Chapter VI: Letter LXI: Of the Sorrows of Werter, Versified (3)

THE KING OF PRUSSIA'S ODE IMITATED IN RHIME.

1.

Father of all! all pow'rful Lord!
Infinitely unknown!
By heathen, and by saint ador'd,
Tho' differently, yet one;
By what great name shall I address
Thee everlasting king?
Oh! how my gratitude express?
Oh! how thy praises sing?
But, O great God! omniscient ever just,
Permit towards thy throne to bow, a particle of dust.

2.

By friends forsaken ev'ry where,
Alone, the brunt to stand,
Winter's inclement cold to bear,
And in a foreign Land;
The foe, enrag'd on ev'ry side,
Dire implements of war
In various shapes and forms provide,
And doom them for our share.
Heav'ns! with what fury to the charge they fly;
Forestal the vict'ry, but forget that man was born to die!

3.

Yet he who frequently has said,
That numbers don't avail,
Inspir'd us not to be dismay'd,
But stand, fight, and prevail:
The battle join'd, the foe gave way,
Superior valour own'd,
And left to us a glorious day,
With spoils and honours crown'd:
Each single _Prussian_ arm the hero play'd,
Dealt round an hundred deaths, an hundred conquests made.

4.

Is it to fortune then I owe
This unthought for success?
Fortune is blind, it can't be so,
I must some other guess:
JUSTICE, bright heav'nly maid, beheld
The dire contention rise,
Saw, and her sacred beam she held
Suspended in the skies:
The _Austrian_ scale kick'd up, by our's weigh'd down,
Justice approv'd, and straight ordain'd the field to be our own.

_New Amer. Mag._, No. V-119, May 1758, Woodbridge in N. J.

THE RELAXATION OF WAR:
OR THE HERO'S PHILOSOPHY, &C. WROTE BY THE KING OF
PRUSSIA, DURING HIS RESIDENCE AT BRESLAU.

Love by _Hope_ is still sustain'd,
_Zeal_ by the _Reward_ that's gain'd;
In _Pow'r_, _Authority_ begins,
_Weakness_ strength from _Prudence_ wins;
_Honesty_ is _Credit's_ wealth,
_Temp'rance_ the support of _Health_;
_Wit_ from calm _Contentment_ springs,
_Content_ 'tis _Competence_ that brings,
_Competence_, as all may see,
Springs from good _Oeconomy_.
Maids, to fan a lover's fire,
_Sweetness_ more than charms require;
_Authors_ more from _Truth_ may gain
Than from tropes that please in vain;
_Arts_ will less than _Virtues_ tend
_Happiness_ and _Life_ to blend;
He that _Happiness_ wou'd get
_Prudence_ more must prize than _Wit_,
More than _Riches_ rosy _Health_,
Blameless _Quiet_ more than _Wealth_.
Nought to _owe_, and nought to _hoard_,
Little _Land_ and little _Board_,
Little _Fav'rite_, true and kind,
These are blessings to my mind.
I, when winter comes, desire
Little _Room_ but plenteous _Fire_,
Temp'rate _Glasses_, gen'rous _Wine_,
_Dishes few_ whene'er I dine.
Yes, my sober thoughts are such,
Man must never have _too_ much;
_Not too much_ ... What solid sense.
Three such little words dispense!
Too much _Rest_ benumbs the mind;
Too much _Strife_ distracts mankind;
Too much _Negligence_ is _Sloth_;
Too much _Zeal_ is _Folly's_ growth;
Too much _Love_ our peace annoys,
Too much _Physic_ life destroys;
Too much _Cunning's_ fraudful art,
Too much _Firmness_ want of heart
Too much _sparing_ makes a knave;
Those are _rash_ that are _too_ brave;
Too much _Wealth_ like weight oppresses;
Too much _Fame_ with care distresses;
Too much _Pleasure_ death will bring,
Too much _Wit's_ a dang'rous thing;
Too much _Trust_ is folly's guide,
Too much _Spirit_ is but pride;
He's a dupe that is _too free_,
Too much _Bounty_ weak must be;
Too much _Complaisance_ a knave,
Too much _Zeal to please_ a slave.
This TOO MUCH, tho' bad it seem,
Chang'd with ease to good you deem;
But in this you err my friend,
For on _Trifles_ all depend.
Trifles great effects produce,
Both of pleasure and of use;
Trifles often turn the scale,
When in love or law we fail;
Trifles to the great commend,
Trifles make proud beauty bend;
Trifles prompt the poet's strain,
Trifles oft distract the brain;
Trifles, trifles more or less,
Give us, or withhold success;
Trifles, when we _hope_, can cheer,
Trifles smite us when we fear:
All the flames that lovers know,
Trifles quench and trifles blow.

N. B. This little poem is sold for 6d. sterl. in London, and 3d. here.

_Amer. Mag. and Mo. Chron._, I-440, June 1758, Phila.

ON READING IN THE PUBLICK PAPERS, OF
A LADY THAT HAD ORDER'D THE KING OF
PRUSSIA A PRESENT OF A THOUSAND POUNDS.

No more let haughty _Austrians_ cry,
"_Fred'rick_ our foe, has no ally."
The _British_ fair are on his side,
And for the next campaign provide;
Their fortunes to his chests transfer ...
Money the sinews is of war.
For him they plead, and much can say,
For him they grow devout and pray!
For him their martial ardours rise,
And arm afresh their killing eyes;
Those shining warriors ne'er were beat,
But gain a conquest by retreat.

_New Amer. Mag._, No. VII-172, July 1758, Woodbridge in N. J.

Gentlemen.

The following small poetical performance was hastily composed at the request, and for the entertainment, of a select company of publick spirited friends, who gave me a short notice of their intention to dine with me, and drink the protestant champion's health, as they termed the king of _Prussia_. They were indulgent enough to express their unanimous approbation of the piece, and insisted on my sending it up to you, in order (if you would be of their opinion) to occupy a leaf in your _Magazine_. I hope no reader will think the dignity of the subject, lessened merely by the familiar strain, in which it is written: when they consider, that _such_ seemed most suitable to the occasion, the verses consisting of eleven feet, are to be read, like the _Greek Iambics_ (which were, anciently, much used in convivial festivities) with less solemnity and more rapidity, than the common heroic measure of ten feet in our language will admit.

Kent, Maryland, July 14, 1758.

THE ROYAL COMET.

Mistaken astronomers, gaze not so high:
The _Comet_ foretold is not _yet_ in the sky.
It shines here on earth, tho' deputed from Heav'n;
And remarkably flam'd last year--_Fifty sev'n_.
In _Wodon's_[36] bold figure, three thousand years past,
O'er ancient Germania its lustre it cast.
Next, wearing _Arminius_[37], thy form, it return'd;
And, fatal to _Rome's_ blasted legions, it burn'd.
Now, attended with all the thunders of war,
Our _Prussia's_ great _Frederick_ is that _Blazing Star_!
Heav'ns proxy to nations opprest; but a _Sign_
To tyrants he comes of a vengeance divine.
Eccentric and rapid the north saw him rowl:
(For heroes and stars seem most bright near the pole)
To _Britain_ propitious he sheds forth his rays;
While _Babel's_ lewd _Harlot_, his terrors amaze.
The fierce _Russian Bear_ his splendors affright;
And _Austria's_ proud _Eagle_ now shrinks from his light.
While freedom's glad sons with due warmth he inspires;
The _Lillies_ of _France_ are all scorch'd in his fires.
False _Stockholm_ shall find the _Baltic_ no bar is.
Now at _Vienna_, he'll soon be at _Paris_.
O'er _Ocean_ from _Europe_ his influence hurl'd
Shall animate here, O _George_, thy new world.
Our laws, our religion, our rights he befriends,
And conquest o'er savage invaders portends;
O'er christians miscall'd, who their nature disgrace,
Bely human form, and god's image deface.

Hail, _Living Effulgence_, whose all honour'd name
Shall grace, first of mortals, the annals of fame!
Whose glory shall spread, thro' each age and each clime,
To the final extent of space and of time!
Who the Virtues _Trajan_ and _Titus_ unite;
The victor of empires, and _Mankind's Delight_!
Hail, radiance auspicious, from light's fountain born
Each dark hemisphere to relume and adorn!
To whom if compar'd, other kings all appear,
Like little dim _Sparklers_, round _Cynthia's_ bright sphere.
The wonder of monarchs, a patriot imperial,
Endow'd with a spirit of vigour aetherial!
For worth, less than your's in pale envy's despite,
Old chiefs claim'd to honours celestial a right!
From their funeral piles in flames eagles soar'd;
Earth's heroes grew gods, and dead kings were ador'd.
Defensive, fair justice, he fights in thy cause,
And his sword, lightning pointed, reluctant he draws,
His courage on aggregate perils still grows;
And his triumphs increase from multiply'd foes.
Ye _Caesars_, ye _Bourbons_, ye scourges of God,
Ye saw on the wings of the wind how he rode:
Revere then heav'ns champion, who, charg'd with your doom,
Shall quell the leagu'd hosts of _Gaul_, _Satan_ and _Rome_!
When earth's giant crew, each with manifold hands,
Assaulted _Jove's_ seat, in confederate bands;
Thus _Evius_ asserted the throne of his sire,
And heap'd o'er th' aggressors a mountain of fire!

Ye numberless suns, his kindred, on high,
For six thousand years whom cou'd ye descry;
Whom, like him, have seen of meer mortal birth;
Tho _Alfred_ and _Edward_ once dignify'd earth?
Blush, blush, scepter'd pirates, who trail your faint fire:
Ye meteors, that transiently dazzling expire!
Whose lust of vain pow'r stains the page of your story:
What glow worms ye look, and how lost in his glory?
Blush, butchers, whose banners red massacre shames,
That _Honest_ and _Great_ should bear different names!
Go waste the creation for empire and pelf:
The globe you may win, but _he_ conquers himself!
To spare he subdues; as he sought to defend;
Dire war's his forc'd mean: but fair peace his lov'd end.
Tho' trophies in battles o'er your's he can raise;
Yet these he accounts but a second rate praise.
Who by victories plum'd ne'er thinks it disgrace,
To sigh that they're earn'd by the blood of his race.
The public's first servant, and humble in station;
He found his firm glory on wise legislation.
His country's great father, in blessings most blest,
Who loses his own for the world's peace and rest!
Still only ambitious of fair-won renown,
And olives with laurels to wreath in his crown.
Say poet, philosopher, critick, divine,
What art thou?--Since all, but omniscience is thine.
Self-taught, tho' a king! and now destin'd to prove,
That _Minerva_, like thee, sprang perfect from _Jove_.
Like thee, fam'd for wisdom; like thee for alarms:
The goddess of science, and goddess of arms!
In his words, in his deeds, we read his great heart;
Too gen'rous for fraud, and too wise for mean art.
With aw still reflecting whence all grandeur springs;
And only dependent on thee, King of Kings!
The mate of his vet'rans in each noble feat;
The first in the charge, and the last in retreat,
A statesman and monarch, yet true to his word;
A soldier with honour, more bright than his sword.
Whom pow'r ne'er corrupted; whom learning adorns:
Who, ev'n in idea, court-turpitude scorns:
--Yet why should we wonder, that _this_ he disdains;
When the blood of good _George_ flows rich in his veins?

_Amer. Mag. and Mo. Chron._, I-551, Aug. 1758, Phila.

[Footnote 36: The founder and first legislator of the German
nation, to whom after his deification the fourth day of our
week was consecrated, now contracted from Wodon's day to
Wednesday.]

[Footnote 37: The brave assertor of his country's liberty
against the Roman invasions, who cut to pieces three legions
commanded by _Quintilius Varus_ in the reign of _Augustus
Caesar_.]

MR. VOLTAIRE'S LETTER TO HIS PRUSSIAN MAJESTY.
Translated.

Kind Prince! whom the admiring world must own
By truth and nature form'd to grace a throne:
Whose dawn of empire like the solar ray,
Chears half the _North_ with hopes of lasting day;
Receive the homage which the Muses send,
Their fav'rite thou! their guardian! and their friend!
ARE you enthron'd?... And does your goodness deign
To own your poet, and regard his strain?
O blissful moment! dear auspicious grace!
Does FRED'RICK'S smile my wand'ring steps embrace?
Does his great soul possess'd of wisdom's balm,
(Ever benevolent, and ever calm!)
Leave all the dignity of state behind,
To meet the humble lover of mankind?
And can your hand the royal gift impart
To style me friend of your _distinguish'd_ heart?
Fame says of old, that _Phoebus_ heavenly bright,
O'er the wide world who spreads the living light,
So _Jove_ ordain'd ... his splendid carr resign'd,
To live below and humanize mankind:
No more his brows their wonted rays reveal'd,
A shepherd's form the exil'd god conceal'd;
In _Phrygian_ wilds to an unletter'd race,
He sung with such divinely-pleasing grace,
The savage nation in their softened hearts,
Receiv'd the love of virtue and of arts!
The rudest breasts the strong persuasion felt,
Were taught to think, to reason, and to melt!
Themselves to know, the social tye to own,
And learn they were not made to live alone!
Then every useful science sprung to birth,
And peaceful labour blest the smiling earth:
Men now united lost their antient rage,
Nature rejoic'd and blest her _golden age_;
An _age_ by heav'n design'd for man no more,
Unless a FREDERICK shall _that_ age restore!
It chanc'd as thro' the wood _Apollo_ stray'd,
Ere gathering numbers peopled half the shade;
As near the cooling stream he pass'd the day
And wak'd the golden lyre to wisdom's lay!
Attentive to the sound a _stranger swain_,
His reed attun'd to imitate the strain;
The god well-pleas'd the rustic genius spy'd,
Approv'd his aim, and deign'd to be his guide!
Aided his trembling hands to touch the string,
Whisper'd the words, and shew'd him how to sing!
The swain improving blest the care bestow'd,
Nor in the _master_ yet perceiv'd the _god_:
Nor knew the immortal flame his bosom fir'd,
But like a shepherd lov'd him, and admir'd!
In me, _great prince_, the image stands renew'd,
I feel myself with kindred warmth indu'd;
As to thy praise I tune the conscious lyre,
I ask whence draws my breast the noble fire?
Tell what inspires me, happy people tell?
Beneath my Fred'rick's orient sway who dwell:
From rapid _Rhine_ to silver-streaming _Meine_,
The peaceful subjects of his placid reign?
Or ye on _Prussia's_ amber yielding shore,
Who bless his name, and hail his guardian power!
Yes ... let consenting lands his virtues raise,
And fame with all her tongues repeat his praise!
Whose scepter shall _Astrea's_ rule restore,
And bid dejected MERIT[38] sigh no more.
As once directed by the voice of fame
To _wisdom's King_ the _southern princess_ came;
At FREDERICK'S call ... see ravish'd to obey,
The sons of learning take their chearful way;
To hear _that_ sense which still attention draws;
And bless _that_ goodness which directs his laws;
Close by his throne _Philosophy_ shall smile,
To view her prince approve her children's toil!
While _Science_ joys to see his kind regards
Inspire the muse, his bounty still rewards;
Not distant far, calm _Charity_ shall stand,
Stretching to _Piety_ her social hand:
_Justice_ shall banish _arbitrary might_,
And _Commerce_ chearful _Plenty_ shall invite:
But _Goodness_ chief ... in form angelic drest,
(Such as she lives in FREDERICK'S royal breast!)
Beneath her wings shall bid the worthy find
A shelter from the storms that vex mankind;
The friend of truth, by fraud or malice hurl'd
Through all the mazes of a faithless world.
Whom envy persecutes and bigots hate,
Shall here enjoy an undisturb'd retreat;
With HIM, who scorns the empty pride or blood,
But shares his grandeur with the _wise_ and _good_!
What tho' his prudence guards the chance of war,
His mildness eyes the mischief from afar!
What tho' his arms might _Caesar's_ laurels find,
The peaceful olive suits his greater mind:
Yet safe in all events the storm he views,
In peace or war ... the darling of the Muse!
In either state, alike insur'd success,
Since all his aim is to defend and bless!
Yet while impending clouds their darkness spread,
He arms for war ... but arms without a dread!
No _giant forms_[39] compose a vain parade,
No glittering _figures_ of the _warrior-trade_:
Valour he courts without the pomp of art,
And rises on the service of the heart:
He boasts it all his glory to be just
(A pride beyond the title of _August_!)
Which time secures, the most impartial friend,
And guards his _name_ till nature fells her end!
So when beneath the curs'd _Caesarian_ race
_Rome_ felt the horrors of her first disgrace;
Great _Trajan_ rose with every virtue blest,
To give the weary world the sweets of rest:
No blood, no conquest mark'd his spotless reign,
'Twas goodness form'd th' inviolable chain;
E'en _India's_ Kings receiv'd the willing yoke,
For goodness is a band no savage broke!
Not _Salem's_ walls defil'd with wilful blood,
A crime, her victor's clemency withstood:
Not all her honours levell'd with the dust,
Styl'd _Titus good_, or _merciful_, or _just_:
Love knit the charm on which his greatness rose,
A charm! not worlds united can oppose!
Behold the glorious pattern marks your rise!
Nor quit the steps by which he gain'd the skies:
Try to surpass! (but heav'n his _fate_ refuse!)
_He wept a day!_ ... which YOU _will never lose_!

_New Amer. Mag._, No. XI-283, Nov. 1758, Woodbridge in N. J.

[Footnote 38: This alludes to the new order instituted by his
Prussian Majesty, the badge of which is a gold medal with
this inscription, For Merit.]

[Footnote 39: This alludes to the king's allowing liberty to
the tall soldiers his father forced into his service.]

TRANSLATION OF AN EPISTLE FROM THE
KING OF PRUSSIA TO MONSIEUR VOLTAIRE.

Voltaire, believe me, were I now
In private life's calm station plac'd,
Yet heav'n for nature's wants allow,
With cold indifference would I view
Departing fortune's winged haste,
And at the goddess laugh like you.
Th' insipid farce of tedious state,
Imperial duty's real weight,
The faithless courtier's supple bow,
The fickle multitude's caress,
And flatt'rers wordy emptiness,
By long experience well I know;
And, tho' a prince and poet born,
Vain blandishments of glory scorn.
For when the ruthless sheers of fate
Have cut my life's precarious thread,
And rank me with th' unconscious dead,
What will't avail that _I was_ great,
Or that th' uncertain tongue of fame
In mem'ry's temple chants my name?
One blissful moment whilst we live
Weighs more than ages of renown;
What then do potentates receive
Of good peculiarly their own?
Sweet ease, and unaffected joy,
Domestic peace, and sportive pleasure,
The regal throne and palace fly,
And, born for liberty, prefer
Soft silent scenes of lovely leisure
To what we monarchs buy so dear,
The thorny pomp of scepter'd care.
My pain or bliss shall ne'er depend
On fickle fortune's casual flight,
For, whether she's my foe or friend,
In calm repose I'll pass the night;
And ne'er by watchful homage own
I court her smile, nor fear her frown.
But from our stations we derive
Unerring precepts how to live,
And certain deeds each rank calls forth
By which is measur'd human worth.
_Voltaire_, within his private cell,
In realms where ancient honesty
Is patrimonial property,
And sacred freedom loves to dwell,
May give up all _his_ peaceful mind,
Guided by _Plato's_ deathless page,
In silent solitude resigned
To the mild virtues of a sage;
But I 'gainst whom wild whirlwinds wage
Fierce war with wreck-denouncing wing,
Must be to face the tempest's rage,
In thought, in life, in death a king.

_New Amer. Mag._, No. XVII-470, May 1759, Woodbridge in N. J.

A DUTCH PROVERB.

Fire, water, woman, are man's ruin
Says wise Professor Vander Bruein
By flames a house I hir'd was lost
Last year; and I must pay the cost.
This spring the rains o'erflow'd my ground;
And my best Flanders mare was drown'd.
A slave I am to Clara's eyes:
The gipsy knows her power and flies.
Fire, water, woman, are my ruin:
And great thy wisdom Vander Bruein.

_Boston Mag._, III-81, Feb. 1786, Boston.

ODE TO DEATH
By Frederick II, King of Prussia.
From the French, by Dr. Hawkesworth.

Yet a few years or days perhaps,
Or moments pass with silent lapse,
And time to me shall be no more;
No more the sun these eyes shall view,
Earth o'er these limbs her dust shall strew,
And life's fantastick dream be o'er.

Alas! I touch the dreadful brink,
From nature's verge impell'd I sink,
And endless darkness wraps me round!
Yes, Death, is ever at my hand,
Fast by my bed he takes his stand,
And constant at my board is found.

Earth, air and fire, and water join
Against this fleeting life of mine,
And where for succour can I fly?
If art with flattering wiles pretend
To shield me like a guardian friend,
By Art, ere Nature bids, I die.

I see this tyrant of the mind,
This idol Flesh to dust consigned,
Once call'd from dust by power divine:
Its features change, 'tis pale, 'tis cold--
Hence dreadful spectre! to behold
Thy aspect, is to make it mine.

And can I then with guilty pride,
Which fear nor shame can quell or hide,
This flesh still pamper and adorn?
Thus viewing what I soon shall be,
Can what I am demand the knee,
Or look on aught around with scorn?

But then this spark that warms, that guides,
That lives, that thinks, what fate betides?
Can this be dust, a kneaded clod!
This yield to death! the soul, the mind,
That measures heaven, and mounts the wind,
That knows at once itself and God?

Great Cause of all, above, below,
Who knows thee must forever know,
Immortal and divine!
Thy image on my soul imprest,
Of endless being is the test,
And bids Eternity be mine.

Transporting thought!--but I am sure
That endless life will joy secure?
Joys only to the just decreed!
The guilty wretch expiring goes,
Where vengeance endless life bestows,
That endless mis'ry may succeed.

Great God, how awful is the scene!
A breath, a transient breath between;
And can I jest, and laugh and play?
To earth, alas! too firmly bound,
Trees, deeply rooted in the ground,
Are shiver'd when they're torn away.

Vain joys, which envy'd greatness gains,
How do ye bind with silken claims,
Which ask Herculean strength to break!
How with new terrours have ye arm'd
The power whose slightest glance alarm'd!
How many deaths of one ye make!

Yet, dumb with wonder, I behold
Man's thoughtless race in errour bold,
Forget or scorn, the laws of death;
With these no projects coincide,
Nor vows nor toils, nor hopes they guide,
Each thinks he draws immortal breath.

Each blind to fate's approaching hour,
Intrigues, or fights for wealth or power,
And slumb'ring dangers dare provoke:
And he who tott'ring scarce sustains
A century's age, plans future gains,
And feels an unexpected stroke.

Go on, unbridled desp'rate band,
Scorn rocks, gulfs, winds, search sea and land,
And spoil new worlds wherever found.
Seize, haste to seize the glittering prize,
And sighs, and tears and prayers despise,
Nor spare the temple's holy ground.

They go, succeed, but look again,
The desperate hand you seek in vain,
Now trod in dust the peasant's scorn.
But who, that saw their treasures swell,
That heard th' insatiate rebel,
Would e'er have thought them mortal born?

See the world's victor mount his car,
Blood marks his progress wide and far,
Sure he shall reign while ages fly;
No, vanish'd like a morning cloud,
The hero was but just allow'd
To fight, to conquer, and to die.

And is it true, I ask with dread,
That nations heap'd on nations bled
Beneath his chariot's fervid wheel,
With trophies to adorn the spot,
Where his pale corse was left to rot,
And doom'd the hungry reptile's meal?

Yes, fortune weary'd with her play,
Her toy, this hero, casts away,
And scarce the form of man is seen:
Awe chills my breast, my eyes o'erflow,
Around my brows no roses glow,
The cypress mine, funereal green.

Yet in this hour of grief and fears,
When awful Truth unveil'd appears,
Some power unknown usurps my breast;
Back to the world my thoughts are led,
My feet in folly's labyrinth tread,
And Fancy dreams that life is blest.

How weak an empress is the mind,
Whom Pleasure's flowery wreaths can bind,
And captive to her altars lead!
Weak Reason yields to Frenzy's rage,
And all the world is Folly's stage,
And all that act are fools indeed.

And yet this strange and sudden flight,
From gloomy cares to gay delight,
This fickleness so light and vain,
In life's delusive transient dream,
Where men nor things are what they seem,
Is all the real good we gain.

_New Haven Gaz. and Conn. Mag._, I-339, Dec. 7, 1786, New Haven.

NARCISSA
[A poem, the third stanza of which is as follows:]

Perhaps, like Werter[40], pensive in the shade,
I mourn in vain, and curse relentless fate
Or while I love the sympathetic maid,
Adversity's black clouds around me wait.

_Columbian Mag. or Mo. Misc._, I-245, Jan. 1787, Phila.

[Footnote 40: An unfortunate lover.]

CHARLOTTE'S SOLILOQUY--TO THE MANES OF WERTER.
By the late doctor Ladd.

Why, Werter, dost thou leave me so?
I wander through the gloom:
And with the tears of silent woe,
Each night bedew thy tomb.

Why, Werter, dost thou leave me so?
Thy friends, thy kindred flee?
Dost thou no longer Charlotte know?
Have friends no charms for thee?

Why, Werter, dost thou leave me so,
All lonely, full of fears?
Behold thy friends are left to woe,
And Charlotte left in tears.

Why, Werter, dost thou leave me so,
To wander round thy tomb?
Alas! presentiments of woe
Foretold thy fatal doom.

Why Werter didst thou leave me so,
In terrible despair?
Those pistols did thy fate foreknow:
Ah! why was Charlotte there!

Why, Werter, didst thou leave me so?
Alas! thou wrong'dst my love,
To leave me weeping here below,
While thou art blest above.

Werter, thou shalt not leave me so:
We must not parted be:
I quit the world--to heav'n I go!
Werter, I fly to thee.

_Amer. Museum_, I-180, Feb. 1787, Phila.

DEATH OF WERTER.

I

And say, did Charlotte's hand these pistols give?
Come, ye dear pledges, sacred to my love--
Since giv'n by her, 'twould be a crime to live--
No; come ye pistols; all your death I prove.

II

But first one kiss, for there did Charlotte touch,
Ye sacred relics, now are ye most dear;
Tho' o'er your deeds will Charlotte sorrow much,
And even Albert drop a pitying tear.

III

May heav'n forgive the unconsider'd deed!
It gave me passions, nor could I controul:
But if, poor Werter, 'tis a crime to bleed,
The God of heav'n have mercy on thy soul.

IV

Charlotte I go!--my pistols have their load:
My last, my dying thoughts are fix'd on you!
I go! I go thro' death's untrodden road;
Once, and for ever, Charlotte--Oh! adieu!

_Amer. Museum_, I-474, May 1787, Phila.

WERTER'S EPITAPH.

I

Stranger! whoe'er thou art, that from below
This grass-green hill, with steady steps dost press;
Shed sympathetic tears; for stranger know,
Here lies the son of sorrow and distress.

II

Although his soul with ev'ry virtue mov'd,
Tho' at his birth deceitful fortune smil'd,
In one sad hour, too fatally he lov'd;
False fortune frown'd, and he was sorrow's child.

III

Heav'n gave him passions, as she virtue gave,
But gave not pow'r those passions to suppress:
By them subdu'd he slumbers in the grave--
The soul's last refuge from terrene distress.

IV

Around his tomb, the sweetest grass shall spring;
And annual flowers shall ever blossom here;
Here fairy forms their loveliest gifts shall bring,
And passing strangers shed the pitying tear.

_Amer. Museum_, I-474, May 1787, Phila.

[Dr. Ladd, _Werter's Epitaph_.]

DESCENT OF ODIN. AN ODE.

_New Haven Gaz. and Conn. Mag._, III-No. 21, May 29, 1788, New Haven.

[Thomas Gray, _Poems_. Publ. by Dodsley--London, July 1768. Publ. by Foulis--Glasgow, Sept. 1768.

Both editions contain the _Descent of Odin_. "The poem was written at Cambridge in 1761. It is a paraphrase of the ancient Icelandic lay called _Vegtams Kvida_, and sometimes _Baldrs draumar_. The original is to be found in Bartholinus, _de causis contemnendae mortis_; Hafniae, 1689, quarto. Gray has omitted to translate the first four lines." Cf. _Works of Thomas Gray_, ed. by Edmund Gosse. N. Y., 1885. I-60.]

CHARACTERISTIC SKETCH OF THE LONG ISLAND DUTCH.

Still on those plains their num'rous race survive,
And, born to labour, still are found to thrive;
Through rain and sunshine, toiling for their heirs,
They hold no nation on this earth like theirs.
Where'er they fix, all nature smiles around--
Groves bend with fruit, and plenty clothes the ground;
No barren trees to shade their domes, are seen;
Trees must be fertile, and their dwellings clean;
No idle fancy dares its whims apply,
Or hope attention from the master's eye.
All tends to something that must pelf produce,
All for some end, and ev'ry thing its use.
Eternal scow'rings keep their floors afloat,
Neat as the outside of the Sunday coat.
The wheel, the loom, the female band employ,--
These all their pleasure, these their darling joy.
The strong-ribb'd lass no idle passions move,
No nice ideas of romantic love;
He to her heart the readiest path can find,
Who comes with gold, and courts her to be kind.
She heeds not valour, learning, wit, or birth,
Minds not the swain--but asks him, what he's worth?
No female fears in her firm breast prevail,
The helm she governs, and she trims the sail;
In some small barque the way to market finds,
Hauls aft the sheet, or veers it to the winds:
While, lac'd ahead, subservient to her will,
Hans smokes his pipe, and wonders at her skill.
Health to their toils--thus may they still go on--
Curse on my pen! what virtues have I drawn!
Is this the gen'ral taste? No--truth replies--
If fond of beauty, guiltless of disguise,
See (where the social circle meant to grace)
The handsome Yorker shades her lovely face;
She, early led to happier talks at home,
Prefers the labours that her sex become;
Remote from view, directs some fav'rite art,
And leaves to hardier man the ruder part.

_Amer. Museum_, VII, Jan.-June 1790, Appendix I-42, Phila.

ON READING THE SORROWS OF WERTER.

Mistaken youth! thy love, to frenzy wrought,
Spurn'd calm reflection and each sober thought.
A little time had shewn e'en Charlotte's charms
Had shrunk and faded in a Werter's arms:
For guilt and meanness ne'er could dwell with thee;
And virtuous friendship soon had set thee free.
But hadst thou triumph'd o'er the fair one's fall,
Thou then, as now, hadst met the fatal ball;
Still keener anguish had attack'd thy mind
Than e'en now dying thy stung soul did find.
None dare say Mercy wont extend its aid; }
But who of that would not have been afraid, }
If with a kiss thou Charlotte hadst betray'd. }

--Laura.

_Universal Asylum and Columbian Mag._, V-269, Oct. 1790, Phila.

WERTER'S EPITAPH
By the late Dr. Ladd.

_Mass. Mag._, III-114, Feb. 1791, Boston.

[Also in _Amer. Museum_, I-474, May 1787, Phila.]

ELLA. A TALE.

History says that Sivard, King of Sweden, entered Norway with a numerous army, and committed the greatest enormities; but was at last overthrown, his army routed, and himself slain by one of those women whom he had brutally abused.

Between Norwegian hills wide spreads a plain,
By nature form'd for sport;
The Vet'ran warrior here, and hardy swain,
To annual games resort.

High o'er their heads was hung the hoary brow,
Which cast an ample shade;
From thence these words majestic seem'd to flow--
"Fierce foes your sports invade!"

They upward gaze--a warrior struck their sight;
He bore aloft his lance,
All sheath'd in arms, unsufferably bright,
Where beamy splendors dance.

The western sun-beam round his helmit flies,
He more than man appears;
And more than mortal seem'd to sound the voice
That rang upon their ears.

"Ye sons of Norway! harken to my tale,
"Your rural games oh cease;
"Sivard is marching thro' Dulvellon's vale,
"Break off the sports of peace!

"The bloody Sivard leads his conqu'ring Swedes,
"He riots in our shame;
"The man, the matron, and the infant bleeds--
"Norway is but a name!

"The husband sees--curse on the tyrant's lust--
"He sees his beauteous bride--
"Her virtue, worth, and honor in the dust--
"Oh where is Norway's pride!

"Rouse! rouse Norwegians! take your arms amain,
"Let helms o'ershade each brow;
"Let's meet these Swedish daemons in the plain,
"And lay their triumphs low.

"O had you seen what these poor eyes have seen!
"'Twas Sivard done the deed--
"Our hoary monarch, and our helpless queen,
"I--yes, I saw them bleed.

"Their daughter Ella--no, I will not tell!
"Norwegians ne'er enquire--
"Ne'er hear it--what the royal maid befel;
"I see your souls on fire.

"Oh seize your swords, your spears, helms, and shields!
"Oh vindicate your fame!
"Sivard and Sweden glare on Norway's fields;
"Remember Norway's name."

He said--tears flow apace, fierce glow the swains,
Rage fills each honest breast;
In Swedish blood to wipe away their stains,
Was ev'ry thought address'd.

Then red-hair'd Rollo, fierce advancing cri'd,--
"Who'er thou art, come down,
"We live on hills, to ev'ry toil we're tri'd,
"And war is all our own.

"Let Sivard come, we'll meet the tyrant here:
"But stranger come thou down."
He came--Old Athold gaz'd with look severe;--
He gaz'd--but ceas'd to frown.

"Or Athold has forgot his monarch's face,
"Or sure thou art his son!
"Eric, of mighty Norway's royal race!"--
Full quick the tidings run.

With shouts they press to see the beauteous chief;
The aged kiss his hand:
On either side, fast roll'd the marks of grief,
Then Athold spoke the band--

"Ye sons of Norway, to your homes repair,
"There seize the sword and shield,
"And ere the morning's purple streaks the air,
"Meet Eric in the field.

"Oh prince! do you with aged Athold go,
"And take refreshing sleep;
"Athold will sing and soothe the rising woe,
"Or break his harp and weep!"

'Twas night--in Athold's hall each took his place;
Of other times he sung;
Fast stream'd the tears adown the hero's face,
And groans responsive rung.

Bright came the morn; and bright in batter'd arms,
The rustic vet'rans came:
And many a youth, untri'd in rough alarms,
Now hop'd a patriot's name.

They heard from far the hum of Sivard's host;
Young Eric struck his shield;
Then high in air his heavy spear he tost,
And blaz'd along the field.

Next aged Athold follow'd; Rollo strong;
Black Calmar lifts his mace;
Culullin, Marco, Streno, rush along,
And all the rugged race.

Fierce came the Swede;--in strength of numbers proud;
He scorn'd his feeble foe;
But soon the voice of battle roar'd aloud,
And many a Swede lay low.

Strong Rollo struck the tow'ring Olaus dead,
Full fifteen bleed beside:
Old Athold cleft the brave Adolphus head,
In all his youthful pride.

But Eric! Eric! rang'd the field around,
On Sivard still he cri'd;
The gasping Swedes lay heap'd upon the ground--
Sivard! the hills repli'd.

In fury Sivard seiz'd his shining shield,
His mail, his helm, and spear;
He mounts his car, and thunders o'er the field;
Now Norway knows no fear.

Great Rollo falls beneath his dreadful arm,
His steeds are stain'd with blood;
Young Eric smil'd to hear the loud alarm,
And flew to stop the flood.

He rag'd, he foam'd--fierce flew the thirsty spear,
Down fell the foremost steed:
Astonish'd Sivard felt unusual fear,
"Tyrant thou'rt doom'd to bleed!"

Up sprang the youth--deep fell the sword,
Sunk in the tyrant's brow:
Fast fly the Swedes, and leave their hated lord,
His mighty pride laid low.

Now Norway's sons their great deliv'rer hail,
But lo! he bleeds! he falls!
Old Athold strips the helm and beamy mail,
And on his Gods he calls.

He lifts the helm, and down the snowy neck
Fast falls the silky hair--
And could those limbs, the conq'ring Sivard check!
Oh pow'r of great despair!

Life ebbs apace--she lifts her languid head,
She strives her hand to wave;
Confess to all, the beauteous Ella said--
"Thanks, thanks companions brave:

"Freedom rewards you--naught can Ella give,
"Low, low poor Ella lies;
"Sivard is dead! and Ella wou'd not live."
She bleeds--she faints--she dies!

_N. Y. Mag. or Lit. Repos._, II-235, Apr. 1791, N. Y.

PEASANT OF THE ALPS.

Where cliffs arise by Winter crown'd,
And through dark groves of pine around,
Down the deep chasms, the snowed torrents foam,
Within some hollow, shelter'd from the storms,
The PEASANT of the ALPS his cottage forms,
And builds his humble, happy home.

Unenvied is the rich domain,
That far beneath him on the plain,
Waves its wide harvests and its olive groves;
More dear to him his hut, with plantain thatch'd,
Where long his unambitious heart attach'd,
Finds all he wishes, all he loves.

There dwells the mistress of his heart,
And _Love_ who teaches ev'ry art,
Has bid him dress the spot with fondest care;
When borrowing from the vale its fertile soil,
He climbs the precipice with patient toil,
To plant her fav'rite flow'rets there.

With native shrubs, a hardy race,
There the green myrtle finds a place,
And roses there, the dewy leaves decline;
While from the crags' abrupt and tangled steeps,
With bloom and fruit the Alpine berry peeps,
And, blushing, mingles with the vine.

His garden's simple produce stor'd,
Prepared for him by hands ador'd
Is all the little luxury he knows:
And by the same dear hands are softly spread,
The Chamois' velvet spoil that forms the bed,
Where in her arms he finds repose.

But absent from the calm abode
Dark thunder gathers round his road,
Wild raves the wind, the arrowy light'nings flash,
Returning quick the murmuring rocks among,
His faint heart trembling as he winds along;
Alarm'd he listens to the crash.

Of rifted ice!--Oh, man of woe!
O'er his dear cot--a mass of snow,
By the storm sever'd from the cliff above,
Has fall'n--and buried in its marble breast,
All that for him--lost wretch--the world possest,
His home, his happiness, his love!

Aghast the heartstruck mourner stands!
Glaz'd are his eyes--convuls'd his hands,
O'erwhelming anguish checks his labouring breath;
Crush'd by Despair's intolerable weight,
Frantic he seeks the mountain's giddiest height,
And headlong seeks relief in death.

A fate too similar is mine,
But I--in ling'ring pain repine,
And still my last felicity deplore;
Cold, cold to me is that dear breast become,
Where this poor heart had fondly fix'd its home,
And love and happiness are mine no more.

_N. Y. Mag., or Lit. Repos._, III-443, July 1792, N. Y.

ELLA. A TALE.

_Lady's Mag. and Repos._, I-97, Jan. 1793, Phila.

[Also in _N. Y. Mag. or Lit. Repos._, II-235, Apr. 1791, N. Y.]

A GENERAL VIEW OF SWITZERLAND AND THE ALPS,
WITH AN AFFECTING ANECDOTE.

* * * * *

But to return to our Alps. Here, savage rocks of an inaccessible height; there, torrents bursting, as it were, from the clouds, and rolling down the rugged precipices:

The gay train,
Of fog, thick roll'd into romantic shape,

may, perhaps, excite your wonder, but not exceed the compass of your imagination. But how shall I convey to you an idea of the ever-varying and accidental beauties of this majestic scenery! Sometimes the vapour-winged tempest, flitting along some lonely vale, embrowns it with a solemn shade, whilst every thing around glitters in the fullness of meridian splendour. On a sudden, all is dark and gloomy; the thunder rolls from rock to rock, till echo seems tired with the dreadful repetition: add to this, the gradual approach of the evening, the last gleam of sunshine fading on the mountain-brow, the lingering twilight still warding off the veil of night, till the rising moon just continues, in vision, a glimmering of its faded glories:

Now all's at rest--and ere the wearied swain
Rise to his labour on the upland lawn,
Shall not the muse from nature catch a strain,
To wake, and greet him at the morning dawn?

Oh! let her tell him that the feeling heart,
Oft to the mountain side by memory led,
Shall seek those blessings wealth can ne'er impart,
And wish to share the quiet of his shed:

Where ev'ry sordid passion lull'd to rest,
Man knows each gift of nature how to prize:
Flies from the storm unto his fair one's breast,
And there reposing waits serener skies.

Say, ye proud sons of fortune and of power,
Can aught the joys you feel, with these compare?
Can the full triumph of ambition's hour,
When tempests threaten, sooth your anxious care?

Or shall the tenant of yon lonely cot,
That smiles with pity on your pageant state,
Pleas'd with his poor but independent lot,
Expose the wretchedness of being great?

Unknown to you, the houseless child of woe,
The friendless pilgrim, or the hungry poor;
Unleft the good ye carelessly bestow,
The hand that feeds them, drives them from your door.

Here cruel charity no off'ring makes,
That whilst it aids, insults the big distress,
The heart that welcomes, ev'ry grief partakes,
And only pities where it can't redress.

Such are the scenes, my dear Lord, such the hospitality I am now going to quit. I know not why I wished to jingle their virtues into rhyme, unless it was, that my prose began to run upon stilts, or that I mistook a momentary enthusiasm for a poetical inspiration. In fact, every thought and conception is so far raised above the common train of ideas, that the error is excusable, especially too when the imaginary poet sets out with

Sublimi seriens sidera vertice.

* * * * *

Adieu,
Ever your's.

_Lady's Mag. and Repos._, I-253, May 1793, Phila.

A DUTCH PROVERB.

_Weekly Museum_, VII, Mar. 14, 1795, N. Y.

[Also in _Boston Mag._, III-81, Feb. 1786, Boston.]

A DUTCH PROVERB.

_Phila. Minerva_, I, May 16, 1795, Phila.

[Also in _Boston Mag._, III-81, Feb. 1786, Boston.]

VERSES BY THE LATE KING OF PRUSSIA.

_Rural Mag. or Vt. Repos._, I-494, Oct. 1795, Rutland.

[Same as _The Relaxation of War_ in _Amer. Mag. or Mo. Chron._, I-440, June 1758, Phila.]

For the Weekly Museum.
THE GOTHIC CASTLE.

"The Days of Chivalry are gone."
Burke's Letter on the French Revolution.

See! now the landscape fades away,
As westward flies the orb of day:
See the solemn night appear,
With silence her sedate compeer.

Hark! the surgy shore resounds,
As from the rocks the wave rebounds:
Rocks, on whose o'er-hanging brows,
The ragged surf-fed samphire grows.

Lo! the beacon's distant rays
O'er the waste of water plays,
Friendly to the port-bound bark,
On his watch, the seaman's mark.

Mark! yon dreary Gothic pile,
--Where murder oft did glut and smile,--
Dungeons dire of vanquish'd hosts,
--Hark! the screams of wandering ghosts!--

Now a double gloom is spread
O'er each turret's murky head,
While from th' Owlet's dismal cry
Intruding joys affrighted fly.

Ye vengeful walls for ruin built!
Scenes accurs'd of hell-born guilt!
Direful were your fierce alarms--
Hist! the sentry calls--"To arms!"

How many barons here were slain,
In coats of armour lock'd in vain!--
How many feudal vassals dy'd,
Ebbing here life's crimson tide!

What secret woes lay close immur'd!
What anguish wretches erst endur'd!
When in your sable cells confin'd
Oppression's chosen victims pin'd.

How sullen stands yon rugged tow'r!
Seems it not on the cot to low'r?
As it looks, with proud disdain,
O'er the wide-extended plain.

Here the feudal times I trace;
The lordling's power--the poor's disgrace--
Here while it moulders, all may see
"A Monument of Chivalry."

Aug. 13, 1796.
ORLANDO.

_Weekly Museum_, IX, Aug. 13, 1796, N. Y.

PEASANT OF THE ALPS.

_Phila. Minerva_, III, Aug. 19, 1797, Phila.

[Also in _N. Y. Mag. or Lit. Repos._, III-443, July 1792, N. Y.]

BY THE LATE KING OF PRUSSIA.

_Rural Mag._, I, July 21, 1798, Newark.

[Same as _The Relaxation of War_ in _Amer. Mag. or Mo. Chron._, I-440, June 1758, Phila.]

THE WATER-KING.

A Danish Ballad. By the Author of Alonzo the Brave.

[The poem follows.]

Since writing these stanzas, I have met with two old Scotch ballads which have some resemblance with "The Water King"; one is called "May Colvin," and relates the story of a king's daughter who was beguiled from her father's house by a false Sir John; the other, intitled "Clerk Colvil," treats of a young man who fell into the snares of a false mermaid; the latter, indeed, bears a still stranger resemblance to the Danish tradition of "The Erl-King's Daughter." The fragment of "The Water King" may be found in "Herder's Volkslieder."

Many inquiries have been made respecting the elementary monarchs mentioned a few pages back; I must inform my readers that all I know respecting the Water King (called in the German translation "Der Wasser-Mann") and the Erl-King (called in German Erlkoenig) is gathered from the foregoing ballad and two others which I shall here insert. With respect to the Fire King and the Cloud King, they are entirely of my own creation; but if my readers choose to ascribe their birth to the "Comte de Gabalis," they are very welcome.

_Weekly Mag._, III-92, Aug. 18, 1798, Phila.

[J. G. Herder, _Der Wassermann_ in the Fourth Book (_Nordische Lieder_) of _Stimmen der Voelker in Liedern_. Trans. from the German.

M. G. Lewis, _The Monk_ and _Tales of Wonder_. Cf. note to _The Erl-King_ in _Weekly Mag._, III-93, Aug. 18, 1798.]

WERTER'S FAREWELL TO CHARLOTTE.

"Sunt lacrimae rerum; et mentem mortalia tangunt."

Virg. Ae. I-466.

The conflict's o'er--ah! lovely maid, adieu!
Before these sad, these parting lines, you view;
Before the fields with early dawn shall bloom,
Your Werter rests beneath the silent tomb:
No more to view the beauties of the day,
No more to listen to thy heavenly lay,
To sit, in transport, and to hear thee talk,
Or with thee wander, in an ev'ning walk,
Along the margin of the winding flood,
Thro' the green fields, or in the shady wood.
O! Charlotte! when you see the floods arise,
And wintry storms descending from the skies,
The wat'ry gloom that fills the plain below,
And all around one dreary waste of snow;
Will you not then, a sigh in sorrow heave,
For the lost pleasures of a summer's eve,
Recall the time when you so oft have seen
Thy hapless lover on the verdant green,
Or thro' the vale approaching from the grove,
To view thy charms and pine in hopeless love,
Gaze on thy angel form, for without she,
The world appear'd a boundless blank to me.
As when to seamen, from the midnight skies
The moon's bright beams in brilliant glory rise,
To guide them wand'ring thro' the wat'ry plain,
Or land them on their native shores again;
Thus, Charlotte, I no other joy could see,
Than pass the vacant day, and gaze on thee,
Live in thy joys, or in thy sorrows die,
"And drink delicious poison from thine eye,"
As the lost insect round the taper flies,
And courts the fatal flame by which it dies.
But, Charlotte, now those fleeting joys are fled,
And Werter sinks among the silent dead
From the bright hopes of life forever gone,
His mem'ry lost, and e'en his name unknown,
The time shall come, when in the vacant mind,
The fondest friend no trace of me shall find;
When e'en my kindred my sad fate shall hear,
And view my mould'ring grave without a tear,
Think on the light impressions of the mind,
Which flee as midnight dreams, and leave no trace behind.
This eve I wander'd thro' each beauteous scene,
Each fertile valley, and each level green,
Pensive and sad I view'd the foaming flood;
And the wild winds disturb the silent wood.
Beheld the sun's great orb, in glory bright,
Descend behind the western surge in night;
While on the hill to see its beams, I stood,
And view'd it sinking in the briny flood,
I felt my heart with double sorrows prest,
And life's last hope desert my throbbing breast;
The world's vast scene forever clos'd from sight,
And all involv'd in one eternal night.
Ah! shall I ne'er again thy image know,
In these sad realms of misery and woe,
Or is there yet a place in heaven design'd,
For hapless mortals by th' eternal mind,
Some winding valley, or some shady grove,
Some blissful mansions in the realms above,
Where Charlotte's shade and mine may one day meet,
Our suff'rings ended and our bliss complete,
In the bright regions of eternal light,
Where all is perfect joy and pure delight.
When in the summer's eve you chance to stray
Thro' the low vale, or on the broad highway,
Or in the churchyard, thro' the shady trees,
You hear the whistling of the midnight breeze,
Wave high the grass, in solitary gloom,
Around the heap that shews thy lover's tomb--
Ah, then will you not one sad thought bestow,
On him who could no greater blessing know
Than pass the hour with fleeting joys with thee,
Gaze on thy charms and watch thy wand'ring eye,
Observe the beauteous image of thy mind,
Disclose a soul for heaven alone design'd,
Or view thy distant form amidst the trees,
And thy white tresses floating in the breeze;
Or see thy fingers strike, with tender lays,
Such notes as bards in heaven alone can raise;
Such notes as Orpheus' self might lean to hear,
And force from Pluto's soul the melting tear.
Yes, Charlotte's self, my sad remains shall see,
And Charlotte's tender heart will heave a sigh for me.

_Dessert to the True American_, I-No. 20, Nov. 24, 1798, [Phila.].

The following burlesque on the style, in which most of the German romantic ballads are written, is replete with wit and humour; and we trust will prove amusing even to the greatest admirers of that style of writing. It is only necessary to premise that Lord Hoppergallop has left his servant maid at his country mansion, where she has fallen with the gardener.

Cold blows the blast:--the night's obscure:
The mansion's crazy wainscots crack:
The sun had sunk:--and all the moor,
Like ev'ry other moor--was black.

Alone, pale, trembling, near the fire,
The lovely Molly Dumpling sat,
Much did she fear, and much admire,
What Thomas, gard'ner could be at.

Listening, her hand supports her chin,
But, ah! no foot is heard to stir:
He comes not, from the garden, in;
Nor he, nor little Bobtail cur.

They cannot come, sweet maid, to thee!
Flesh, both of cur and man, is grass!
And what's impossible, can't be;
And never, never, comes to pass!

She paces through the hall antique,
To call her Thomas from his toil;
Opes the huge door;--the hinges creak,--
Because the hinges wanted oil.

Thrice on the threshold of the hall,
She "Thomas" cried, with many a sob;
And thrice on Bobtail did she call,
Exclaiming sweetly--"Bob! Bob! Bob!"

Vain maid! a gard'ners corpse, 'tis said
In answers can but ill succeed;
And, dogs that hear when they are dead
Are very cunning dogs, indeed!

Back through the hall she bent her way,
All, all was solitude around!
The candle shed a feeble ray--
Though a large mould of four to th' pound.

Full closely to the fire she drew;
Adown her cheek a salt tear stole,
When, lo! a coffin out there flew,
And in her apron burnt a hole!

Spiders their busy death watch tick'd;
A certain sign that fate will frown;
The clumsy kitchen clock, too, click'd;
A certain sign it was not down.

More strong and strong her terrors rose;--
Her shadow did the maid appal;--
She trembled at her lovely nose--
It look'd so long against the wall.

Up to her chamber, damp and cold,
She clim'd lord Hoppergallop's stair;--
Three stories high, long, dull and old--
As great lords' stories often are.

All Nature now appear'd to pause;
And "o'er the one half world seem'd dead;"
No "curtain'd sleep" had she;--because
She had no curtains to her bed.

Listening she lay;--with iron din,
The clock struck twelve; the door flew wide;
When Thomas grimly glided in,
With little Bobtail by his side.

Tall, like the poplar, was his size;
Green, green his waistcoat was, as leeks,
Red, red as beet root, were his eyes;
And, pale, as turnips, were his cheeks!

Soon as the spectre she espied,
The fear struck damsel faintly said,
"What would my Thomas?"--he replied,
"O! Molly Dumpling! I am dead."

"All in the flower of youth I fell,
Cut off with health's full blossom crown'd;
I was not ill--but in the well
I tumbled backwards, and was drown'd.

"Four fathom deep thy love doth lie;
His faithful dog his fate doth share;
We're friends;--this is not he and I;
We are not here--for we are there.

"Yes;--two foul water fiends are we;
Maid of the moor! attend us now!
Thy hour's at hand;--we come for thee!
The little fiend cur said "bow wow!"

"To wind her in her cold grave,
A Holland sheet a maiden likes;
A sheet of water thou shalt have;
Such sheets there are in Holland dykes."

The fiends approach; the maid did shrink;
Swift through the night's foul air they spin;
They took her to the green well's brink,
And, with a souse, they plump'd her in.

_Dessert to the True American_, I-No. 27, Jan. 12, 1799, Phila.

[The author evidently had Buerger's _Lenore_ in mind when writing the above.]

[Burlesque on the Style, in which most of the German romantic Ballads are written.]

_Phil. Repos._, I-328, Aug. 22, 1801, Phila.

[Also in _Dessert to the True American_, I-No. 27, Jan. 12, 1799, Phila.]

For the Port Folio.
AN AUTHOR'S EVENINGS.
From the shop of Messrs. Colon and Spondee.