Translations of German Poetry in American Magazines 1741-1810

by Edward Ziegler Davis

FOOTNOTES:

[33] Parody on Bürger's Earl Walter in Port Folio, III-44, Jan. 17, 1807. Cf. p. [165].

[34] I have not been able to discover what these volumes were. There is a short note in the German, which implies that they were entitled Dulder Soudth.

III.
TRANSLATIONS OF DUTCH, DANISH, NORWEGIAN AND ICELANDIC POETRY, AND ORIGINAL POEMS
REFERRING TO THE GERMAN COUNTRIES.

---

We hear from Annopolis-Royal that a play was acted the last Winter for the Entertainment of the Officers and Ladies at that Place and that the following Lines were Part of the Prologue compos'd and spoke on that Occasion.

Whilst to relieve a generous Queen's Distress,
Whom proud, ambitious Potentates oppress:
Our king pursues the most effectual Ways,
Sooths some to Peace, and there the Storm allays;
And against others, who're more loath to yield,
He leads his Britons to the German Field:
Where to his Cost th' insulting Foe has found
What 'tis with Britons to dispute the Ground:
We still enjoying Peace in this cold Clime,
With innocent diversions pass our Time, &c.

Amer. Mag. and Hist. Chron., I-348, Apr. 1744, Boston.

WINTER, A POEM.

By the same [i. e., Annandius].

The twelfth stanza:

Thrice happy they! but why my muse,
To rural pastimes so profuse?
The crouded city surely yields,
More joy than ice and snowy fields?
Here folks are witty and well dress'd,
And blooming beauty is caress'd
In ev'ry form art can devise—
With soothing flattery solemn lies,
And all that nymphs deluded prize
Here fashions reign, and modes prevail,
And in twelve moons again grow stale,
Thus ever vary, ever change,
Yet ever please—a thing most strange!
And here each thing is told that's new
What Loundoun or what Richlieu do,
Each secret expedition too—
And then great Frederick's noble feats,
When he th' imperial forces beats.
Such themes the lazy hours beguile;
There's nothing else that's worth our while.

---

Amer. Mag. and Mo. Chron., I-238, Feb. 1758, Phila.

To the Proprietors, &c.

Gentlemen:

The honour of becoming a father has made me desirous of ushering the following Ode into the world, which is my own true, honest, and lawfully begotten birth. I, therefore know of no better method than to commit it to the care of gentlemen of your abilities and public character; for if it remains with me it must live and die in obscurity.

Philadelphia, February 25th. Philandreia.

ON THE COMPLEAT VICTORY GAIN'D BY
HIS PRUSSIAN MAJESTY OVER THE FRENCH
AND IMPERIAL ARMY, THE 5TH OF
NOVEMBER, 1757.

A Pindaric Ode.

'Tis he! 'tis he! I hear him from afar,
Thundering like the God of War;
To Rosbach's plains, in dread array,
The god-like hero bends his way!
Hark! the rattling rumbling noise of drums!
He comes, he comes!
See, Prussia's awful king's at hand!
He speaks, he speaks! attentive stand!
His well known voice, the gallant warriours hear,
And bend their wide-extended wings both front and rear,
Which half enclose him round.
Stern as the face of war, and yet serene,
With grace attractive, and majestic mein,
Was the mighty monarch seen.
With martial rage each bosom glow'd,
While from his lips those moving accents flow'd—
'My valiant troops, my dear and trusty friends,
'The hour at last is come, in which depends
'What ever is, or should to us be dear,
'Upon the sword-unsheath'd, and glitt'ring spear.
'For Protestants-unborn you fight: Your cause is good,
'Which you have yet maintain'd, thro' seas of richest blood.
'And, bear me witness, that your Prince thus far,
'Hath shar'd each danger in this glorious war;
'Nor shall it e'er by envious[35] tongue be told
'Your leader shrunk from watching, hunger, cold,
'And left the burden to his vet'rans bold
'Oh! no; my faithful bands!
'With you your Fred'rick stands,
'For Freedom ready to impart
'Those crimson drops that roll around his heart'—
He spoke: And acclamations loud,
Like thunder bursting from a cloud,
Struck th' approaching foe with awe;
And the madly-floating sound
Fill'd the wide extended plains around,
With the wild Huzza.
Each warrior, big with rage,
Stands panting to engage;
And now the voice of furious Joy
Again bursts forth into the vaulted sky;
And the rude rocks rebound
The warlike trumpet's solemn sound—
"Destroy! destroy! destroy!"
As water roaring from a mountain's side
Tears down whole rocks with its impetuous tide;
And rolling through the plains with furious sweep,}
Bears off the shepherd's cottage, and his sheep,}
Into the surging of th' astonish'd deep;}
So each band,
Sword in hand,
Pour'd on the foe;
Thund'ring, flashing,
Fiercely clashing
Arms on Arms—
Glory's Charms,
Fir'd each breast with martial glow,
Ah, see what piteous scenes appear.
When warriors yield their breath;
Now dying groans invade the ear,
They sink in glorious death.
Prussian rage the foe confounds,
Some stagger, fall, are slain,
Some cover'd o'er with blood and wounds,
Lie weltring on the plain,
Surpriz'd and confounded,
With horror surrounded,
And pale fear half dead,
They're vanquish'd and fled.
Hark! hark! the trumpet's sound
A shout for Victory spreads around;
And Victory the vales,
And Victory the dales,
And Victory the tufted hills rebound!
When muttering thunders roll along the sky.
You may have seen the winged lightnings fly;
Quick as thought, the flashes glance
Thro' th' immensurable wide expanse—
So nimble warriours flew,
When they gave their foes the rout,
With this universal shout,
"Pursue! pursue! pursue!"
O'er carcasses of heroes slain,
The mighty victors rode,
Where shiver'd armour strew'd the plain
Empurpled o'er with blood;
Now thund'ring on their broken rear,
He spreads destruction, death and fear,
Till day forsakes him, and the sullen night,
In thickest gloom of hov'ring shades, descends
To the assistance of her ghastly friends,
And screens the vanquish'd from the victor's sight!

Amer. Mag. and Mo. Chron., I-240, Feb. 1758, Phila.

ODE ON THE LATE VICTORY OBTAINED
BY THE KING OF PRUSSIA,

By the same [i. e., Annandius].

I.
Hail matchless monarch! prince renown'd!
Long be thy head with laurels crown'd,
By victories obtained!
For liberty long hast thou stood,
In crimson fields of war and blood
That peace may be regain'd.

II.
When Austria and aspiring Gaul
Determin'd kingdoms to enthral,
Lo Prussia's pow'rful prince!
With watchful eye and warlike hand,
Makes them aghast and trembling stand,
Rais'd up by providence.

III.
As when a Lion rears his head,
The forest wide is fill'd with dread,
Each creature seeks his den;
Or when Leviathan the great
Displays himself in finny state
He terrifies the main.

IV.
In fair record shall long remain
The Day, when on Thuringia's plain
Soubise before him fled;
When Hilbourghausen's num'rous band
'Gainst Prussian valor could not stand,
With terror almost dead.

V.
With haste they fled, and bless'd the night,
Which hid them from the victor's sight,
And favoured their retreat.
Near Freybourg walls, the Unstrut pass'd.
On hills of Eckersberg harras'd,
They mourn'd their adverse fate.

VI.
O glorious prince! O warlike train!
Who hunger, cold and toil sustain
With brave unyielding mind!
To you proud Austria shall submit,
And Louis lovingly shall greet
The Prussian as his friend.

VII.
In characters of purest gold
Thy speech deserves to be enroll'd,
Before the battle made;
Each Soldier stil'd great Fred'rick's friend,
Who can his country's rights defend
When her fierce foes invade.

VIII.
Who would, in battle lag behind,
That serves a prince so great, so kind,
In every danger near?
When monarchs' lives are laid at stake,
What subject would his king forsake?
What room is left for fear?

IX.
Europe on thee has fix'd her eye,
Great monarch! All on thee rely
Her balance just to keep.
May this great end thy labours crown,
Be sempiternal thy renown,
When thou in dust shall sleep.

Philadelphia, February 10, 1758.

Amer. Mag. and Mo. Chron., I-240, Feb. 1758, Phila.

The same worthy motives that induced the author to send us the following poem, will induce us to give it place this month, altho we are already crowded with materials. We think it our duty, as Britons and Protestants, to take every opportunity of celebrating such an illustrious hero as the King of Prussia; and, however unequal the strains may be thought, yet if they contribute ever so little to raise an imitation of his noble and almost divine atchievments, in the cause of Religion and Liberty, our end will be fully answered.

ON THE GLORIOUS VICTORY OBTAINED BY
THE HEROICK KING OF PRUSSIA OVER THE
IMPERIAL ARMY NEAR NEWMARK IN
SILESIA THE 5TH DECEMBER 1757.

I.
My muse! again attempt the lyre;
Rouse! rouse! thy whole poetic fire!
Great Fredrick's deeds do still require
More ample praise.
Let his great acts the verse inspire,
And tuneful be thy lays.

II.
Illustrious Hannibal of old,
Caesar the brave and Scipio bold,
For battles won stand high enroll'd
In hist'ry's page!
Let Fred'rick's name with theirs be told,
The Hero of his age!

III.
Rosbach! thy plain the Victor owns!
'Twas fill'd with shrieks and dying groans,
And mangled limbs and shatter'd bones—
In heaps they lay!
The vanquished Gaul as yet bemoans
That inauspicious day.

IV.
Yea Fred'rick bent on conquests new,
Doth Alexander-like pursue,
As if the world he would subdue—
Undaunted prince!
That thou 'rt a Hero great and true
Each action doth evince.

V.
Silesia first demands relief,
His losses there augment his grief;
Thitherward the Prussians and their Chief,
To Bevern's aid
Make hasty marches; and in brief
Their parts they nobly play'd.

VI.
See! see! the godlike Man proceed!
And vet'ran bands to battle lead,
Inur'd to toil, and warlike deed,
A hardy race!
Such troops are princes' friends indeed,
And do their Leader grace.

VII.
The trumpet's sound, and loudest noise
Of martial drums, increase their joys;
Not by compulsion led, but choice,
And bold to fight,
Their Country's cause in mind they poise;
War! War! is their delight!

VIII.
Now they engage with furious shout;
And join in battle fierce and stout,
Th' invet'rate Foe at length they rout;
And loud they cry—
O! matchless Prussians! ne'er give out;
Pursue! Cut off! Destroy!

IX.
Th' intrepid victors far and near
Spread fierce destruction on the rear,
Their enemies with trembling fear
Their arms lay down;
Who whilom haughty and severe,
Had deem'd the field their own.

X.
See them triumphant bear away
Th' imperial standards waving gay!
A thousand trophies line the way;
As they return,
Beneath their feet, a hapless prey,
The vanquish'd mourn.

XI.
Behold the blood impurpled plain,
And shiver'd armour of the slain!
Their dreams of honour, ah! how vain?
Gasping they lie!
Now of their wounds complain,
Now sink and faint and die.

XII.
Such is th' event of human things,
The fates of emp'rors and of kings;
Death in the rear disaster brings,
Dreadful to see!
Such as great Pope or Homer sings,
Strains far too high for me.

XIII.
But Charles and valiant Daun retreat,
Who lately led an army great—
At Breslau now in shatter'd state
They rendezvous:
And there bemoan their adverse fate,
And dismal overthrow.

XIV.
The Prussian Chief pursues with speed,
At his approach they're fill'd with dread,
From whose terrific arm, dismay'd,
So late they flew!
O Fredrick! matchless prince, proceed,
Thy glorious course pursue!

XV.
To him those Heros yield the town,
And him a greater Hero own;
Who soon its walls could batter down,
And lay them low.
Long may he wear the Prussian Crown,
And curb each haughty Foe.

—Annandius.

March 11th, 1758.

Amer. Mag. and Mo. Chron., I-279, Mar. 1757, Phila.

A LITERAL TRANSLATION OF THE KING
OF PRUSSIA'S ODE.

I.
Oh God! all powerful God!
Invincible, unknown!
Creator, father of all;
Whom every nation implores;
Whom the Barbarian worships in the wind.
By what name will it please thee
That I shall address thee? Oh infinite,
All wise, and eternal spirit!
At the foot of thy sacred throne I most humbly bow my head.

II.
Forsaken by my only friends,
In a strange country,
Where winter was near killing us;
The enraged enemy on every side,
With their savage instruments,
The sword and fire consuming,
As if sacrificers,
They came with their deadly rage,
And hasten'd to destroy us with cries of triumph.

III.
But in thy penetrating view,
How vain are powerful troops!
I, still intrepid, dare the combat;
My buckler and my lance being my cause:
And behold the armies meet;
They turn their backs, we following to punish:
Victorious each of my soldiers
Seems to carry of war
The most terrible thunder;
And every arm is a thousand in the fury of the combat.

IV.
Then I owe thee success
To fortune! why so?
Justice succoured me;
From on high she cast down her eyes;
And when she perceived the contending parties,
She lifted up her hand to weigh
The right of each side,
And as she found the balance incline, she employ'd her sword.

The King of Prussia employs himself in times of peace in the following manner: He rises at five; on business till seven; dresses, and receives letters and petitions till nine; from nine to eleven with his ministers; then on the parade, to exercise the guards; dines at half an hour after twelve with some of his officers; at half an hour after one he retires till five; then somebody reads to him till seven; then the concert; at nine come the men of genius; they sup half an hour after, and converse till eleven; then the king retires, and at twelve goes to bed.—He is a statesman, soldier, author, and musician; indefatigable in business; and by method overlooks and directs everything; very frugal; without farce of state; the idle officers of the court have the usual titles; but no pay for the drones, tho' they are mostly officers.

THE THIRD PSALM PARAPHRASED, ALLUDING
TO HIS PRUSSIAN MAJESTY.

Look down, O God! regard my cry!
On thee my hopes depend:
I'm close beset, without ally;
Be thou my shield and friend.
Confed'rate kings and princes league,
On ev'ry side attack
To perpetrate the black intrigue
But thou canst drive them back,
Long did I fear their wink and nod;
In close cabals they cry'd,
There is no help for him in God;
His kingdom we'll divide.
Amid their army's dreadful glare
Thou gav'st me inward might,
Teaching my arm the art of war,
My fingers how to fight.
Tho' vet'ran troops my camp invest,
Expert in war's alarms,
Calmly I lay me down to rest
In thy protecting arms.
Nor will I fear their empty boasts,
Tho' thousands thousands join;
Since thou art stil'd the God of hosts,
And victory is thine.
Arise, O God, and plead my cause,
O! save me by thy pow'r;
If e'er I reverenc'd thy laws,
Guide this important hour!
'Tis done!—they shudder with dismay;
My troops maintain their ground:
Lo! their embattl'd lines give way,
And we are victors crown'd!
Success, ye kings, is not your gift;
To heav'n it does belong:
The race not always to the swift
Nor battle to the strong.

New Amer. Mag., No. IV-78, Apr. 1758, Woodbridge in N. J.

SPEECH OF THE PRINCE OF BRUNSWICK
TO THE HANOVERIAN AND HESSIAN
TROOPS.

To injured troops thus gallant Brunswick spoke;
'Shall we with tameness bear the Gallic yoke!
'Will ye, O Veterans, inur'd to pains
'And toils of War, drag ignominious chains?
'Turn and behold! behold where hostile bands
'Seize on your properties, lay waste your lands,
'Your daughters, wives, snatch'd forcibly away,
'Slaves to proud Gallia's sons, to best a prey!
'Hark! how with piercing Cries, the tender Maid,
'By force subdu'd, implores her father's aid;
'In agonies repeats her brother's name,
'To flay the ruffians and preserve her fame!
'Rouze! Germans! rouze! a glorious vengeance take;
'Religion, honour, freedom, all's at stake!'
... "Enough," they cry'd, "let Ferdinand proceed,
"We dare to follow, where he dares to lead."
Fir'd by their country's wrongs, to arms they fly,
Resolv'd to save her, or resolved to die.

New Amer. Mag., No. IV-80, Apr. 1758, Woodbridge in N. J.

ON A CARGO OF FRENCH MUFFS SEIZ'D
BY THE PRUSSIANS.

Lewis, the winter harsh, and climate rough,
To each of his nice captains, sends a muff,
Knowing his troops too tender to resist
The foe, without a furr to guard his wrist;
For who could prime his gun, or pistol hold,
Whose aching fingers were benumbed with cold.
Prussia, a different scheme in war approves;
Whose hardy veterans charge without their gloves.
Defy the rigour of the chilling air,
And fight, and conquer with their knuckles bare.
Bourbon! if wreathes and triumphs are thy aim,
Think of some wiser way to purchase fame:
Some other arts thy rival to subdue,
Soft muffs, without keen swords, will never do;
Thy shivering troops would act a better part,
Would'st thou send something that could warm their heart;
Less for their valour than their heels admir'd
With fighting oft' ... with flying seldom tir'd,
Success thy arms would never fail to meet,
Were battles to be won by nimble feet.

New Amer. Mag., No. IV-80, Apr. 1758, Woodbridge in N. J.

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 Cæsars, 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.

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 Cæsar'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 Cæsarian 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.

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 Brüin
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 Brüin.

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.

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 contemnendæ mortis; Hafniæ, 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 dæmons 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."

Orlando.

Aug. 13, 1796.

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 Erlkönig) 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 Völker 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 Bürger'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.

Among the newest and most delightful miscellanies, lately received from England, may be ranked a poetical work, entitled "Tales of Terror." This is partly intended as a burlesque of the various ballads in Lewis's celebrated romance, "The Monk." We well remember, that this member of the British parliament has amused himself, and alarmed his readers, by resorting to the cells of Gothic superstition, and invoking all the forms of German horror, to appal every timid heart. Hence, we have been haunted by ghosts of all complexions; and "Cloud Kings," and "Water Kings," and "Fire Kings," have been crowned by this poetical magician, to rule with despotism in the realms of Fancy. A lively satirist, endowed with the gifts of Genius, easy in versification, pleasant in his humour, and inimitably successful in parody, has, in some of his "Tales of Terror" undertaken to mock the doleful tones of Mr. Lewis's muse, or shall we rather say the hoarse caw of the German raven. The midnight hour has been beguiled, by transcribing the following sarcasm, founded on a well-known nursery story, and our readers will thank us for sitting up so late for their amusement.

THE WOLF KING;
OR
LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD.

An Old Woman's Tale.

Veteres avias tibi de pulmone revello Persius.

Translated from the Danish of the author of the Water King, etc., and respectfully inscribed to M. G. Lewis, Esq., M.P., as an humble attempt to imitate his excellent version of that celebrated ballad.

The birds they sung, the morning smil'd
The mother kiss'd her darling child,
And said ... "My dear, take custards three,
And carry to your grandmummie."

The pretty maid had on her head
A little riding hood of red,
And as she pass'd the lonely wood,
They call'd her small red riding hood.

Her basket on her arm she hung,
And as she went thus artless sung:
"A lady lived beneath a hill,
Who if not gone, resides there still."

The wolf king saw her pass along,
He ey'd her custards heard her song,
And cried "That child and custards three
This evening shall my supper be!"

Now swift the maid pursu'd her way,
And heedless trill'd her plaintive lay;
Nor had she pass'd the murky wood,
When lo! the wolf king near her stood.

"Oh! stop my pretty child so gay!
Oh! whither do you bend your way?"
"My little self and custards three
Are going to my grandmummie."

"While you by yonder mountain go,
On which the azure blue bells grow,
I'll take this road; then haste thee, dear,
Or I before you will be there.

"And when our racing shall be done,
A kiss you forfeit, if I've won;
Your prize shall be, if first you come,
Some barley sugar and a plumb."

"Oh! thank you, good sir Wolf," said she,
And dropt a pretty courtesie:
The little maid then onward hied,
And sought the blue bell mountain side.

The wolf sped on o'er marsh and moor,
And faintly tapp'd at granny's door:
"Oh! let me in, grandmummy good,
For I am small red riding hood."

"The bobbin pull (the grandam cried),
The door will then fly open wide."
The crafty wolf the bobbin drew,
And straight the door wide open flew.

He pac'd the bed room eight times four,
And utter'd thrice a hideous roar;
He pac'd the bed room nine times three,
And then devour'd poor grandmummie.

He dash'd her brains out on the stones,
He gnaw'd her sinews, crack'd her bones;
He munch'd her heart, he quaff'd her gore,
And up her lights and liver tore.[41]!!!!

Grandmummy's bed he straight got in,
Her night-cap tied beneath his chin;
And, waiting for his destin'd prey,
All snug between the sheets he lay.

Now at the door a voice heard he,
Which cried ... "I've brought you custards three;
Oh! let me in, grandmummy good,
For I am small red riding hood."

"The bobbin pull (the wolf king cried),
The door will then fly open wide."
The little dear the bobbin drew,
And straight the door wide open flew.[42]

She plac'd the custards on the floor,
And sigh'd ... "I wish I'd brought you four.[43]
I'm very tir'd, dear grandmummie;
Oh! may I come to bed to thee?"

"Oh come! (the wolf king softly cried),
And lie, my sweet one, by my side:"
Ah! little thought the child so gay
The cruel wolf king near her lay!

"Oh! tell me, tell me, granny dear,
Why does your voice so gruff appear?"
"Oh! hush, sweetheart (the wolf king said),
I've got a small cold in my head!"

"Oh! tell me, grandmummie so kind,
Why you've a tail grows out behind?"
"Oh! hush thee, hush thee, pretty dear,
My pincushion I hang on there!"

"Why do your eyes so glare on me?"
"They are your pretty face to see."
"Why do your ears so long appear?"
"They are your pretty voice to hear."

"Oh! tell me, granny, why to-night
Your teeth appear so long and white?"[44]
Then, growling, cried the wolf so grim,
"They are to tear you limb from limb!"

His hungry teeth the wolf king gnash'd,
His sparkling eyes with fury flash'd,
He op'd his jaws all sprent with blood,
And fell on small red riding hood.

He tore her bowels out one and two,
"Little maid, I will eat you!"
But when he tore out three and four,
The little maid she was no more!

Take warning hence, ye children fair;
Of wolves' insidious arts beware;
And, as you pass each lonely wood,
Ah! think of small red riding hood!

With custards sent, nor loiter slow,
Nor gather blue bells as you go;
Get not to bed with grandmummie,
Lest she a ravenous wolf should be!

Port Folio, II-173, June 5, 1802, Phila.

The following piece of singular and original composition was found amongst the papers of an old Dutchman, in Albany. The manuscript has suffered considerably from the tooth of time, and from several marks of antiquity about it, it may be safely inferred, that a century at least has elapsed since it was written. It is hardly necessary to inform the judicious reader, that this piece is no other than a billet doux, or love epistle, sent by some Dutch swain in the country, to the girl of his heart, who, it seems, had gone to reside some time in the city of Albany.

HANS LETTER TO NOTCHIE.

Mine Cot, vat vose does Hans se feel,
Vile lufly Notchie is avay,
Vat is de matter, vat de deel,
Does make you zo vorever stay.

I sleep none in de day, nor nite,
Mit such impashuns I duz burn,
Zo, when de shell drake vings hur vlite,
Pore Frow she mornes vor his return.

Zo owls will hoot, und cats will mew,
Und dogs will howl; und storms will ney,
Und zhall not I more anguish sho,
Vile lufly Notchie is avay.

A shacket I has lately bot,
Und brokenbrooks zo zoft as zilk,
Stripd as your under petticote,
Und vite as any buttermilk.

Make hase, mine dere, und quikly cum,
Mine vaders goin to di, you zee,
Und Yacups cot his viddle home,
Und we shall haf a daring bee.

I feres zum Yanky vull uv art,
More cunnin, as de ferry dele,
Vill git away yorn little hart,
Zo as da will our horshes stele.

If any wun yore hart shool blunder,
Mine horshes Ill do vaggon yoke,
Und ghase him quickly by mine dunder,
I vly zo zwift as any zpoke.

Vhen yonk Vontoofen, my coot frend
Zhall cum to zee you vhare you be,
Dese skarlet carters I zhall zend,
O die dem on, und dink on me.

Port Folio, II-176, June 5, 1802, Phila.

["se feel" (stanza I). "se" is no Dutch word and the verb "feel" (voelen) is not reflexive in Dutch. In stanzas III and VI "mill" appears in the place of "will." This is most likely a misprint, since "w in Dutch is a particularly tenacious sound" and is not replaced by m, as is sometimes the case in German. "Brokenbrooks" is a coined word.

The author is indebted for the above information to Professor Wm. H. Carpenter, of Columbia University, and to Arnold Katz, the Dutch vice-consul at Philadelphia.]

HRIM THOR, OR THE WINTER KING.

A Lapland Ballad.

I shall not soon tire of copying ballads from the "Tales of Terror." They are the legitimate offspring of genius. We are conducted by a versatile guide, sometimes into the vale of tears, and sometimes into the hall of mirth. But let him lead us where he will, we cheerfully follow and always find ourselves with a sensible and tuneful companion. I am half inclined to suspect that Mr. Lewis himself is the concealed author. We know how he brilliantly travestied his own ballad, Alonzo the Brave, and it is probable that in this collection he is alter et idem.

[The poem follows.]

Port Folio, II-195, June 26, 1802, Phila.

[M. G. Lewis, Tales of Terror, 1799, Kelso. Cf. p. [18].]

GRIM, KING OF THE GHOSTS,
OR THE DANCE OF DEATH.

Port Folio, II-199, June 26, 1802, Phila.

[M. G. Lewis, Tales of Terror. Cf. p. [18].]

ON THE DEATH OF A BELOVED ONLY SON.

Translated from a Danish Inscription.

By T. Campbell, Esq.

Port Folio, II-352, Nov. 1802, Phila.

WRITTEN IN GERMANY,
IN AUTUMN, 1801.

Hail, deadly Autumn, and thy fading leaf,
I love thee, drear and gloomy as thou art;
Not joyful Spring, like thee can soften grief,
Nor gaudy Summer soothe the aching heart;
But in thy cheerless, solitary bower,
Beneath the varied shade, I love to lie,
When dusky Evening's melancholy hour
With boding clouds obscures the low'ring sky,
And tuneless birds and fading flowers appear
In grief to hang their heads, and mourn the parting year.

'Tis not the gloomy sky, the parting year,
'Tis not the Winter's dreary reign I mourn,
But absent friends—and one than life more dear,
And joys departed, never to return!
O gentle Hope, that 'mid Siberia's snows,
Can cheer the wretched exile's lingering year,
And where the sun on curs'd Oppression glows,
Can check the sigh, and wipe the falling tear,
Thy gentle care—thy succour I implore;
O raise thy heavenly voice, and bid me weep no more.

Thou hears't my prayer—I feel thy holy flame—
And future joys in bright succession rise,
And mutual love and friendship—sacred name!
And home and all the blessings that I prize.
Thou, Memory, lendst thy aid, and to my view
Each friend I love, and every scene most dear,
In forms more bright than ever painter drew,
Fresh from thy pencil's magic tint appear.
Roll on, ye lingering hours, that lie between,
Till Truth shall realize, and Virtue bless, the scene.

—R.

N. E. Quarterly Mag., No. III-271, Oct.-Dec. 1802, Boston.

ALBERT OF WERDENDORFF.
OR, THE MIDNIGHT EMBRACE.

A German Romance.

Nocturnus occurram furor. Hor.

Port Folio, IV-334, Oct. 20, 1804, Phila.

[M. G. Lewis, Tales of Terror, 1799, Kelso.]

ON THE DEATH OF MR. HANDEL.

In the midst of the performance of his Lent Oratorio, (1759) of the Messiah, nature exhausted, he dropt his head upon the keys of the organ he was playing upon, and with difficulty raised up again. He recovered his spirits, and went on with the performance until the whole was finished. He was carried home, and died.

To melt the soul, to captivate the ear,
(Angels such melody might deign to hear,)
To anticipate on earth the joys of heav'n,
'Twas Handel's task: to him that pow'r was giv'n.

Ah, when he late attuned Messiah's praise,
With sound celestial, with melodious lays:
A last farewell, his languid looks express'd,
And thus, methinks, th' enraptur'd crowd addrest.

"Adieu, my dearest friend, and also you,
"Joint sons of sacred harmony, adieu!
"Apollo whispering, prompts me to retire,
"And bids me join the bright seraphic choir:

"Oh! for Elijah's car!" great Handel cry'd:
Messiah heard his voice, and Handel died.

Boston Weekly Mag., II-208, Oct. 20, 1804, Boston.

WRITTEN IN GERMANY, ON ONE OF THE
COLDEST DAYS OF THE CENTURY,
BY W. WORDSWORTH.

Port Folio, IV-342, Oct. 27, 1804, Phila.

[William Wordsworth, idem.
"The Reader must be apprised, that the stoves in North Germany generally have the impression of a galloping horse upon them, this being part of the Brunswick arms.">[

A HUMBLE IMITATION OF SOME STANZAS,

WRITTEN BY W. WORDSWORTH, IN GERMANY, ON ONE OF THE
COLDEST DAYS OF THE CENTURY.

'A fig for your languages, German and Norse,
Let me have the song of the kettle
And the tongs and the poker.'—W. W.

[The poem, which contains no references to Germany, follows.]

Port Folio, IV-342, Oct. 27, 1804, Phila.

AGAINST FAUSTUS.

In scorn of writers, Faustus still doth hold,
Nought is now said, but hath been said of old;
Well, Faustus, say my wits are gross and dull,
If for that word I give thee not a Gull:
Thus then I prove thou holdst a false position;
I say thou art a man of fair condition,
A man true of thy word, tall of thy hands,
Of high descent and left good store of lands;
Thou with false dice and cards hast never play'd,
Corrupted never widow, wife or maid,
And, as for swearing, none in all this realm,
Doth seldomer in speech curse or blaspheme.
In fine, your virtues are so rare and ample,
For all our Song thou mayst be made a sample.
This, I dare swear, none ever said before,
This, I may swear, none ever will say more.

Port Folio, IV-383, Dec. 1, 1804, Phila.

The Celebrated Swiss Air,
RANZ DES VACHES.

"This air, so dear to the Swiss," says Rousseau, "was forbidden by the French government to be played among the Swiss soldiers, employed in the service of France, under pain of death; because it excited such a fond remembrance of the scenes they had witnessed in their own native country, and such a strong desire of seeing them again, that it caused them to shed tears, to desert, or, if they despaired of this, to commit suicide."

Quand reverrai-je, en un jour,
Tous les objets de mon amour?
Nos claires ruisseaux,
Nos couteaux [sic],
Nos hameaux,
Nos montagnes,
Et l'ornament de nos campagnes,
La si gentille Isabeau?
A l'ombre d'un ormeau,
Quand danserai-je au son du chalumeau?

Quand reverrai-je, en un jour,
Tous les objects de mon amour?
Mon père,
Ma mère,
Mon frère
Ma soeur,
Mes agneaux
Mes troupeaux,
Ma bergère?
Quand reverrai-je, en un jour,
Tous les objet de mon amour?

LITERAL TRANSLATION.

When shall I behold again, in one day, all the pleasing objects of my affection?—our clear streams, our cottages [sic], our hamlets, our mountains, and the ornament of our fields, the gentle Isabelle?—Under the shade of a spreading elm, when shall I dance again to the sound of the tabor?

When shall I behold again, in one day, all pleasing objects of my love?—my father, mother, brothers, sisters, my lambs, my flocks, and my faithful shepherdess?—When shall I behold again, in one day, all the pleasing objects of my affection?

Boston, Jan. 30, 1805.

Boston Weekly Mag., III-60, Feb. 2, 1805, Boston.

For the Port Folio.

THE SCANDINAVIAN HERO.

Skogul.
From midst the dusty fields of war
To realms beyond the northern star,
To loud Valhalla's echoing halls,
I bear the hero ere he falls;
The valiant dwell in those abodes,
And sit amid carousing gods;
Not goblets rich, nor flasks of gold,
But skulls of mantling mead they hold;
The coward while he gasps for breath,
Sinks darkling to Hela beneath.

Harold.
O be it mine, from conflict borne,
To reach the realms of endless morn;
At Odin's board my lips I'll lave
In the foam'd bev'rage of the brave.

Odin.
Who breaks the dusty fields of war,
Death travels by his clattering car;
Perch'd on the whirlwind's thund'ring tower,
On comes the sable tempest's power;
Ye warriors rise, ye chiefs give room,
A godlike guest in youthful bloom,
Harold from fields of battle see,
Begin th' immortal revelry.

S.

Port Folio, V-120, Apr. 20, 1805, Phila.

WERTER'S EPITAPH.

Phila. Repos., V-164, May 25, 1805, Phila.

[Also in Amer. Museum, I-474, May 1787, Phila.]

PRAYER OF FREDERICK II
IN BEHALF OF POETS.

Ye Gods! from whom each favour'd bard
Receives those talents verse requires,
O teach them truth! for sure 'tis hard
They should be all such wicked liars.

Boston Mag., I-12, Nov. 9, 1805, Boston.

A SKETCH OF THE ALPS, AT DAYBREAK.

The sun-beams streak the azure skies,
And line with light the mountain's brow;
With hounds and horns the hunters rise,
And chase the roebuck through the snow.

From rock to rock, with giant-bound,
High on their iron poles they pass;
Mute, lest the air, convuls'd by sound,
Rend from above a frozen mass.

The goats wind slow their wonted way,
Up craggy steeps and ridges rude;
Mark'd by the wild wolf for his prey,
From desert cave or hanging wood.

And while the torrent thunders loud,
And as the echoing cliffs reply,
The huts peep o'er the morning cloud,
Perch'd, like an eagle's nest, on high.

Evening Fireside, II-74, Feb. 8, 1806, Phila.

In the following exquisite Parody, the sentiments are not less admirable than the talents of the author. We have often expressed our contempt for German plays, and we are happy to fortify our opinion of the Teutonic Muse, with the wit of a man of genius, and a polite scholar.

ODE TO THE GERMAN DRAMA,

By Mr. Seward.

A Parody of Gray's Ode to Adversity.

Daughter of night, chaotic Queen!
Thou fruitful source of modern lays,
Whose turbid plot, and tedious scene,
The monarch spurn, the robber raise.
Bound in thy necromantic spell
The audience taste the joys of hell,
And Briton's sons indignant grown
With pangs unfelt before, at crimes before unknown.

When first, to make the nation stare,
Folly her painted mask display'd,
Schiller sublimely mad was there,
And Kotz'bue lent his leaden aid.
Gigantic pair! their lofty soul
Disdaining reason's weak control,
On changeful Britain sped the blow,
Who, thoughtless of her own, embraced fictitious woe.

Aw'd by thy scowl tremendous, fly
Fair Comedy's theatric brood,
Light satire, wit, and harmless joy,
And leave us dungeons, chains and blood.
Swift they disperse, and with them go,
Mild Otway, sentimental Rowe;
Congreve averts the indignant eye,
And Shakespeare mourns to view the exotic prodigy.

Ruffians, in regal mantle dight,
Maidens immers'd in thoughts profound,
Spectres, that haunt the shades of night,
And spread a waste of ruin round.
These form thy never-varying theme,
While, buried in thy Stygian stream,
Religion mourns her wasted fires
And Hymen's sacred torch low hisses, and expires.

O mildly on the British stage,
Great Anarch! spread thy sable wings;
Not fired with all the frantic rage,
With which thou hurl'st thy darts at kings.
As thou in native garb art seen,
With scattered tresses, haggard mien,
Sepulchral chains and hideous cry
By despot arts immur'd in ghastly poverty.

In specious form, dread Queen! appear;
Let falsehood fill the dreary waste;
Thy democratic rant be here,
To fire the brain, corrupt the taste.
The fair, by vicious love misled,
Teach me to cherish and to wed,
To low-born arrogance to bend,
Establish'd order spurn, and call each outcast friend.

Port Folio, I-92, Feb. 15, 1806, Phila.

THE SWEDISH COTTAGE.

From Carr's Northern Summer.

Here, far from all the pomp ambition seeks,
Much sought, but only whilst untasted prais'd,
Content and Innocence, with rosy cheeks,
Enjoy the simple shed their hands have rais'd.

On a gay rock it stands, whose fretted base
The distant cataract's murm'ring waters lave;
Whilst, o'er its grassy roof, with varying grace,
The slender branches of the white birch wave.

Behind, the forest fir is heard to sigh,
On which the pensive ear delights to dwell;
And, as the gazing stranger passes by,
The grazing goat looks up and rings his bell.

Oh! in my native land, ere life's decline,
May such a spot, so wild, so sweet, be mine!

Weekly Visitant, I-63, Feb. 22, 1806, Salem.

[Sir John Carr, A Northern Summer; or Travels round the Baltic in 1804, London, 1805.]

ODE TO DEATH.

By Frederick II, King of Prussia. Translated from the French by Dr. Hawkesworth.

Polyanthos, I-270, Mar. 1806, Boston.

[Also in New Haven Gaz. and Conn. Mag., I-339, Dec. 7, 1786, New Haven.]

THE DANCING BEAR. A FABLE.

[Perhaps suggested by Gellert's fable of the same title, but differing much in content. Cf. Port Folio, I-400, Dec. 12, 1801, Phila., where a translation of Gellert's poem is given.]

Emerald, I-118, July 5, 1806, Boston.

The following song by M. G. Lewis Esq. is, as we are apprized by that gentleman, derived from the French, though the swain who figures in it appears to be a German. The thought is pretty and the measure flowing.

A wolf, while Julia slept, had made
Her favorite lamb his prize;
Young Casper flew to give his aid,
Who heard the trembler's cries.
He drove the wolf from off the green,
But claim'd a kiss for pay.
Ah! Julia, better 'twould have been,
Had Casper staid away.

While grateful feelings warm'd her breast,
She own'd she loved the swain;
The youth eternal love professed,
And kiss'd and kiss'd again.
A fonder pair was never seen;
They lov'd the live long day:
Ah! Julia, better 'twould have been,
Had Casper staid away.

At length, the sun his beams withdrew,
And night inviting sleep,
Fond Julia rose and bade adieu,
Then homeward drove her sheep.
Alas! her thoughts were chang'd, I ween,
For thus I heard her say;
Ah! Julia, better 'twould have been,
Had Casper staid away.

Port Folio, II-94, Aug. 16, 1806, Phila.

EXTRACTS FROM "THE WANDERER OF SWITZERLAND"

by James Montgomery, London, 1806.

Port Folio, II-369, 412, Dec. 20, 31, 1806, Phila.

[James Montgomery, The Wanderer of Switzerland and Other Poems, London, 1806. The first American edition from the second London edition—N. Y., 1807.

Extracts from Parts VI and I respectively. Cf. [Preface].]

RUNIC ODE.
THE HAUNTING OF HAVARDUR.

By C. Leftly, Esq.

Son of Angrym, warrior bold,
Stay thy travel o'er the wold;
Stop, Havardur, stop thy steed;
Thy death, thy bloody death's decreed.
She, Coronzon's lovely maid,
Whom thy wizard wiles betray'd,
Glides along the darken'd coast,
A frantic, pale, enshrouded ghost.
Where the fisher dries his net,
Rebel waves her body beat;
Seduc'd by thee, she toss'd her form
To the wild fury of the storm.
Know thou feeble child of dust,
Odin's brave, and Odin's just;
From the Golden Hall I come
To pronounce thy fatal doom;
Never shall thou pass the scull
Of rich metheglin deep and full:
Late I left the giant throng,
Yelling loud thy funeral song;
Imprecating deep and dread
Curses on thy guilty head.
Soon with Lok, thy tortur'd soul,
Must in boiling billows roll;
Till the God's eternal light
Bursts athwart thy gloom of night;
Till Surtur gallops from afar,
To burn this breathing world of war.
Bold to brave the spear of death,
Heroes hurry o'er the heath:
Hasten to the smoking feast—
Welcome every helmed guest,
Listen hymns of sweet renown,
Battles by thy fathers won;
Frame thy face in wreathed smiles,
Mirth the moodiest mind beguiles.—
Yet I hover always nigh,
Bid thee think,—and bid thee sigh;
Yet I goad thy rankling breast;—
Never, never, shalt thou rest.
What avails thy bossy shield?
What the guard thy gauntlets yield?
What the morion on thy brow?
Or the hauberk's rings below?
If to live in anguish fear,
Danger always threatening near:
Lift on high thy biting mace,
See him glaring in thy face;
Turn—yet meet him, madd'ning fly,
Curse thy coward soul, and die.
Not upon the field of fight
Hela seals thy lips in night;
A brother, of infernal brood,
Bathes him in thy heart's hot blood;
Twice two hundred vassals bend,
Hail him as their guardian friend;
Mock thee writhing with the wound,
Bid thee bite the dusty ground;
Leave thee suffering, scorn'd alone,
To die unpitied and unknown.
Be thy nacked carcase strew'd,
To give the famish'd eagles food;
Sea-mews screaming on the shore,
Dip their beaks, and drink thy gore.
Be thy fiend-fir'd spirit borne,
Wreck'd upon the fiery tide,
An age of agony abide.
But soft, the morning-bell beats one,
The glow-worm fades; and, see, the sun
Flashes his torch behind yon hill.
At night, when wearied nature's still,
And horror stalks along the plain,
Remember—we must meet again.

Port Folio, II-415, Dec. 31, 1806, Phila.

Bürger's beautiful ballad,

Earl Walter winds his bugle horn,
To horse! to horse! halloo! halloo!.

has given rise in England to a very humorous

PARODY.

Mirth, with thee I mean to live.

Earl Walter kicks the waiter's rump,
Down stairs! down stairs! halloo, halloo!
They sally forth, they wheel, they jump,
And fast the scampering watch pursue.

The jolly bucks from tavern freed,
Dash fearless on through thick and thin,
While answering alleys, as they speed,
Loudly re-echo to their din.

Saint Dunstan's arm, with massy stroke
The solemn midnight peal had rung,
And bawling out, "Past twelve o'clock,"
Loud, long and deep the watchman sung.

The clamorous Earl Walter guides,
Huzza, Huzza, my merry men,
When, puffing, holding both their sides,
Two strangers haste to join his train.

The right-hand stranger's locks were grey,
But who he was I cannot tell;
The left was debonnair and gay,
A dashing blood I know full well.

He wav'd his beaver hat on high,
Cried, "Welcome, welcome, noble lord!
What joys can earth, or sea, or sky,
To match our midnight sports afford?"

"Methinks," the other said, "'twere best
To leave, my friends, your frantick joys,
And for the balmy sweets of rest,
Exchange such rude discordant noise."

But still Earl Walter onward hies,
And dashing forward, on they go,
Huzza, huzza, each toper cries,
"Hark forward, forward, hollo ho!"

The jovial band Earl Walter guides,
Along the Fleet, up Ludgate-Hill,
And puffing, holding both their sides,
His boon companions follow still.

From yonder winding lane out springs
A phantom, white as snow,
And louder still Earl Walter sings,
"Hark forward, forward, hollo, ho!"

A quaker prim has crossed the way,
He sprawls their nimble feet below,
But what care they for yea-and-nay,
Still forward, forward, on they go.

See, at the corner of yon street,
A humble stall, with apples crown'd!
See, scatter'd by Earl Walter's feet,
The woman's apples rolling round.

"O Lord! have mercy on my stall,
Spare the hard earnings of the poor,
The helpless widow's little all,
The fruit of many a watchful hour."

Earnest the right hand stranger pleads,
The left still pointing to the prey,
The impatient Earl no warning heeds,
But furious holds the onward way.

"Away, thou poor old wither'd witch,
Or dread the scourge's echoing blow!"
Then loud he sung and wav'd his switch,
"Hark forward, forward, hollo ho!"

So said, so done; one single bound
Clears the green grocer's humble stall;
While through the apples scatter'd round,
They hurry, hurry, one and all.

And now behold the tim'rous prey,
Beyond the reach of Comus' crew,
Still lightly trip along the way,
Unconscious who her steps pursue.

Again they wheel, their nimble feet
The devious way still quickly trace,
Down Ludgate-Hill, along the Fleet,
The unwearied Earl pursues the chase.

The watch now muster strong and dare
Dispute the empire of the field;
They wave their cudgels high in air,
"Now yield thee, noble Baron yield."

"Unmanner'd vagabonds! in vain
You strive to mar our nightly game;
Come on! come on! my merry men,
The raggamuffins we can tame."

In heaps the victims bite the dust,
Down sinks Earl Walter on the ground,
Now run who can, and lie who must,
For loud the watchmen's rattles sound.

Now to the justice borne along,
In sullen majesty they go;
The place receives the motley throng,
And echoes to their hollo ho!

All mild amid the rout profane,
The justice solemn thus began:
"Forebear your knighthood thus to stain,
Revere the dignity of man.

The meanest trull has rights to plead,
Which wrong'd by cruelty or pride,
Draw vengeance on thy guilty head,
Howe'er by titles dignified."

Cold drops of sweat in many a trill,
Adown Earl Walter's temples fall,
And louder, louder, louder still,
The surly watch for vengeance call.

The right-hand stranger anxious pleads;
The clamours of the mob increase,
The riot act the justice reads,
And binds the Earl to keep the peace.

The court broke up, they sally out,
And raise a loud, a last huzza;
Then sneak'd away and hung his snout,
Each disappointed dog of law.

Muttering full many a curse, and fast
Homeward to slumber now they go;
Yet spite of all that now has passed,
You'll hear next night their hollo ho!

This is the Earl, and this his train,
That oft the awaken'd Cockney hears;
With rage he glows in every vein
When the wild din invades his ears.

The dreaming maid sighs sad and oft,
That she her visions must forego,
When waken'd from her slumbers soft,
She hears the cry of hollo ho!

Port Folio, III-44, Jan. 17, 1807, Phila.

[Parody on G. A. Bürger's poem Der wilde Jäger. Cf. pp. [34], [85].]

THE WANDERER OF SWITZERLAND.

By James Montgomery.

Emerald, II-108, Feb. 28, 1807, Boston.

[James Montgomery, op. cit. Extracts given. Cf. [Preface].]

SWISS PEASANT.

Turn we, to survey
Where rougher climes a nobler race display;
Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansion tread,
And force a churlish soil for scanty bread,
Yet still, e'en here, Content can spread a charm,
Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm.
Though poor the peasant's hut his feast though small,
He sees his little lot, the lot of all;
Cheerful at morn, he wakes from short repose,
Breathes the keen air, and carrols as he goes.
At night returning, every labour sped,
He sits him down, the monarch of his shed;
Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round surveys,
His children's looks, that brighten at the blaze;
While his lov'd partner, boastful of her hoard,
Displays her cleanly platter on her board;
And haply too, some pilgrim, hither led,
With many a tale repays the nightly bed.

Emerald, II-119, Mar. 7, 1807, Boston.

RUNIC ODE.
THE HAUNTING OF HAVARDUR.

By C. Leftly, Esq.

Balance and Columbian Repos., VI-144, May 5, 1807, Hudson, N. Y.

[Also in Port Folio, II-415, Dec. 31, 1806, Phila.]

FOREIGN POETICAL, POLITICAL SUMMARY.

Prussia.

---

Still like a Bur she clings and sticks;
To Russia tho she grins and kicks,
Holds by the fur, which yet may fail,
For bears, alas, have got no tail.

---

Holland.
Let Mynheer Vanderschoffeldt flout,
And swear and rave for sour krout;
Nay kick his frow with solemn phiz,
To make her feel how goot it ish.
Yet after he has gorg'd his maw
With puttermilks and goot olt slaw,
Let him remember times are such,
The French have Holland, not the Dutch.

Germany.
With roaring blunderbuss and thunder
All Germany is torn asunder;
How num'rous circles near and far
Encircl'd in the arms of war;
Her Hessian bullies one and all,
Pay homage to the spurious Gaul;
And John Bull's farm, a goodly station,
Makes soup to please the Gallic nation.

Norfolk Repos., II-232, May 26, 1807, Dedham, Mass.

ON THE BATTLE OF HOHENLINDEN.

By T. Campbell.

Weekly Inspector, II-272, June 20, 1807, N. Y.

[Thomas Campbell, idem.
Battle of Hohenlinden, Bavaria, was fought Dec. 3, 1800, between the Austrians under Archduke John and the French under General Moreau.]

THE SORROWS OF SWITZERLAND.

Helvetian vales! Where freedom fix'd her sway;
And all the social virtues lov'd to stray;
Soft blissful seats of undisturb'd repose,
Rever'd for ages by contending foes,
What envious demon, ranging to destroy,
Has marr'd your sports, and clos'd your song of joy?
What horrid yells the affrighted ear assail!
What screams of terror load the passing gale!
See ruffian hordes, with tiger rage advance,
The shame of manhood, and the boast of France!
See trampled, crush'd and torn in lustful strife
The loathing virgin and indignant wife!
While wanton carnage sweeps each crowded wood,
And all the mountain torrents swell with blood!
Lo! Where yon cliff projects its length of shade
O'er fields of death, a wounded chief is laid!
Around the desolated scene he throws
A look, that speaks insufferable woes:
Then starting from his trance of dumb despair,
Thus vents his anguish to the fleeting air:
"Dear native hills, amidst whose woodland maze,
I pass'd the tranquil morning of my days,
On whose green tops malignant planets scowl,
Where hell hounds ravage, and the furies howl;
Though chang'd, deform'd, still, still ye meet my view,
Ye still are left to hear my last adieu!
My friends, my children, gor'd with many a wound,
Whose mangled bodies strew the ensanguin'd ground,
To parch and stiffen in the blaze of day,
Consign'd to vultures, and to wolves a prey,
Your toils are past; no more ye wake to feel
Lust's savage gripe, or rapine's reeking steel!
And Thou, to whom my wedded faith was given,
On earth my solace, and my hope in heaven,
Approv'd in manhood, as in youth ador'd,
Belov'd while living, as in death deplor'd,
O stay thy flight! Around this dreary shore
A moment hover, and we part no more—
On thy poor corpse, thy bleeding husband hangs,
Counts all thy wounds, and feels thy ling'ring pangs—
O righteous fathers! Thou whose fostering care
Sustains creation, hear my dying prayer!
Look down, look down on this devoted land,
O'er my poor country stretch thy saving hand!
O let the blood that streaming to the skies,
Still flows in torrents—let that blood suffice!
To thee the dreadful recompense belongs—
To thy just vengeance I consign my wrongs;
O vindicate the rights of nation's sway,
And sweep the monsters from the blushing day!"

Weekly Inspector, II-288, June 27, 1807, N. Y.

Poetry.

Original.

Gentlemen,

It has been remarked, that the poetick department of the Anthology abounds rather in selected than original productions; whether this be the result of choice or necessity, the following lines will not be considered inapplicable since they partake the nature of both characters, and hence, if in other respects worthy to appear, it is presumed they will not be rejected.

FROM THE RUNIC.

'The power of Musick is thus hyperbolically commemorated in one of the songs of the Runic Bards.'[45]

I know a Song, by which I soften and enchant the arms of my enemies, and render their weapons of no effect.

I know a Song, which I need only to sing when men have loaded me with bonds, for the moment I sing it, my chains fall in pieces, and I walk forth at liberty.

I know a Song, useful to all mankind, for as soon as hatred inflames the sons of men, the moment I sing it they are appeased.

I know a Song of such virtue, that were I caught in a storm, I can hush the winds and render the air perfectly calm.

Mo. Anthology, IV-602, Nov. 1807, Boston.

THE SONG OF A RUNIC BARD.

Imitated in English verse.

I.
I know a Song, the magick of whose power
Can save the Warrior in destruction's hour;
From the fierce foe his falling vengeance charm,
And wrest the weapon from his nervous arm.

II.
I know a Song, which, when in bonds I lay,
Broke from the grinding chain its links away.
While the sweet notes their swelling numbers rolled,
Back flew the bolts, the trembling gates unfold;
Free as the breeze the elastic limbs advance,
Course the far field, or braid the enlivening dance.

III.
I know a Song, to mend the heart design'd,
Quenching the fiery passions of mankind;
When lurking hate and deadly rage combine,
To charm the serpent of revenge is mine;
By heavenly verse the furious deed restrain,
And bid the lost affections live again.

IV.
I know a Song, which when the wild winds blow
To bend the monarchs of the forests low,
If to the lay my warbling voice incline,
Waking its various tones with skill divine,
Hush'd are the gales, the spirit of the storm
Calms his bleak breath, and smooths his furrow'd form,
The day look up, the dripping hills serene
Through the faint clouds exalt their sparkling green.

Cambria.

Mo. Anthology, IV-602, Nov. 1807, Boston.

THE SQUEAKING GHOST.

A tale imitated from the German, according to the true and genuine principles of the horrifick.

The wind whistled loud! farmer Dobbin's wheat stack
Fell down! The rain beat 'gainst his door!
As he sat by the fire he heard the roof crack!
The cat 'gan to mew and to put up her back!
And the candle burnt—just as before!
The farmer exclaimed with a piteous sigh,
"To get rid of this curs'd noise and rout,
"Wife gi'e us some ale." His dame straight did cry,
Hemed and coughed three times three, then made this reply—
"I can't mun! Why? 'cause the cask's out!"
By the side of the fire sat Roger Gee-ho
Who had finished his daily vocation,
With Cicely, whose eyes were as black as a Sloe,
A damsel indeed who had never said No,
And because she ne'er had an occasion!
All these were alarmed by the loud piercing cries,
And were thrown in a terrible state,
Till open the door, with wide staring eyes,
They found to their joy, no less than surprise,
"'Twas the old sow fast stuck in a gate!"

Charms of Lit. in Prose and Verse, p. 350, 1808, Trenton.

THE DESCENT OF ODIN.

Port Folio, V-406, June 25, 1808, Phila.

[In a review of Odes from the Norse and Welch Tongues by Thomas Gray.

Also in New Haven Gaz. and Conn. Mag., III-No. 21, May 29, 1788, New Haven.]

THE DESCENT OF ODIN.

Port Folio, VI-55, 57, July 23, 1808, Phila.

[Thomas Gray, idem. A literal trans.; not the same as the above. Criticism and reprint.]

THE WANDERER OF SWITZERLAND.

By James Montgomery.

Gleaner, I-78 etc., Oct. 1808, Lancaster (Penn.).

[James Montgomery, op. cit. Entire poem reprinted. Cf. [Preface].]

The following imitation of the celebrated Swiss air "Ran des Vaches," in which there is great simplicity and sweetness, is from the pen of the Editor of the Sheffield Iris, author of the Wanderer of Switzerland.

THE SONG OF THE SWISS IN A
STRANGE LAND.

O when shall I visit the land of my birth,
The loveliest land on the face of the earth?
When shall I those scenes of affection explore,
Our forests, our fountains,
Our hamlets, our mountains,
With the pride of our mountains, the maid I adore?
O when shall I dance on the daisy white mead,
In the shade of an elm, to the sound of the reed?

When shall I return to thy lowly retreat,
Where all my fond objects of tenderness meet?
The lambs and the heifers that follow my call;
My father, my mother,
My sister, my brother,
And dear Isabella, the joy of them all?
O when shall I visit the land of my birth?
'Tis the loveliest land on the face of the earth.

—J. M.

Sheffield, June 1808.

Emerald, n. s., I-624, Oct. 15, 1808, Boston.

[Ranz des Vaches.

James Montgomery, The West Indies and Other Poems, 3rd. ed., Phila., 1811 (London, 1810).

P. 84, The Swiss Cowherd's Song, in a Foreign Land. "Imitated from the foregoing," i. e., the French verses.]

THE SONG OF THE SWISS, IN A
STRANGE LAND

Lit. Mirror, I-148, Oct. 29, 1808, Portsmouth, N. H.

[Also in Emerald, n. s., I-624, Oct. 15, 1808, Boston.]

THE SONG OF THE SWISS IN A
STRANGE LAND.

Balance and Columbian Repos., VII-176, Nov. 1, 1808, Hudson, N. Y.

[Also in Emerald, n. s., I-624, Oct. 15, 1808, Boston.]

SONG OF THE SWISS IN A STRANGE LAND.

Norfolk Repos., III-392, Nov. 8, 1808, Dedham, Mass.

[Also in Emerald, n. s., I-624, Oct. 15, 1808, Boston.]

THE SONG OF THE SWISS, IN A
STRANGE LAND.

By the Author of "The Wanderer of Switzerland."

Lady's Weekly Misc., VIII-128, Dec. 17, 1808, N. Y.

[Also in Emerald, n. s., I-624, Oct. 15, 1808, Boston.]

APPOINTMENT DISAPPOINTED!
OR,
VON SCHLEMMER, AND "POT LUCK."

An Englishman invited once
A German friend to dine
On plain pot luck,—for such his phrase—
And drink some good port wine.

Mein Herr repaired at proper time
With stomach for the treat:
The viands on the table placed,
Von Schlemmer took his seat.

Soup, turkey, beef, by turns were serv'd,
Mein Herr declin'd each one:
Fowls, turtle, sauce, they follow'd next,
Von Schlemmer tasted none.

His host at length, by kindness urged,
Press'd him to taste some duck:
"Ach nein!" with groans Von Schlemmer said,
"I vait for de Pot Luck."

—Quiz.

Select Reviews, I-71, Jan. 1809, Phila.

On singing to a piano with a friend, the pathetic ballad of Mozart's "Vergiss me nicht,"[46] a few days previous to quitting my native country.

"Forget me not," nor yet the song,
Its plaintive notes our tears beguiling,
The fatal words died on my tongue,
And as you touch'd the trembling keys along,
Through lucid gems I saw you sadly smiling.

"Forget me not," ah! song of wo!
For never more our joys uniting,
With Sorrow's sigh no more to glow;
No more shall Pity's tear together flow,
Our love, our hopes, our joys forever blighting.

"Forget me not," oh! ever dear,
Let thrilling mem'ry o'er my fancy stealing,
As next you sing "Forget me not," a tear
Shall gently fall, my beating heart to cheer;
I'll never thee forget while I have life and feeling.

Julia Francesca.

Port Folio, VII (n. s. I)-272, Mar. 1809, Phila.

THE SOLDIER OF THE ALPS.

In the vallies yet lingered the shadows of night,
Though red on the glaciers the morning sun shone,
When our moss-covered church-tower first broke on my sight,
As I cross'd the vast oak o'er the cataract thrown.

For beyond that old church-tower, embosomed in pines,
Was the spot which contained all the bliss of my life,
Near yon grey granite rock, where the red ash reclines,
Stood the cottage where dwelt my loved children and wife.

Long since did the blasts of the war-trumpet cease,
The drum slept in silence, the colours were furled,
Serene over France rose the day-star of Peace,
And the beams of its splendour gave light to the world.

When near to the land of my fathers I drew,
And the drawn light her features of grandeur unveiled,
As I caught the first glimpse of her ice-mountains blue,
Our old native Alps with what rapture I hailed.

"Oh! soon, I exclaimed, will those mountains be passed,
And soon shall I stop at my own cottage door,
There my children's caresses will greet me at last,
And the arms of my wife will enfold me once more.

"While the fulness of joy leaves me powerless to speak,
Emotions which language can never define,
When her sweet tears of transport drop warm on my cheek,
And I feel her fond heart beat once more against mine.

"Then my boy, when our tumults of rapture subside,
Will anxiously ask how our soldiers have sped,
Will flourish my bay'net with infantile pride,
And exultingly place my plumed cap on his head.

"Then my sweet girl will boast how her chamois has grown;
And make him repeat all his antics with glee,
Then she'll haste to the vine that she claims as her own,
And fondly select its ripe clusters for me.

"And when round our fire we assemble at night,
With what interest they'll list to my tale of the war,
How our shining arms gleamed on St. Bernard's vast height,
While the clouds in white billows rolled under us far.

"Then I'll tell how the legions of Austria we braved,
How we fought on Marengo's victorious day,
When the colours of conquest dejectedly wave
Where streamed the last blood of the gallant Dessaix."

'Twas thus in fond fancy my bosom beat light
As I crossed the rude bridge where the wild waters roll,
When each well-known scene crowded fast on my sight,
And Hope's glowing visions came warm to my soul.

Through the pine-grove I hastened with footsteps of air
Already my lov'd ones I felt in embrace,
When I came—of my cot not a vestige was there—
But a hilloc of snow was heap'd high in its place.

The heart-rending story too soon did I hear—
An avalanche, loosed from the near mountain's side,
Our cottage o'erwhelmed in its thundering career,
And beneath it my wife and my children had died.

—Imogen.

Port Folio, VII (n. s. I)-350, Apr. 1809, Phila.

BATTLE OF HOHENLINDEN.

By Thomas Campbell, Esq.

Visitor, I-47, Apr. 22, 1809, Richmond.

[Also in Weekly Inspector, II-272, June 20, 1807, N. Y.]

COW BOY'S CHAUNT.

Sweet, regretted, native shore;
Shall I e'er behold thee more,
And all the objects of my love:
Thy streams so clear,
Thy hills so dear,
The mountain's brow,
And cots below,
Where once my feet were wont to rove?

There with Isabella fair,
Light of foot, and free from care,
Shall I to the tabor bound?
Or at eve, beneath the dale,
Whisper soft my artless tale,
And blissful tread on fairy ground?

Oh! when shall I behold again
My lowly cot and native plain,
And every object dear;
My father, and my mother,
My sister and my brother,
And calm their anxious fear.

(European Mag.)

[The above is preceded by the music and the French words of the Ranz des Vaches. Cf. p. [156].]

Visitor, I-72, June 3, 1809, Richmond.

THE SONG OF THE SWISS, IN A
STRANGE LAND.

Gleaner, I-471, June 1809, Lancaster (Penn.).

[Also in Emerald, n. s., I-624, Oct. 15, 1808, Boston.]

CHARLOTTE AT THE TOMB OF WERTER.

With sorrow of heart I draw near,
The tomb where my Werter's at rest,
Soft pity oh, give me a tear
I will lighten the woes of my breast.

Sleep on thou dear shade, rest in peace,
Undisturbed by the woes of my breast,
For sure the soft slumber would cease
If with grief you know me opprest.

The meadow, the valley, the field,
Recesses that once gave delight,
Alas now how changed! for they yield
Nothing gayful or joyous to sight.

On the terrace I often remain,
And the loss of my Werter deplore,
While by the pale moon I complain,
Her beams, his loved image restore.

It was here the fond hope was inspired,
That with gladness enlivens my heart
That when this dull life is expired
We shall meet again never to part.

Yes, Werter, thy presage was just;
To cherish the hope be my care,
For should it forsake me, how must
I combat with grief and despair.

—A.

Visitor, I-136, Sept. 23, 1809, Richmond.

THE SQUEAKING GHOST.

A tale imitated from the German.

Select Reviews, II-357, Nov. 1809, Phila.

[Also in Charms of Lit. in Prose and Verse, p. 350, 1808, Trenton.]

To those who have admired the singular poems of Lewis, Walter Scott, and others, under the whimsical titles of "The Cloud-King," "The Fire-King," etc., the following burlesque ballad may afford some amusement.

THE PAINT-KING.

Fair Ellen, was once the delight of the young;
No damsel could with her compare;
Her charms were the theme of the heart and the tongue,
And bards without number in extacies sung
The beauties of Ellen, the Fair.

But Ellen, though lovers in regiments threw
The darts of their eyes at her heart,
From the sorrow no pitying sympathy knew;
For, cold as an icicle-shower, they drew
Not a drop from that petrified part.

Yet still did the heart of fair Ellen implore
A something that could not be found;
Like a sailor it seem'd on a desolate shore,
With nor house, nor a tree, nor a sound, but the roar
Of breakers high-dashing around.

From object to object, still, still would she stray
Yet nothing, alas! could she find;
Through Novelty's mazes she rambled all day,
And even at midnight, so restless, they say,
In sleep would run after the wind.

Nay, rather than sit like a statue so still,
When the rain made her mansion a pound,
Up and down would she go like the sails of a mill,
And pat every stair, like a wood-pecker's bill,
From the tiles of the roof to the ground.

One morn, as the maid from her casement reclin'd,
Pass'd a youth with a frame in his hand.
The casement she clos'd; not the eye of her mind;
For do all she could, no, she could not be blind;
Still before her she saw the youth stand.

"And what can he do," said the maid with a sigh,
"Ah! what with that frame can he do?
I wish I could know it." When suddenly by
The youth pass'd again; and again did her eye
The frame, and a sweet picture view.

"Oh! sweet, lovely picture!" the fair Ellen sigh'd,
"I must see thee again or I die;"
Then under her white chin her bonnet she tied,
And after the youth and the picture she hied,
Till the youth, looking back, met her eye.

"Fair damsel," said he (and he chuckled the while),
"This picture, I see, you admire;
Then take it, I beg you, perhaps 'twill beguile
Some moments of sorrow: (pray pardon my smile)
Or, at least, keep you home by the fire."

Then Ellen the gift, with delight and surprise,
From the cunning young stripling receiv'd.
But she knew not the poison that enter'd her eyes,
When beaming with rapture they gazed on her prize:
Yet thus was fair Ellen deceiv'd!

'Twas a youth o'er the form of a statue inclin'd;
And the sculptor he seem'd of the stone;
Yet he languish'd, as though for its beauty he pin'd,
And gaz'd, as the eyes of the statue so blind
Reflected the beams of his own.

'Twas the tale of the sculptor, Pygmalion of old;
Fair Ellen remember'd and sigh'd,
"Ah! could'st thou but lift from that marble so cold,
Thine eyes so enchanting, thy arms should enfold,
And press me this day as thy bride."

She said: when, behold, from the canvass arose
The youth ... and he stepp'd from the frame;
With a furious joy, his arms did enclose
The love-plighted Ellen; and, clasping, he froze
The blood of the maid with his flame!

She turn'd and beheld on each shoulder a wing
"Oh! heaven!" cried she, "who art thou?"
From the roof to the ground did his fierce answer ring,
When frowning, he thunder'd, "I am the Paint-King!
And mine, lovely maid, thou art now!"

Then high from the ground did the grim monster lift
The loud-screaming maid, like a blast;
And he sped through the air, like a meteor swift,
While the clouds, wand'ring by him, did fearfully drift
To the right and the left as he pass'd.

Now, suddenly sloping his hurricane flight,
With an eddying whirl he descends;
The air all below him becomes black as night,
And the ground where he treads, as if mov'd with affright,
Like the surge of the Caspian bends.

"I am here!" said the fiend, and he thundering knock'd
At the gates of a mountainous cave:
The gates open'd wide, as by magick unlock'd,
While the peaks of the mount, reeling to and fro, rock'd,
Like an island of ice on the wave.

"Oh! mercy!" cried Ellen, and swoon'd in his arms.
But the Paint-King, he scoff'd at her pain.
"Prithee, love," said the monster, "what mean these alarms?"
She hears not, she sees not the terrible charms
That wake her to horror again.

She opens her lids; but no longer her eyes
Behold the fair youth she would woo:
Now appears the Paint-King in his natural guise;
His face, like a palette of villainous dies,
Black and white, red and yellow, and blue.

On a bright polish'd throne, of prismatical[47] spar,
Sat the mosaick fiend like a clod;
While he rear'd in his mouth a gigantick cigar
Twice as big as the light-house, though seen from afar,
On the coast of the stormy Cape Cod.

And anon, as he puff'd the vast volumes, were seen,
In horrid festoons on the wall,
Legs and arms, head and bodies, emerging between;
Like the drawing room grim of the Scotch Sawney Beane,
By the Devil dress'd out for a ball.

"Ah me!" cried the damsel, and fell at his feet,
"Must I hang on these walls to be dried?"
"Oh, no!" said the fiend, while he sprung from his seat,
"A far nobler fortune thy person shall meet;
Into paint will I grind thee, my bride!"

Then, seizing the maid by her dark auburn hair,
An oil-jug he plung'd her within.
Seven days, seven nights, with the shrieks of despair
Did Ellen in torment convulse the dim air,
All cover'd with oil to the chin.

On the morn of the eighth on a huge sable stone
Then Ellen, all reeking, he laid;
With a rock for his muller, he crush'd every bone;
But though ground to jelly, still, still did she groan;
For life had forsook not the maid.

Now reaching his palette with masterly care,
Each tint on the surface he spread;
The blue of her eyes, and the brown of her hair,
The pearl and the white of her forehead so fair
And her lips' and her cheeks' rosy red.

Then stamping his foot, did the monster exclaim,
"Now I brave, cruel Fairy, thy scorn!"
When lo! from a chasm unfathom'd there came
A small tiny chariot of rose-colour'd flame,
By a team of ten glowworms upborne.

Enthron'd in the midst on an emerald bright,
Fair Geraldine sat without peer;
Her robe was the gleam of the first blush of light,
And her mantle the fleece of a noon-cloud white,
And a beam of the moon was her spear.

In a voice that stole on the still charmed air,
Like the first gentle accent of Eve,
Thus spake from her chariot the Fairy so fair:
"I come at thy call ... but, oh Paint-King! beware,
Beware if again you deceive."

"'Tis true," said the monster, "thou queen of my heart!
Thy portrait I oft have essay'd;
Yet ne'er to the canvass could I with my art
The least of thy wonderful beauties impart;
And my failure with scorn you repaid.

"Now I swear, by the light of the Comet-King's tail!"
And he tower'd with pride as he spoke,
"If again with these magical colours I fail,
The crater of Etna shall hence be my jail,
And my food shall be sulphur and smoke.

"But if I succeed, then, oh! fair Geraldine!
Thy promise with rapture, I claim,
And thou, queen of Fairies, shalt ever be mine
The bride of my bed; and thy portrait divine
Shall fill all the earth with my fame."

He spake; when, behold the fair Geraldine's form
On the canvass enchantingly glow'd;
His touches, they flew like the leaves in a storm;
And the pure, pearly white, and the carnation warm,
Contending in harmony, flow'd.

And now did the portrait a twin-sister seem
To the figure of Geraldine fair:
With the same sweet expression did faithfully teem
Each muscle, each feature; in short, not a gleam
Was lost of her beautiful hair.

'Twas the Fairy herself! but, alas! her blue eyes
Still a pupil did ruefully lack;
And who shall describe the terrifick surprise
That seized the Paint-King, when, behold, he descries
Not a speck on his palette of black.

"I am lost!" said the fiend, and he shook like a leaf;
When, casting his eyes to the ground,
He saw the lost pupils of Ellen with grief
In the jaws of a mouse, and the sly little thief
Whisk away from his sight with a bound.

"I am lost!" said the fiend, and he fell like a stone:
Then rising the Fairy in ire,
With a touch of her finger she loosen'd her zone,
(While the limbs on the wall gave a terrible groan!)
And she swell'd to a column of fire.

Her spear now a thunder-bolt flash'd in the air,
And sulphur the vault fill'd around:
She smote the grim monster; and now by the hair
High lifting, she hurl'd him in speechless despair
Down the depths of the chasm profound.

Then waving, with smiles, o'er the picture her spear,
"Come forth!" said the good Geraldine;
When, behold, from the canvass fair Ellen appear!
In feature, in person more lovely than e'er,
With grace more than ever divine!

Mo. Anthology, VII-391, Dec. 1809, Boston.

[Washington Allston, idem. Cf. pp. [18], [19].]

THE SQUEAKING GHOST.

A tale imitated from the German.

Boston Mirror, II-96, Jan. 6, 1810, Boston.

[Also in Charms of Lit. in Prose and Verse, p. 350, 1808, Trenton.]

THE PAINT KING.

Something, I-151, Jan. 20, 1810, Boston.

[Also in Mo. Anthology, VII-391, Dec. 1809, Boston.]