing her; 'Your music meets with just approbation; the variety, the clearness, and tenderness of the notes are inimitable; nevertheless, in one circumstance I am entitled to a preference. My melody is uninterrupted; and every morning is ushered with my gratulations. Your song on the contrary, is heard but seldom; and, except during a few weeks in the Summer, you have no claim to peculiar attention.' 'You have mentioned,' replied the Nightingale, 'the very cause of my superior excellence. I attend to, and obey, the dictates of Nature. I never sing but by her incitements; nor even yield to importunate, but uninspired inclination.'

_Phila. Minerva_, II, Apr. 23, 1796, Phila.

[C. F. Gellert, _Die Nachtigall and die Lerche_.

Free translation of the first stanza; the second, containing the application of the fable, omitted.]

A FABLE
Imitated from the German of Gellert.

Clarine loved her husband with sincere affection--for he was a husband to her mind. Their desires and aversions were the same. It was Clarine's study to be agreeable, and by unwearied attention, to anticipate her husband's wishes. "Such a wife," says my male reader, who has thoughts of matrimony, "such a wife would I desire."--And such a wife mayst thou obtain.--Clarine's husband fell sick--a dangerous illness.--"No hope" said the physician, and shook his awful whig. Bitterly wept Clarine. "O death!" she cried, "O death! might I prefer a petition? Spare my husband; let me be the victim in his stead." Death heard, appeared, and "What," said the grim spectre, "is thy request?" "There," said Clarine sore dismayed, "There he lies; overcome with agony he implores thy speedy relief."

_The Nightingale_, I-199, June 16, 1796, Boston.

[C. F. Gellert, _Die zaertliche Frau_. The introductory stanza not translated.]

THE LASS OF FAIR WONE.
From the German of Buerger.

_Phila. Minerva_, II, Dec. 17, 1796, Phila.

[G. A. Buerger, _Des Pfarrers Tochter von Taubenhain_.

W. Taylor of Norwich, _The Lass of Fair Wone_ in the _Monthly Magazine_, I-223, Apr. 1796, London. Also in Taylor's _Historic Survey of German Poetry_, 3 vols., 1830, London. II-32, under the title _The Parson's Daughter_.]

VIRTUE REWARDED:
A PASTORAL TALE.
(From the German of Gesner).

[Prose translation.]

_Phila. Minerva_, II, Dec. 17, 1796, Phila.

[S. Gessner, _Daphne_. W. Hooper, _New Idylles by Gessner_, p. 33, _Glicera_.]

MISCELLANEOUS.
By FERDINAND WALLHIME.

THE WISH
(in imitation of Matthison).

Once more could I wish, ere yet my blest spirit
Sunk in Elysium, peaceful mansion of shades!
That spot t' revisit, where Infancy
In dreams aerial, play'd 'round my brows.

The shrub of my country, whose branches o'erspread
The cool nest of the patridge, waves gentler my friend,
Than all the gay forests of laurel
O'er the dust of the world's mighty conq'rors.

The streamlet of that mead, where in childhood
I cull'd early violets, more musically murmurs
'Midst the alders once rear'd by my sire,
Than the silver Blandusian fountain.

The hill, on which swains, in bands youthful and gay
Danc'd 'round the trunk of the sweet blossom'd poplar,
With greater rapture inspir'd my heart,
Than Alps dazzling heights in roset glimm'ring.

Therefore could I wish, ere yet my blest spirit
Sunk in Elysium, peaceful mansion of shades
That spot t' revisit, where infancy
In dreams aerial, play'd 'round my brows.

Then may death's smirking genius, of a sudden,
Extinguish life's taper, well pleas'd I'll hasten
To Xenophon and Plato's musing shade
And to Anacreon's myrtle tufted bow'r.

_Lit. Museum, or Mo. Mag._, p. 47, Jan. 1797, West-Chester.

[F. Matthisson, _Wunsch an Salis_. "Noch einmal moecht' ich, eh in die Schattenwelt...."]

BENEVOLENCE.
A FABLE.
Imitated from the German of Gellert.

O'er Howard's tomb soft Pity weeps,
Bewailing still her favourite's fate;
And thence the Muse invokes her aid
Of kindred merit to relate.

Like him to sympathize with woe,
Like him to heal the broken mind;
And rear Affliction's drooping head,
Belinda's generous soul inclin'd.

But want of fortune oft, too oft,
Her charitable views withstood;
For what, alas! avails the will,
Without the power of doing good?

Her uncle dies and leaves his niece
A clear two thousand pounds per ann.
"Ah! now," she cries, "I'm blest indeed,
"I'll help the poor where'er I can."

Scarce had she spoke, when, at her door
An old decrepid wretch appears;
Bent on his crutch he begs an alms,
And moves her pity with his tears.

Belinda felt for his distress,
She heav'd a sigh and shook her head;
Then to this aged son of woe
Stretch'd forth a--crust of mouldy bread.

_Amer. Universal Mag._, I-28, Jan. 2, 1797, Phila.

[C. F. Gellert, _Die Gutthat_.]

PRO PATRIA MORI
From the German of Buerger.

For virtue, freedom, human rights, to fall,
Beseems the brave: it is a Saviour's death.
Of heroes only the most pure of all,
Thus with their heart's blood tinge the battle-heath.

And this proud death is seemliest in the man
Who for a kindred race, a country bleeds:
Three hundred Spartans from the shining van
Of those, whom fame in this high triumph leads.

Great is the death for a good prince incurr'd;
Who wields the sceptre with benignant hand:
Well may for him the noble bare his sword,
Falling he earns the blessings of a land.

Death for a friend, parent, child, or her we love,
If not so great, is beauteous to behold:
This the fine tumults of the hearts approve;
It is the walk to death unbought of gold.

But for mere majesty to meet a wound--
Who holds that great or glorious, he mistakes:
That is the fury of the pamper'd hound,
Which envy, anger, or the whip, awakes.

And for a tyrant's sake to seek a jaunt
To hell ----'s a death which only hell enjoys;
Where such a hero falls--the gibbet plant,
A murderer's trophy, and a plunderer's prize.

_Amer. Universal Mag._, I-141, Jan. 23, 1797, Phila.

[G. A. Buerger, _Die Tode_.]

THE LASS OF FAIR WONE.
From the German of Buerger.

_Amer. Universal Mag._, I-211, Feb. 6, 1797, Phila.

[Also in _Phila. Minerva_, II, Dec. 17, 1796, Phila.]

THE BROKEN PITCHER.
From the German of Gesner.

[Prose translation.]

_The Key_, I-69, Mar. 10, 1798, Frederick Town.

[S. Gessner, _Der zerbrochene Krug_.]

LEONORA. [a].
A Ballad from Buerger.

The following translation (made some years since) of a celebrated piece, of which other versions have appeared, and are now on the point of appearing, possesses so much peculiar charm and intrinsic merit, that we are happy in being permitted to present it to our readers.

[The translation follows.]

_Weekly Mag._, I-221, Mar. 17, 1798, Phila.

[G. A. Buerger, _Lenore_.

Wm. Taylor of Norwich, _Lenora_.

_Mo. Mag. and British Register_, I-135, Mar. 1769, London. M. G. Lewis, _Tales of Wonder_, 1801, London.

The translation appeared anonymously in the above mentioned, but was afterwards printed with several changes under the title _Ellenore_ in Taylor's _Historic Survey of German Poetry_, II-40.

Also in _Tales of Terror and Wonder_, collected by M. G. Lewis. With an introduction by Henry Morley, 1887, London. Cf. Preface.]

TO A LITTLE CHARMER.
From the German of Lessing.

Come kiss me, little Charmer,
Nor suppose a kiss can harm you;
Kisses given, kisses taken,
Cannot now your fears awaken;
Give me then a hundred kisses
Number well those sweetest blisses,
And, on my life, I tell you true,
Tenfold I'll repay what's due,
When to snatch a kiss is bolder
And my fair one's ten years older.

_Weekly Mag._, II-30, May 5, 1798, Phila.

[G. E. Lessing, _An eine kleine Schoene_.]

For the Weekly Magazine.

THE SWALLOW. A FABLE.
(From the German of Lessing.)

Believe me, my friend, the great world is not suited to philosophers or poets. We are insensible to their real worth; and they, alas! are often weak enough to exchange it for a mere nothing.

In early ages the swallow was as tuneful and melodious a bird as the nightingale; but she soon became weary of residing in solitary groves to excite the admiration of none but the industrious peasant and the innocent shepherdess. She left her humble friends, and removed into town. What was the consequence? As the inhabitants of the city had not leisure to attend to her divine song, she gradually forgot it, and in its stead learned to--build.

_Weekly Mag._, II-82, May 12, 1798, Phila.

[G. E. Lessing, _Die Schwalbe_.]

THE CHASE.
By Gottfried Augustus Buerger.

_Weekly Mag._, II-413, July 28, 1798, Phila.

[G. A. Buerger, _Der wilde Jaeger_.

Sir Walter Scott, _The Wild Huntsman_. Published with _William and Helen_ in 1796 and entitled _The Chase_.

M. G. Lewis, _Tales of Wonder_. Entitled _The Wild Huntsmen_. By Walter Scott.

Cf. note to _Leonora_, in the _Weekly Mag._, I-221, Mar. 17, 1798.]

THE ERL-KING.
(The Original is by Goethe, Author of Werter.)

Who is it that rides through the forest so fast,
While night frowns around him, while chill roars the blast?
The father, who holds his young son in his arm,
And close in his mantle has wrapped him up warm.

--"Why trembles my darling? Why shrinks he with fear?"
"Oh father! my father! the Erl-king is near!
The Erl-king, with his crown and his beard long and white!"
--"Oh! thine eyes are deceived by the vapours of night."

--"If you will, dear baby, with me go away,
I will give you fine clothes; we will play a fine play;
Fine flowers are growing, white, scarlet and blue,
On the banks of yon river, and all are for you."

--"Oh father! my father! and dost thou not hear
What words the Erl-king whispers low in mine ear?"--
--"Now hush thee, my darling, thy terrors appease:
Thou hear'st 'midst the branches when murmurs the breeze."

--"If you will, dear baby, with me go away,
My daughter shall tend you so fair and so gay;
My daughter, in purple and gold who is drest,
Shall nurse you, and kiss you, and sing you to rest."

--"Oh father! my father! and dost thou not see?
The Erl-king and his daughter are waiting for me?"
--"Now shame thee, my dearest! 'tis fear makes thee blind:
Thou seest the dark willows which wave in the wind."--

--"I love you! I dote on that face so divine!
I must and will have you, and force makes you mine!"
--"My father! my father! Oh hold me now fast!
He pulls me! he hurts, and will have me at last!"--

The father, he trembled; he doubled his speed:
O'er hills and through forests he spurred his black steed:
But when he arrived at his own castle-door,
Life throbbed in the sweet baby's bosom no more.

_Weekly Mag._, III-93, Aug. 18, 1798, Phila.

[Goethe, _Erlkoenig_.

M. G. Lewis, _Tales of Wonder_, 1801, London.

The above text, however, is taken from Lewis' _Ambrosio, or the Monk_ (1795), which has several variants. The first Amer. reprint of _The Monk_ was taken from the fourth British edition, 1798, Phila. Cf. Preface.]

THE ERL-KING'S DAUGHTER.
(The Original is Danish; but I read it in a German Translation.)

_Weekly Mag._, III-94, Aug. 18, 1798, Phila.

[J. G. Herder, _Erlkoenigs Tochter_ in the Fourth Book (_Nordische Lieder_) of _Stimmen der Voelker in Liedern_. Trans. from the Danish.

M. G. Lewis, _Tales of Wonder_ and _The Monk_.

Cf. note to _The Erl-King_.

The original is in the _Kiampe Viiser_.]

AMYNTAS, A PASTORAL TALE. [b]
(From the German of the celebrated Gessner.)

[Prose translation.]

_Weekly Mag._, III, 347, 358, Mar. 23, 30, 1799, Phila.

[S. Gessner, _Mycon_. In the French version, entitled _Amyntas_.

W. Hooper, _New Idylles_, p. 18.]

FRIENDSHIP
Translated from the German.
Set to music by Russ.

Sure not to life's short span confin'd,
Shall sacred friendship glow;
Beyond the grave the ardent mind,
Its best delights shall know.

Blest scenes! where ills no more annoy,
Where heav'n the flame approves;
Where beats the heart to nought but joy,
And ever lives and loves.

There friendship's matchless love shall shine,
(To hearts like ours so dear!)
There angels own its pow'r divine;
Its native home is there!

For here below, tho' friendship's charm
Its soft delights display;
Yet souls like ours, so touch'd, so warm,
Still pant for brighter day!

_Phila. Repos._, I, Appendix (Nov. 15, 1800-Nov. 7, 1801), Phila.

[The above appeared in the Musical Appendix.]

ORIGINAL POETRY.
LYCAS; OR THE INVENTIONS OF GARDENS.
Attempted from the Idyls of Gessner.

The stormy winter drives us from the green,
Nor leaves a flower to decorate the scene;
The winds arise--with sweep impetuous blow,
And whirl around the flakes of fleecy snow;
Yet shall imagination fondly rise
And gather fair ideas as she flies:
The images that blooming spring pourtrays,
The sweets that bask in summer's sultry rays,
The rich and varied fruits of autumn's reign
Shall ope their treasures, in a bounteous train;
Of these the best, with choicest care display'd,
Shall form a wreath, for thee, my lovely maid!
So the fond shepherd, for his darling fair,
Culls beauteous flowers to deck her flowing hair.
The garden's rise shall grace my humble strains;
If Daphne smiles 'twill well repay my pains!
'Twas, in the morn of youth, a shepherd found
This happy art to decorate the ground;
This is the spot, the enamour'd Lycas cries,
Lycas the young, the gentle and the wise;
Under this elm, fair Adelaide first gave
The kiss of love to her devoted slave!
Whilst he, in am'rous accents told his flame,
With beating heart and agitated frame!
Here faint and weak my charmer sank to rest,
On the warm pillow of my panting breast!
"Lycas," with interrupting sobs, she said,
"Take the soft secret of an am'rous maid:
Of all the swains that strive this heart to move,
'Tis Lycas only Adelaide can love!
Ye peaceful groves--ye solitary springs--
To you I oft confess'd my secret stings!
And ye, sweet flowers bear witness to the truth
Of the soft flame that prey'd upon my youth;
Oft have your leaves that round me clust'ring grew,
Drank my warm tears as drops of morning dew."
My heart is full--what transport is my own!
For, in my bosom, love has fixed his throne.
Sacred to love this spot shall ever stand
Deck'd with luxuriant beauties by my hands.
Under this elm, the shadiest of the trees,
The rose shall pour its odours on the breeze;
Around its trunk the woodbine too shall rear
Its white and purple flowers aloft in air.
The treasures of the spring shall hither flow;
The piony by the lily here shall blow.
Over the hills, and through the meads I'll roam,
And bring the blooming spoils in rapture home:
The purple violet, the pink shall join,
The od'rous shrubs shall all their sweets combine,
Of these a grove of balmy sort shall rise,
And, with its fragrant blossoms, scent the skies!
Then round this little favour'd isle, I'll bring,
With gentle windings, yonder silver spring;
While eglantine and thorn shall interpose
Their hedge, a rampart 'gainst invading foes--
Lest sheep and rambling goats the place annoy,
And spoil the promise of our future joy.
Oh then approach, ye favour'd of the loves!
Come and dwell here ye gentle turtle doves!
On yonder spreading branches, perch'd on high,
With coos repeated greet the lover's sigh!
Then sportive sparrows round the roses play,
And sing, delighted, from the bending spray!
Ye butterflies, arrayed in coats of gold,
On beds of roses fluttering revels hold!
Here rest, upon the lily's waving stalk,
And add new beauty to the evening walk.
Then shall the shepherd passing, free from care,
When zephyr spreads the perfumes thro' the air,
Inhale the fragrance, and with transport cry,
What hallow'd place is this? what goddess nigh?
Does Venus own this gay, enchanted place?
Or has Diana, wearied in the chace,
Chosen a spot where choicest sweets abound,
To slumber on the consecrated ground?

P. D.

Port Folio, I-54, Feb. 14 1801, Phila.

[S. Gessner, _Lycas, oder die Erfindung der Gaerten_.]

For the Port Folio.
MYRTILLO.
An idyl, attempted from the German of Gessner.

At peaceful eve, Myrtillo sought the lake,
Whilst the moon's beams upon its bosom played;
The silent tract, illumin'd by its rays,
The nightingale's enchanting tender note,
Had held him bound in rapture's soothing trance.
At length, arous'd, he homeward took his steps,
And in the verdant bower, where clust'ring vines
Before his lonely dwelling formed a porch
Of simple structure, deeply slumbering found
His venerable parent--his grey head
Supported by his arm, while through the leaves
The moon-beams pour'd their lustre on his face.
With arms enfolded, and with swelling heart,
He stood before his father--long he stood,
His pious eyes fix'd fondly on the sage,
Then rais'd them, swimming with his filial tears,
And thro' the illumin'd leaves look'd up to heaven,
Whilst grateful drops roll'd down his moisten'd cheek.
Oh thou! at length he cried, whom, next the gods,
I reverence, my father--ah, how soft
Thy peaceful slumbers! Of the just and good
How placid is the sleep! Thy tottering steps
Were, doubtless, hither bent, in silent prayer
To spend the hour of eve; but, at thy task
Of duty, slumber seiz'd thee, whilst, for me,
Thy prayer of love was wing'd into the skies,
How happy is my lot! the fav'ring gods
Must hear thy fond petition; else, why stands
Our cot secure, amid the branches, bent
With ripening fruit? why, else, such blessings shower'd
Upon our healthy, fast increasing herd?
Upon the golden produce of our fields?
When oft the tear of joy bedew'd thy cheek,
To see me, anxious, cherish and support
Thy feeble age; when, towards the vault of heaven,
You turn'd your swimming eyes, and blest your son;
Ah! then, what words his blessings could express!
My bosom swell'd with transport, and the tears
O'erflow'd my glowing cheeks--
When yester morn, reclining on my arm,
You left our cot to feel the quickening beams
Of the warm sun, and saw about thee sport
The frolic herd, the trees, with fruit o'ercharg'd,
And all the fertile country blooming round,
"My hairs grow grey in peace," were then thy words;
"Fields of my youth, be ever, ever blest!
"My eyes, grow dim, shall not much longer view
"Your heart-delighting scenes, for happier plains
"Must I exchange you--plains beyond the skies."
Ah, father, best belov'd, must I so soon
Lose thee! my nearest friend!--distressing thought!
Close to thy tomb, with filial love, I'll raise
A modest altar, and with ardour seek
Each blest occasion to relieve the woes
Of the oppressed and wretched; on each day,
That gives the happy chance of doing good,
I'll pour sweet milk upon a parent's grave,
And strew with flowers the ever sacred spot--
He paus'd but kept his eyes, suffus'd with tears,
Fix'd on the good old man; then, sighing; said,
How still he lies, and smiles amidst his slumbers!
Some of his virtuous deeds must hover o'er,
In peaceful dreams, and fill his cheerful soul;
Whilst the moon pours her rays upon his bare
And shining temples, and his silver beard;
Oh may the breeze, and dewy damps of eve--
Do thee no harm. Then gently did he kiss
His aged forehead, gently wak'd him up,
And led him to his cot, in lighter sleep,
On softest furs, to slumber out the night.

--P. D.

_Port Folio_, I-70, Feb. 28, 1801, Phila.

For the Port Folio.
MYRTIL AND DAPHNE
An Idyl.
Attempted from Gessner.

MYRTIL.

Whither so early sister, ere the sun,
Has, from behind yon hill, his course begun?
Scarce has the swallow to the morning ray,
Ventur'd to modulate his twittering lay.
The early cock, whom richest plumes adorn
Has yet but faintly hail'd the golden morn;
Whilst thou, to some unknown attraction true,
With hasty footsteps brush the silv'ry dew!
What festival to-day, do you prepare,
For fill'd with flowers, your basket scents the air.

DAPHNE.

Welcome dear brother, whither points thy way,
Amidst the chilly damps of early day?
On what fair purpose from yon new form'd bower,
Hast thou come forth at twilight's silent hour?
For me--I've pluck'd the violet and the rose,
And sought each flower that round our cottage grows.
Whilst o'er our parents gentle slumbers spread
Their wings, I'll strew them on their peaceful bed;
Then when the sunbeams gild the glowing skies
Midst fragrant scents, they'll ope their aged eyes;
Their hearts shall then with pious joy rebound,
To find the blooming flowers, clust'ring round.

MYRTIL.

My best belov'd, not life itself can prove,
Pleasing to me without a sister's love.
For me, dear girl, when yester eve we met,
Just as the sun had made a golden set,
Our parent, resting on our fav'rite hill,
Whilst we with fond attention watch'd his will;
"How sweet (he cried) on yonder spot to rear,
A shady bower to rest in, free from care!"
I heard his wish as though I heard it not,
Yet kept my thoughts fix'd firmly on the spot,
And ere her early beams Aurora sent,
My hasty steps toward the hill I bent,
And rear'd the bower and to its verdant side,
The waving, hazle branches, closely tied;
See, sister, see, the work at length is done;
Betray me not till I've his blessing won,
Till he himself shall thither bend his way;
Ah, then, with joy we'll celebrate the day.

DAPHNE.

How grateful, brother, will be his surprize,
When first the distant bower shall greet his eyes!
But let me haste and gently o'er their bed,
My morning offering of fragrance spread.

MYRTIL.

When they shall wake amid the fragrant pile,
They'll greet each other with a tender smile;
And say, this is our Daphne's work, sweet child;
Thus has our love the morning hours beguil'd.
For our delight, how tender 'tis to keep
A studious care whilst we were lock'd in sleep.

DAPHNE.

Yes, brother, when at his accustomed hour,
Opening his casement he shall view thy bower,
"Sure (he'll exclaim) I do not see aright,
Or on yon hill an arbor greets my sight;
Yes, that is Myrtil's work,--for this bereft
Of his sweet sleep, his nightly couch he left:
Such are the plans, his filial thoughts engage,
And thus he soothes our fast declining age."
And when with joy we'll greet the morning ray,
With joy we'll celebrate the happy day,
Each work to-day commenc'd shall prosper well,
And peace and joy in every grove shall dwell.

P. D.

_Port Folio_, I-80, Mar. 7, 1801, Phila.

[S. Gessner, _Mirtil und Daphne_.]

TRANSLATION FROM THE IDYLS OF GESSNER.

Delia! when in your lover's eyes,
At your approach soft lustre rise,
When with charm'd ear, from thy sweet tongue,
He listens to the thrilling song,
O'er saddest scenes delights you fling,
And winter wears the smile of spring.

When o'er the mead with you I stray,
More fragrant is the new-mown hay,
When gath'ring flow'rets at your side,
The buds more vivid swell with pride,
And bend, your snowy hand to meet,
Or am'rous twine beneath your feet.

But when within your arms you press me,
When with a long, long kiss you bless me,
Ah! then in vain, the fairest flow'rs
Exert their balmy-breathing pow'rs;
In vain her sweets does Nature bring,
In vain she wears the smile of spring.

Then Delia! nought on earth but thee,
My ravish'd senses feel or see,
With Love's wild frenzy then possessed,
My trembling heart beats 'gainst thy breast,
Then fondly sink, o'erpower'd with bliss,
Only alive to Delia's kiss.

Q. V.

_Port Folio_, I-87, Mar. 14, 1801, Phila.

LEONORA. [b].
A Tale, from the German.

"Ah, William! art thou false or dead?"
Cried Leonora from her bed.
"I dreamt thou'dst ne'er return."
William had fought in Frederick's host
At Prague--and what his fate--if lost
Or false, she could not learn.

Hungaria's queen and Prussia's king,
Wearied, at length with bickering,
Resolv'd to end the strife;
And homewards, then, their separate routs
The armies took, with songs and shouts,
With cymbals, drum and fife.

As deck'd with boughs they march'd along,
From every door, the old and young
Rush'd forth the troops to greet.
"Thank God," each child and parent cry'd,
And "welcome, welcome," many a bride,
As friends long parted meet.

They joy'd, poor Leonora griev'd:
No kiss she gave, no kiss receiv'd;
Of William none could tell;
She rung her hands, and tore her hair;
Till left alone in deep despair,
Bereft of sense, she fell.

Swift to her aid her mother came,
"Ah! say," cried she, "in mercy's name,
"What means this frantic grief?"
"Mother 'tis past--all hopes are fled,
"God hath no mercy, William's dead,
"My woe is past relief."

"Pardon, O pardon, Lord above!
"My child, with pray'rs invoke his love,
"The Almighty never errs?"
"O, mother! mother! idle prate,
"Can he be anxious for my fate,
"Who never heard my prayers?"

"Be patient child, in God believe,
"The good he can, and will relieve,
"To trust his power endeavour."
"O, mother! mother! all is vain,
"What trust can bring to life again?
"The past, is past for ever."

"Who knows, but that he yet survives;
"Perchance, far off from hence he lives,
"And thinks no more of you.
"Forget, forget, the faithless youth,
"Away with grief, your sorrow soothe,
"Since William proves untrue."

"Mother, all hope has fled my mind,
"The past, is past, our God's unkind;
"Why did he give me breath?
"Oh that this hated loathsome light
"Would fade for ever from my sight,
"Come, death, come, welcome death!"

"Indulgent Father, spare my child,
"Her agony hath made her wild,
"She knows not what she does.
"Daughter, forget thy earthly love,
"Look up to him who reigns above,
"Where joys succeed to woes."

"Mother what now are joys to me?
"With William, Hell a Heaven could be,
"Without him, Heaven a Hell.
"Fade, fade away, thou hated light,
"Death bear me hence to endless night,
"With love all hope farewell."

Thus rashly, Leonora strove
To doubt the truth of heavenly love.
She wept, and beat her breast;
She pray'd for death, until the moon
With all the stars with silence shone,
And sooth'd the world to rest.

When, hark! without, what sudden sound!
She hears a trampling o'er the ground,
Some horseman must be near!
He stops, he rings, Hark! as the noise
Dies soft away, a well-known voice
Thus greets her list'ning ear.

"Wake, Leonora;--dost thou sleep,
"Or thoughtless laugh, or constant weep,
"Is William welcome home?"
"Dear William, you!--return'd, and well!
"I've wak'd and wept--but why, ah! tell,
"So late--at night you come?"

"At midnight only dare we roam,
"For thee from Prague, though late, I come."
"For me!--stay here and rest;
"The wild winds whistle o'er the waste,
"Ah, dear William! why such haste?
"First warm thee in my breast."

"Let the winds whistle o'er the waste,
"My duty bids me be in haste;
"Quick, mount upon my steed:
"Let the winds whistle far and wide,
"Ere morn, two hundred leagues we'll ride,
"To reach our marriage bed."

"What, William! for a bridal room,
"Travel to night so far from home?"
"Leonora, 'tis decreed.
"Look round thee, love, the moon shines clear,
"The dead ride swiftly; never fear,
"We'll reach our marriage bed."

"Ah, William! whither would'st thou speed,
"What! where! this distant marriage bed?"
"Leonora, no delay.
"'Tis far from hence; still--cold--and small:
"Six planks, no more, compose it all;
"Our guests await, away!"

She lightly on the courser sprung,
And her white arms round William flung,
Like to a lily wreath.
In swiftest gallop off they go,
The stones and sparks around them throw,
And pant the way for breath.

The objects fly on every side,
The bridges thunder as they ride;
"Art thou my love afraid?
"Death swiftly rides, the moon shines clear,
"The dead doth Leonora fear?"
"Ah, no! why name the dead?"

Hark! as their rapid course they urge,
A passing bell, a solemn dirge;
Hoarse ravens join the strain.
They see a coffin on a bier,
A priest and mourners too appear,
Slow moving o'er the plain.

And sad was heard the funeral lay;
"What the Lord gives, he takes away;
"Life's but a fleeting shade.
"A tale that's told,--a flower that falls;
"Death, when the least expected, calls,
"And bears us to his bed."

"Forbear;"--imperious William cry'd
"I carry home, a beauteous bride,
"Come, to our marriage feast;
"Mourners, away, we want your song;
"And as we swiftly haste along,
"Give us your blessing, priest.

"Sing on, that life is like a shade;
"A tale that's told, or flowers which fade:
"Such strains will yield delight.
"And, when we to our chamber go,
"Bury your dead, with wail and woe;
"The service suits the night."

While William speaks, they silent stand,
Then run obedient to command,
But, on with furious bound,
The foaming courser forward flew,
Fire and stones his heels pursue,
Like whirlwinds dash'd around.

On right and left, on left and right,
Trees, hills, and towns flew past their sight,
As on they breathless prest;
"With the bright moon, like death we speed,
"Doth Leonora fear the dead?"
"Ah! leave the dead at rest."

Behold, where in the moon's pale beam,
As wheels and gibbets faintly gleam,
Join'd hand in hand, a crowd
Of imps and spectres hover nigh,
Or round a wasted wretch they fly,
When William calls aloud:

"Hither, ye airy rabble, come,
"And follow till I reach my home;
"We want a marriage dance."
As when the leaves on wither'd trees,
Are rustled by an edying breeze,
The muttering sprites advance.

But, soon with hurried steps, the crew
Rush'd prattling on, for William flew,
Clasp'd by the frighted fair:
Swifter than shafts, or than the wind,
While struck from earth fire flash'd behind,
Like lightnings through the air.

Not only flew the landscape by,
The clouds and stars appear'd to fly.
"Thus over hills and heath
"We ride like death; say, lovely maid,
"By moon-light dost thou fear the dead?"
"Ah! speak no more of death."

"The cock hath crow'd--Away! away!
"The sand ebbs out: I scent the day.
"On! on! away from here!
"Soon must our destin'd course be run,
"The dead ride swift,--hurrah! 'tis done,
"The marriage bed is near."

High grated iron doors, in vain
Barr'd their way.--With loosened rein
Whil'st William urg'd the steed,
He struck the bolts;--they open flew,
A churchyard drear appear'd in view;
Their path was o'er the dead.

As now, half veil'd by clouds, the moon
With feebler ray, o'er objects shone,
Where tombstones faint appear,
A grave new dug arrests the pair,
Cry'd William, and embrac'd the fair,
"Our marriage bed is here."

Scarce had he spoke, when, dire to tell,
His flesh like touchwood from him fell,
His eyes forsook his head.
A skull, and naked bones alone,
Supply the place of William gone,
'Twas Death that clasp'd the maid.

Wild, snorting fire, the courser rear'd,
As wrapp'd in smoke he disappear'd,
Poor Leonora fell;
The hideous spectres hover round,
Deep groans she hears from under ground,
And fiends ascend from hell.

They dance, and say, in dreadful howl,
"She asks no mercy for her soul;
"Her earthly course is done.
"When mortals, rash and impious! dare
"Contend with God, and court despair,
"We claim them as our own."

"Yet," thus was heard, in milder strains,
"Call on the Lord, while life remains,
"Unite your heart to his;
"When man repents and is resign'd,
"God loves to soothe his suff'ring mind,
"And grant him future bliss."

"We claim as ours, who impious dare
"Contend with God, and court despair;"
Again the spectres cry'd.
"Fate threats in vain, when man's resign'd,
"God loves to soothe the suff'ring mind,"
The gentler voice reply'd.

Leonora, e'er her sense was gone,
Thus faint exclaim'd,--"thy Will be done,
"Lord, let thy anger cease."
Soft on the wind was borne the pray'r;
The spectres vanish'd into air,
And all was hush'd in peace.

Now redd'ning tints the skies adorn,
And streaks of gold, proclaim the morn;
The night is chas'd away.
The sun ascends, new warmth he gives,
New hope, new joy; all nature lives,
And hails the glorious day.

No more are dreadful fantoms near;
Love and his smiling train, appear;
They cull each sweetest flow'r,
To scatter o'er the path of youth,
To deck the bridal bed, when Truth
And Beauty own their pow'r.

Ah,--could your pow'r avert the blast
Which threatens Bliss!--could passion last!
Ye dear enchanters tell;
What purer joy could Heaven bestow,
Than when with shar'd affection's glow
Our panting bosoms swell?

Sweet spirits wave the airy wand,
Two faithful hearts your care demand;
Lo! bounding o'er the plain,
Led by your charm, a youth returns;
With hope, his breast impatient burns;
Hope is not always vain.

"Wake, Leonora!--wake to Love!
For thee, his choicest wreath he wove;"
Death vainly aim'd his Dart.
The Past was all a dream; she woke--
He lives;--'twas William's self who spoke,
And clasp'd her to his Heart.

_Balto. Weekly Mag._, I-280, Apr. 29, 1801, Balto.

[G. A. Buerger, _Lenore_. The last eight stanzas are an invention of the translator.]

For the Portfolio.

Mr. Old School,

If you permit a truant to peep into your literary seminary, he will venture to present you with the inclosed hastily written lines, as a peace offering; but shall not be irritated beyond measure, should you choose to convert it into a _burnt offering_, as a just punishment for time misspent.

At any rate, the sentence you shall pass, shall not be appealed from.

Your sincere well-wisher,

The Author.

DAMON AND DAPHNE, AN IDYLL,
(Matrimonial,)
Attempted from Gessner.

DAMON.

The gloomy tempest, Daphne, has blown o'er,
The thunder's awful voice is heard no more;
Tremble not then, my girl, the lightning's blaze
Through the dark cloud, no longer darts its rays.
Let us this arbour leave, the blue sky greet,
For, see, the sheep that sought this safe retreat,
Now from their fleeces shake the drops of rain,
And spread them o'er the bright'ning mead again,
Let us then leave this fav'rite shelt'ring bower,
To taste the beauties of this balmy hour;
To view the sunbeams gild the moisten'd ground,
And throw their rich and radiant glory round.
As from the grotto, hand in hand they past,
The gentle Daphne on her partner cast
Her swimming eyes, pressing his honest hand.

DAPHNE.

How lovely looks the gay, the smiling land,
She said; while through the scattering cloud appears
The blue sky, dissipating all our fears.
The clouds, as through the air they quickly pass,
Hurry their shadows o'er the glist'ning grass.
See, Damon, now, o'er yonder hill they throw
Their shade o'er herds and cottages, and lo!
They're flown, and while o'er flowery meads they run,
The hill's again illumin'd by the sun.

DAMON.

The rainbow view, from hill to hill expand,
Its radiant arches o'er the laughing land;
'Midst the grey cloud, a happy omen shows;
With peace and safety every colour glows:
The quiet valley smiles beneath its beams,
And owns its beauties in her gliding streams.
Daphne with gentle arm embrac'd her swain;
And cried;

DAPHNE.

See balmy zephyrs breathe again;
More cheerful with the flowers they sport and play,
Dress'd by the drops of rain and light of day.
The butterflies, in richest coats array'd,
And fluttering insects joy to leave the shade,
Their velvet wings in quick vibrations shake,
While on the surface of the neighbouring lake,
Of shrubs and willows, wash'd from every stain,
The trembling branches glitter once again;
Again the peasant in its bosom sees
The heaven's blue concave and the spreading trees.

DAMON.

Daphne, embrace me with thy circling arms,
What sacred joy my swelling bosom warms,
Where'er we turn what glories meet our eyes,
What unexhausted springs of rapture rise.
From the least plant to the bright star of day,
That kindles nature with its quickening ray,
All, all, our admiration ought to raise,
And tune our voices to the notes of praise!
How my heart swells, when from yon mountain's brow,
I view the spreading country stretch'd below.
Or, when amid the grass, in rural ease,
Laying my limbs beneath the branching trees,
I contemplate the various flowers and plants,
And their minutely fine inhabitants.
Or when amid the solemn hours of night,
I view the stars adorn the heavens with light;
The grateful changes of the seasons trace,
The progress of the vegetable race.
When all these wonders thro' my senses roll,
They fill with purest awe my swelling soul;
Thoughts urge on thoughts in quick successive birth,
Weeping, I kneel to him who made the earth;
To him, my admiration I confess,
Father of light, of life, of every bliss:
Nought then my soul with equal joy can move,
Save the delight to know my Daphne's love.

DAPHNE.

Damon, around me also wonders rise,
And fill my bosom with a sweet surprize.
Oh let us then, lock'd in a soft embrace,
When Morn approaching lifts her ruddy face,
When gentle Eve her milder beauties shows,
Or moonlight through the air its radiance throws,
Thus let our thoughts upon such objects rest,
Whilst to each others beating bosoms prest,
In broken accents we our wonder own,
And turn our minds tow'rds heaven's eternal throne.
How inexpressible is the delight,
When transports such as these, with tend'rest love unite.

P. D.

_Port Folio_, I-171, May 30, 1801, Phila.

[S. Gessner, _Damon. Daphne_.]

For the Port Folio.
THE FLY, A FABLE.
From the German of Gellert.

That insects think, as well as speak,
Needs, at this day, small eloquence to show;
Esop, whom even children prize in Greek,
Affirm'd as much, some thousand years ago.
Fontaine, in French, asserted just the same;
Who then shall dare deny the reptile claim
To faculties, the world esteems so low,
As scarce to notice, if you think or no?

Within a temple, where the builder's art,
Grandeur and elegance at once had join'd;
While due proportion, reign'd in every part,
And simple grace, with solid strength combin'd.
In such a temple's wall, sat perch'd on high,
A solemn, thoughtful, philosophic fly.
For flies, an air so grave, of wisdom take,
And on one leg, the head will often hold,
And into wrinkles, oft the forehead fold,
Only because they deep reflection's make;
And to the bottom dive to know,
The source of all things here below.

Thus then, involv'd in contemplation deep,
With half a dozen wrinkles on his brow,
This fly began, around himself to peep,
And question whence the building rose, and how?
No _maker_ of this work can I perceive,
Quoth he--and that there is one, scarce believe;
For who should such a maker be?
"Art," said a spider sage. "Art built the work you see,
For, wheresoever turns your eye,
Fix'd laws, and order you descry;
And hence, a fair conclusion grows,
That from the hand of Art, the building rose."
At this the fly, in his conceptions proud,
Laugh'd out aloud,
And with a sneer of scorn, replied--
"Most learned sir, I oft have tried,
At this same Art to get a sight,
But never on him yet could light;
And now, the more I think, the more I find,
Your Art is but a fiction of the mind.
Now learn from me how this same temple grew:
Once on a time, it so by chance befel
That pebbles numberless together flew,
And settling, form'd this hollow shell,
Where you, and I, friend spider, dwell;
Say, what can be more evidently true?"
A fly, for such a system, we forgive;
But if great geniuses should live,
Who deem this world's well-order'd frame,
Sprung from blind accident alone,
And chance, as author of their lives proclaim,
Rather than bow to God's eternal throne,
The sole excuse a creed, like this admits,
Is, that its votaries have lost their wits.

L.

_Port Folio_, I-192, June 13, 1801, Phila.

[C. F. Gellert, _Die Fliege_.]

For the Port Folio.
THE SUICIDE.
From the German of Gellert.

Oh, youth, from what I now relate,
While gentle tears bedew your eyes,
Lament the lover's hapless fate,
And learn, what woes from love arise.

A youth of exemplary worth,
The comfort of his aged sire,
Whose virtues, early bursting forth,
The fairest hopes might well inspire.

By beauty's potent charms subdued,
For Chloe felt a tender pain;
Her equal love with ardour sued,
But found his fond entreaties vain.

While at her feet he pleads his flame,
The cruel Chloe bids him fly;
Yes! cried he, yes! insulting dame,
You never more shall hear me sigh.

Then, on his sword, his hand he lays,
While wild despair his gestures breathe;
Draws it--the deadly point surveys,
And thrusts it--_back into its sheath_.

U.

_Port Folio_, I-192, June 13, 1801, Phila.

[C. F. Gellert, _Der Selbstmord_.]

FROM THE GERMAN.

While yon enlivening orb of day
To William yields its light,
He to no other lass will stray
Nor faithful Anna slight.

Thus Will to Nance, with ardour, said;
And kept his word, I ween,
Nor, till the sun had gone to bed,
Met Sophy on the green.

_Port Folio_, I-280, Aug. 29, 1801, Phila.

For the Port Folio.
FROM THE GERMAN OF GELLERT.
THE DANCING BEAR
A Fable.

A bear, who long had danced for bread,
One morning from his keeper fled;
Back to his native woods retreated,
And, by his brother brutes, was kindly greeted:
Their joy to see him made the forest roar,
They lick'd his chaps, they stroak'd him with the paw;
And when each bear his neighbour saw,
Their news was, So!--Our Bruin's here once more.
Straightway the travell'd youth went on
All his adventures to relate,
And whatsoever he had seen, or done,
Or heard, in foreign parts to state.
And when it came the turn to tell
His dancing deeds, to capering he fell,
As though his former master's chain
Were fasten'd round his neck again.

Bears of the woods are seldom trained to dance;
Yet, seeing Bruin throw his limbs about,
The fancy seiz'd them all, themselves to prance,
And strive, with clumsy aim, his motions to make out.

Scarce one of all the brood but quickly trip'd,
And stumbling, staggering, fell his whole length down;
The more they fail'd, the brisker Bruin skip'd,
To show their skill at fault and prove his own.
But now, their fury kindles at his play;
Away! Begone, you tumbling fool! they bawl;
Must you, forsooth, be wiser than us all?
And straight, with one accord, they hooted him away.

Your neighbour's hatred would you shun?
His talents to surpass beware!
And still the higher your attainments run,
Conceal them still with greater care.
For though, at first, the voice of fame
Shall sound your praises to the sky:
Anon shall Envy blast your name,
And turn your fairest arts to crimes of deepest dye.

L.

27 November 1801.

_Port Folio_, I-400, Dec. 12, 1801, Phila.

[C. F. Gellert, _Der Tanzbaer_.]

BENEVOLENCE. A FABLE.
Imitated from the German of Galleret.

_Balance and Columbian Repos._, I-132, Apr. 27, 1802, Hudson (N. Y.).

[Gellert, _Die Gutthat_. Also in _Amer. Universal Mag._, I-28, Jan. 2, 1797, Phila.]

AMINTA.
An Idyl,--By Gessner.

[Prose translation.]

_Weekly Visitor or Ladies' Misc._, I-20, Oct. 23, 1802, N. Y.

[S. Gessner, _Daphne_. Mary Collyer, _Gessner's Idyls_, 1802, Liverpool. II-121, _Aminta_.]

INVITATION TO JOY.
From the German.

Say, who could mope in joyless plight,
While youth and spring bedeck the scene,
And scorn the profer'd gay delight,
With thankless heart and frowning mien?
See Joy with becks and smiles appear,
While roses strew the devious way;
The feast of life she bids us share,
Where'er our pilgrim footsteps stray.

And still the grove is cool and green,
And clear the bubbling fountain flows,
Still shines the night's resplendent queen,
As erst in Paradise she rose:
The grapes their purple nectar pour,
To 'suage the heart that griefs oppress;
And still the lonely ev'ning bow'r
Invites and screens the stolen kiss.

Still Philomela's melting strain,
Responsive to the dying gale,
Beguiles the bosom's throbbing pain,
And sweetly charms the list'ning vale;
Creation's scene expanded lies:--
Blest scene! how wond'rous bright and fair!
Till Death's cold hand shall close my eyes,
Let me the lavish'd bounties share!

_Weekly Visitor or Ladies' Misc._, I-64, Nov. 27, 1802, N. Y.

ORIGINAL PAPERS.

For the Port Folio.
THE AMERICAN LOUNGER.
By SAMUEL SAUNTER, Esq.
No. XLIII.

Et vos, O lauri, carpam, et te proxima myrtus,
Sic positae, quoniam suaves miscetis odores.

--_Virgil._

To SAMUEL SAUNTER, _Esq._

Sir,

As I perceive your plan, like that of Coleman and Thornton, in the "Connoisseur," and like that of your relation, _Solomon_ Saunter, in "Literary Leisure," admits Poetry as well as Prose, which one may feed upon alternately, as we eat bread and cheese, I send you a translation, from the German of Lessing, and some fugitive originals.

I am, yours
HARLEY.

I ask'd my fair, one happy day,
What should I call her in my lay,
By what sweet name, from Rome or Greece,
Iphigenia, Clelia, Chloris,
Laura, Lesbia, Delia, Doris,
Dorimene or Lucrece?

Ah, replied my gentle fair,
Beloved, what are names but air?
Take thou whatever suits the line,
Clelia, Iphigenia, Chloris,
Laura, Lesbia, Delia, Doris--
But don't forget to call me--_thine_.

_Port Folio_, III-25, Jan. 1803, Phila.

[Lessing, _Die Namen_.]

THE NAVIGATION
Translated from the French of Gessner.

It flies! the vessel flies, that bears away
To distant shores my Daphne, fair as May.
Guard her, ye loves! be lull'd each ruder gale;
Let Zephyrs only fill the swelling sail;
Ye waves flow gently by the vessel's side,
While pensive she surveys you idly glide;
Ah! softly glide, prolong her reverie,
For then, ye Gods! 'tis then she thinks of me.
When near the nodding groves that shade the shore,
To her, ye birds, your sweetest warbling pour;
No sounds be heard, but such as gently sooth,
And be, O sea, thy azure surface smooth.
Ne'er since thy daughters sought their liquid caves,
A lovelier charge, was trusted to thy waves.
Her clear, her bright unsullied beauty shews
The lilly's white, and freshness of the rose.
Not Venus had more charms, more beauteous bloom,
When, rising from the sea's resplendent foam,
She smiling mounted first her silver car,
And shone effulgent as the morning star.
The enchanted Tritons left their noisy sport,
And nymphs cerulian in their crystal court;
Regardless of their frowns, or jealous smiles,
While beauty's queen each eager eye beguiles.
They gaze, and held in most delightful trance,
Pursue her moving o'er the smooth expanse.

H***T.

_Boston Weekly Mag._, 1-72, Feb. 19, 1803, Boston.

[S. Gessner, _La Navigation_. French translation of _Die Schiffahrt_.]

Mr. HOGAN;

The subjoined Pieces under the signature of Oscar, are the production of a gentleman residing in a distant part of the state. They were written solely with a view to amuse his leisure hours. If you think them worthy of publication, you are at liberty to insert them in the Repository.

--A SUBSCRIBER.

MORNING SONG OF PRAISE.
From the German of Patzke.
"Lobt den Herrn! Die morgensonne."

O praise the Lord! the morning sun,
From sleep awakes the cheerful swain;
And all creation's joys again,
To us, in streams renewed, run.