ODE TO POESY.
I.
Hail Poesy! celestial maid!
Who loves, reclin’d near purling stream,
To rest beneath the beachen shade,
“Wrapt in some wild fantastic dream.”
Howe’er intent on other cares,
Still deign to hear a suppliant’s pray’rs!
Who fain would view thy ample store,
And all thy secret haunts explore,
Where, as enraptur’d bards have told,
Whose eyes have peer’d thy stores among,
Gnomes, sylphs, and sprites, their dwelling hold,
Till call’d by thee to grace their song;
Where fairies, clad in bright attire,
Faint lighted by the glow-worm’s fire,
Are seen to gambol to the breeze,
Which nightly plays amongst the trees;
And while, with silent step, their round they pace,
The flitting dew-drops gem the consecrated place.
II.
Or, if thou rather chuse to dwell
Intent to hear the beating wave,
In sparry grot, or rocky cell,
Or in the subterraneous cave,
Where to relieve perpetual night,
Dim lamps emit a feeble light;
While bound with necromantic tie,
A thousand weeping virgins lie,
Who, to enjoy the blaze of day,
To view once more the azure sky,
And drink the sun’s all-cheering ray,
Oft heave the unavailing sigh;
Till some advent’rous knight shall dare
(Long try’d in tournaments and war)
Assay to break the magic chain,
And give them liberty again;
In ruin wide the self-built structure spread,
And bid despondency erect her drooping head.
III.
Or, if those scenes delight thee more,
Which erst thy Ariosto drew,
O teach my muse like his to soar,
And ope thy treasures to her view!
For all that captivates the mind,
In his aspiring verse we find;
Where, wrapt in fancy’s pleasing guise
Conceal’d, the useful moral lies;
Where chivalry’s proud hosts, array’d
In all the dignity of war,
Appear, a splendid cavalcade,
Adorn’d with many a trophy’d car;
Where fair Alcina’s radiant charms,
With lawless bliss the bosom warms,
Till, in Atlanta’s reverend form,
Melissa abrogates the charm;
Recals the soul, for nobler deeds design’d,
And writes the glowing moral on the mind.
IV.
If such thy votaries of old,
Some portion of their fire impart;
Then sportive fancy, uncontroll’d,
Shall spurn the rigid rules of art:—
But if in vain thy suppliant plead,
And if thy mandate has decreed
These magic stores conceal’d must lie,
Impervious to another’s eye;
Still, O celestial maid! display
Those tranquil scenes where beauty reigns,
And triumphs, with unrivall’d sway,
O’er rising hills and flow’ry plains,
And streams that, murm’ring as they flow,
Might lure the mourner from his woe;
Let pointed satire too be mine,
Aided by Johnson’s nervous line:—
And mine the pow’r to wake the tender sigh,
And call the pearly tear from Pity’s melting eye.
V.
Then lead me near some winding stream,
Whose surface, ruffled by the breeze,
Reflects chaste Dian’s silver beam,
Faintly beheld thro’ shadowy trees:
Then as I view, with joy serene,
The beauties of this tranquil scene:
If contrast aid the pow’rs of rhyme,
To make the beautiful sublime—
Bid the hoarse thunder loudly roar,
And driving clouds invest the skies;
While swelling torrents round me pour,
From rugged rocks their fresh supplies;
Which bursting on the plains below,
The lightning’s transient flashes shew,
Unfolding to th’ astonish’d sight
A cataract of foaming light.—
Be scenes like these thy suppliant’s award!
And give thine other stores to some more happy bard.
BEAUTY.
A SONG.
When fascinating beauty smiles,
Tho’ deem’d a transient flow’r,
Vain man, with all his boasted might,
Submissive owns its pow’r.
Beauty makes misers quit their gold,
And cruelty its rage,
And gives the ardent fires of youth
To antiquated age.
Th’ imposter Mahomet, who knew
The sweets and pow’r of love,
With ever-blooming beauties fill’d
His blissful courts above.
Aright this great observer judg’d
That beauty’s promis’d charms,
Would lure whole millions to his aid,
And bless his conqu’ring arms.
NEW-YORK: Printed by JOHN BULL, No. 115, Cherry-Street, where every Kind of Printing work is executed with the utmost Accuracy and Dispatch.—Subscriptions for this Magazine (at 2s. per month) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and by E. MITCHELL, Bookseller, No. 9, Maiden-Lane.
UTILE DULCI. | ||
The New-York Weekly Magazine;OR, MISCELLANEOUS REPOSITORY. | ||
| Vol. II.] | WEDNESDAY, December 14, 1796. | [No. 76. |
From CAMILLA, or a Picture of Youth—just publishing by the Editor, are extracted the following striking observations on the superiority of mental accomplishments to personal attractions:—
“Indeed, Sir—and pray believe me, I do not mean to repine I have not the beauty of Indiana; I know and have always heard her loveliness is beyond all comparison. I have no more, therefore, thought of envying it, than of envying the brightness of the sun. I knew, too, I bore no competition with my sisters; but I never dreamt of competition. I knew I was not handsome, but I supposed many people besides not handsome, and that I should pass with the rest; and I concluded the world to be full of people who had been sufferers as well as myself, by disease or accident. These have been occasionally my passing thoughts; but the subject never seized my mind; I never reflected upon it at all, till abuse, without provocation, all at once opened my eyes, and shewed me to myself! Bear with me, then, my father, in this first dawn of terrible conviction! Many have been unfortunate---but none unfortunate like me! Many have met with evils---but who with an accumulation like mine!”
Mr. Tyrold, extremely affected, embraced her with the utmost tenderness: “My dear, deserving, excellent child,” he cried, “what would I not endure, what sacrifice not make, to soothe this cruel disturbance, till time and your own understanding can exert their powers?” Then, while straining her to his breast with the fondest parental commiseration; the tears, with which his eyes were overflowing, bedewed her cheeks.
Eugenia felt them, and sinking to the ground, pressed his knees. “O my father,” she cried, “a tear from your revered eyes afflicts me more than all else! Let me not draw forth another, lest I should become not only unhappy, but guilty. Dry them up, my dearest father; let me kiss them away.”
“Tell me, then, my poor girl, you will struggle against this ineffectual sorrow! Tell me you will assert that fortitude which only waits for your exertion; and tell me you will forgive the misjudging compassion which feared to impress you earlier with pain!”
“I will do all, every thing you desire! my injustice is subdued! my complaints shall be hushed! you have conquered me, my beloved father! Your indulgence, your lenity shall take place of every hardship, and leave me nothing but filial affection!”
Seizing this grateful moment, he then required of her to relinquish her melancholy scheme of seclusion from the world: “The shyness and the fears which gave birth to it,” said he, “will but grow upon you if listened to; and they are not worthy the courage I would instil into your bosom---the courage, my Eugenia, of virtue---the courage to pass by, as if unheard, the insolence of the hard-hearted, and ignorance of the vulgar. Happiness is in your power, though beauty is not; and on that to set too high a value would be pardonable only in a weak and frivolous mind; since, whatever is the involuntary admiration with which it meets, every estimable quality and accomplishment is attainable without it: and though, which I cannot deny, its immediate influence is universal, yet in every competition and in every decision of esteem, the superior, the elegant, the better part of mankind give their suffrages to merit alone. And you, in particular, will find yourself, through life, rather the more than the less valued, by every mind capable of justice and compassion, for misfortunes which no guilt has incurred.”
Observing her now to be softened, though not absolutely consoled, he rang the bell, and begged the servant, who answered it, to request his brother would order the coach immediately, as he was obliged to return home; “And you, my love,” said he, “shall accompany me; it will be the least exertion you can make in first breaking through your averseness to quit the house.”
Eugenia would not resist; but her compliance was evidently repugnant to her inclination; and in going to the glass to put on her hat, she turned aside from it in shuddering, and hid her face with both her hands.
“My dearest child,” cried Mr. Tyrold, wrapping her again in his arms, “this strong susceptibility will soon wear away; but you cannot be too speedy nor too firm in resisting it. The omission of what never was in our power cannot cause remorse, and the bewailing what never can become in our power cannot afford comfort. Imagine but what would have been the fate of Indiana, had your situations been reversed, and had she, who can never acquire your capacity, and therefore never attain your knowledge, lost that beauty which is her all; but which to you, even if retained, could have been but a secondary gift. How short will be the reign of that all! how useless in sickness! how unavailing in solitude! how inadequate to long life! how forgotten, or repiningly remembered in old age! You will live to feel pity for all you covet and admire; to grow sensible to a lot more lastingly happy in your own acquirements and powers; and to exclaim, with contrition and wonder, time was when I would have changed with the poor mind-dependent Indiana!”
The carriage was now announced; Eugenia, with reluctant steps, descended; Camilla was called to join them, and Sir Hugh saw them set off with the utmost delight.
THE VICTIM OF MAGICAL DELUSION;
OR, INTERESTING MEMOIRS OF MIGUEL, DUKE DE CA*I*A.
UNFOLDING MANY CURIOUS UNKNOWN HISTORICAL FACTS.
Translated from the German of Tschink.
(Continued from [page 179].)
The death-like paleness of the Duke’s countenance, his perturbated mien, his steps now slow and now moving with vehemence, and the contortions of his lips, bespoke the tempest raging in his soul, as exceeding the violence of the hurricane that was lashing the ocean. The hapless man now looked up to heaven, and now cast his anxious looks around, as if in search of some person, and I heard him pronounce repeatedly the name of Hiermanfor. This sight wounded my heart deeply, and pressed burning tears from my eyes.
Meanwhile a dreadful accident happened on the sea. The anchors which the fore-part of the ship was moored with were torn from the cables by the violent agitation of the vessel, which, riding now only with the small bower, was dashed against the adjacent rocks. A general piercing cry filled the air when this lamentable incident happened. The Duke was going to plunge into the sea, and I retained him with great difficulty by his right arm. Seeing, however, that his despair rendered him callous against our ardent prayers not to rush into the very jaws of death, Pietro and myself tied a long rope round his body, taking hold of one end. He now plunged into the boiling waves, which instantly devoured, and soon after cast him up again. Thus he advanced daringly towards the ship. He seemed several times to have a chance of forcing his way to the vessel, the irregular motions of the sea leaving him on the dry rocks; however the towering billows then returned with additional fury, and buried him beneath an enormous mass of water, which flung the Duke half dead upon the shore. But no sooner had he recovered his senses, than he darted up, hastening with new courage towards the vessel, which, however, began to separate, torn by the violence of the furious waves. The ship’s crew, who now despaired of saving their lives, plunged in crowds into the sea, grasping in the agony of despondency the floating chests, casks, and whatsoever they could lay hold on.
I shall never forget that horrid scene of woe! Two ladies now made their appearance on the stern of the vessel: one of them was the Countess and the other Lady Delier. Amelia expanded her arms towards her lover, who exerted all his strength to join the darling of his soul.—She seemed to have known the Duke by his undaunted courage. The baroness wrung her hands looking anxiously at the spectators, and pointing at Amelia, as if she wanted to say: leave me to my fate, but save my friend! Amelia was standing on the deck without betraying the smallest sign of fear, and seemed to be resigned to her impending deplorable doom, beckoning to us, as if she wanted to bid us an eternal adieu. All the spectators wept, and rent the air with doleful cries and lamentations. The Duke summoned the last remains of his strength, struggling with the frothing waves, in order to save his mistress from the brink of fell destruction; but a mountainous billow of an enormous bulk forced its way through the space betwixt the island and the coast, darting at the ship. In the same moment Amelia rushed into Lady Delier’s arms encircling her friend in wild agony, and in that situation they were buried in the abyss along with the vessel.
The stupefaction of horror which we were seized with, rendered us almost incapable of dragging the Duke on shore. The spirit of the hapless man seemed to have fled to better regions, along with that of his ill-fated bride. He was stretched out on the ground, violently bleeding, and seemingly a lifeless corpse.
I dropped down by his side, seized with terror and grief, imprinting kisses on his ash-pale face, contorted by pains, I called his, mine, and at last Amelia’s name in his ear; but seeing him without the least motion at the sound of the latter, I really feared that he was dead. Pietro beat his breast, tore his hair, and rent the air with doleful lamentations. The bye-standers crowded upon us, and perceiving, after many fruitless trials, some faint vestiges of life in the Duke, we carried him to the next house and put him to bed. The contusions and wounds he had received, by having been dashed against the rocks, were examined by a surgeon, who declared they were not mortal. I uttered a loud shout, throwing myself on my knees, and offering fervent thanks to God. The Duke opened his eyes and closed them again. The surgeon desired us to retire, and not to disturb his rest.
While Pietro went on horseback to the house of the Marquis, in order to inform him of the accident that had happened to his son, I repaired to the strand, in hopes that the bodies of Amelia and Lady Delier would be driven on shore. However the wind having shifted suddenly, as is usual in hurricanes, I was obliged to give up the hope of procuring an honourable burial to those unhappy ladies.
The Duke was in a senseless stupor, when I returned. Alas! his spirit seemed to tarry reluctantly in a world which separated him from his adored Amelia. But why should I tear open again my half-cicatrised wounds? I shall not enter into a description of his situation, I still fancy I hear the shrieks of horror, and the wild shouts which he uttered during a burning fever, when he fancied he saw his Amelia either in dangerous or in happy situations. His imagination and his lips were constantly occupied with her. When, at length, his fever abated, and his recollection returned, he really fancied the history of Amelia’s hapless fate to be the delusion of a feverish dream. Although I was very cautious to dislodge this delusive opinion only gradually, yet the discovery of his error affected him so violently, that I apprehended it would deprive him, if not of his life, at least of his understanding.
Here I cannot omit mentioning a scene which happened at the beginning of his amendment. The Marquis had ordered him to be carried to his house as soon as he began to mend, and nursed him with paternal care. He came, one day, when the Duke was sleeping, and I sitting by his bed-side, to enquire how his son did; as he bent over the sleeper, and seemed to look anxiously whether any signs of returning health appeared in his face, he observed on the bosom of his son a blue ribbon. He pulled it carefully out, and the picture of the Queen of Fr**ce was suspended to it. The countenance of the Marquis resembled at first that of a person who is dubious whether he is awake or dreaming; but soon after I saw his face grow deadly pale, and his whole frame quiver violently. No sooner had he recovered the power of utterance, then he begged me to retire. Two hours after he left the apartment in violent agitation, without observing me. On my entrance into the sick room I found the Duke bathed in tears. The ribbon was still fastened round his neck, but the picture of the Queen was taken from it.
I signified to him my astonishment. He squeezed my hand tenderly, and said:—“You are my only friend, for whom I wish to have no secrets; and yet I am so unhappy as to have this wish too denied me. Don’t press me to tell you what has been transacted between me and my father; I have been obliged to promise with a dreadful oath to take the secret along with me in my grave—In my grave!” he added a little while after, “I am impatient to occupy that habitation ever since Amelia and Antonio have made it their abode.”
“Miguel” I exclaimed, straining him to my heart, “dispel these gloomy thoughts. You shall learn that one has not lost every thing when in possession of a friend like me.”
“I know you, and I thank you,” he replied, with emotion, “let us die together; this world is not deserving to contain us. What business have we in a world (he added with a ghastly look) in which vice only triumphs, and good men find nothing but a grave?”
Reader, do not fancy this language to have originated merely from a transient agitation of mind; alas! it originated from a heart exasperated by the concurrence of the most melancholy misfortunes, and this exasperation was rooted deeper than I had fancied at first. It generated in his soul poisonous shoots which injured his religion. He declared it to be impossible a good God could designedly make good men so unhappy as he had been rendered. He ascribed the origin of his misfortunes to a bad principle, which, having a share in the government of the world, had appropriated his understanding merely to the execution of its bad purposes. He maintained that it was contrary to the nature of an infinitely good being to effect even the best purposes by bad means; and if there were in this world as much disorder, imperfection, and misfortune, as harmony, perfection and happiness, this would be an undeniable proof that the world was governed, and had been created jointly by a good and bad principle. In short, he subscribed entirely to the system of the Manichees.
I perceived this new deviation of his mind with astonishment and grief, and thought it my duty to lead him back in the path of truth as soon as possible, because this error deprived him of the last consolation in his sufferings. For which reason I endeavoured to convince him, that the ideas of a bad and a good principle annul each other; that it is a downright contradiction to believe in the existence of a bad God: that consequently, the fundamental ideas of his system were absurd, and, of course, the system itself unsupported. I proved to him that the evil in this world is not inconsistent with the goodness and providence of God, and that even the happiness of the wicked, and the sufferings of the good, ought not to undermine our belief, but rather to strengthen our hope of a life hereafter, in which every one will receive the just reward of his actions. But how convincing soever my arguments would have been to any unprejudiced person, yet they made very little impression on the Duke, whom the disharmony and gloominess of his mind had too much prepossessed for his comfortless system. Far from finding the least contradiction in it, he was firmly persuaded that the belief in a bad principle served to defend God against the complaints and reproaches of the unfortunate, while he found a great consolation in venting his resentment against the bad principle, whom he believed to be the author of his sufferings. He was therefore firmly resolved to refute the arguments which I had opposed to his system; and as soon as he was able to leave his bed, began to arrange his ideas on that head, and to secure them by a proper train of arguments against my objections. He had almost finished his work when Alumbrado returned from his journey.
(To be continued.)
TO THE EDITOR OF
The New-York Weekly Magazine.
Sir,
Of a situation in life respectable only because it is honest, I am neither depressed by a sense of inferiority nor elated with the idea of superior importance—Of feelings, not yet blunted by habits of depravity, I have a smile for beauty, and a tear for distress; and, I trust, there are some who will bear me witness, that I have a heart for friendship and for love—fond of society, and by no means an enemy to study, my time is usually divided between mankind, my books, and my thoughts. Of passions strong and lively, pleasure has to me peculiar charms; and though my charitable dispositions may be often disobliged, perhaps neither my mental nor corporeal constitution has cause to complain, that my finances do not co-extend with my desires. A commencement like this, may probably impress you with no very favorable idea of the purport of this address; and, suspecting its contents as no way likely to interest your readers, you may be induced to throw by this paper as a tax upon your patience: but, if you can summon fortitude sufficient to continue your perusal, I trust you will find reason, not only to excuse, but even to approve the egotism of my preamble.
To introduce their work with some account of the author, has, I believe, been generally the practice of those who offer to the public what are called periodical writings. I have conceived a similar design, and offer this for your acceptance as introductory to a course of numbers, with which, I hope, through the blessing of patience and the permission of indolence, from time to time to present you. Yet, it was not to gratify curiosity alone that I thought fit to delineate my conduct and my feelings. I believed that, like the exordium of the orator, it might prepare for my offspring a favorable reception.
The first and least interesting part of my egotistic narrative is my situation in life: From this, the only recommendation I can hope to derive is, that sentiment will at least not be corrupted by the habits of profession.
Secondly—To an author of sensibility, surely no objection can be found; a capacity to enjoy the sweets of friendship and the raptures of love will be no disadvantage in the eyes of the virtuous and the fair.
Thirdly—From commerce with man I may gain some knowledge of his tempers and propensities; from reading I will imbibe the sentiments of those much wiser than myself; and by comparing my own deductions with their abstract conclusions, I may, in converse with myself, give some degree of clearness, correctness, and solidity to my conceptions.
To the last feature in my character, which is properly the result of situation, I believe I may with truth ascribe the greater part of my literary acquirements, and what is not quite so honourable to myself, my presumption in becoming an author. To it I shall certainly be indebted for opportunities to exert the attention necessary for the execution of my design. And should not my papers afford instruction or entertainment to others (a persuasion of which I am not vain enough to entertain) they will at least procure improvement to myself. Convinced of the latter, and with a wish to the former, I offer myself a candidate for an office in your literary dispensary.
That subjecting one’s-self to the odium of mankind is the infallible consequence of reprobating his vices and ridiculing his follies, though often asserted, is by no means the fact. In the moment of calmness, uninfluenced by passion, man acknowledges and condemns his errors; and they are not angels alone who weep for the apishness of humanity. It is in such a state of mind that we usually read; and the author need not fear for his censures or his laugh---strange that he should, when he has often occasion to expose those weaknesses in which he participates, and those crimes which disgrace himself. If, therefore, from reflection on my own conduct or observation of that of others in those hazardous moments when reason leaves the helm, I should at any time be induced to choose these themes, I shall have less reason to fear a frown for my intentions than contempt for my incompetency. And should I not pay a tribute to your fancy of one pathetic tale of hapless love, or of the wondrous adventures of one heroic knight, look not ye fair with disdain upon my labours. I love your sex, and deem their favour not the least of those few blessings that raise a wish for life: And, though now a hopeless thought, if in some happy hour I should conceive imagination equal to the task, I may attempt to gratify myself by pleasing you.
CANDIDUS,
New-York, Dec. 10, 1796.