OF THE BEAUTIFUL AND VIRTUOUS.
In days of old, historians write,
There liv’d a maid of wond’rous charms,
Whose very name would oft invite
And pre-engage the heart that warms.
The gods of yore did try each suit
To win this all-alluring fair;
But neither men nor gods could do’t,
She listen’d callous to their pray’r.
In modern days we too are blest
With Nature’s best, completest art,
Her breast is with the virtues drest,
And dignity exalts her heart.
If gods cou’d once more live again,
And eye the Clara of our day,
Their very souls would burst with pain,
And sigh alas! for death’s decay.
Ye virtuous youth who search for worth,
And look with hate on idle mirth,
Direct your steps where Clara lives,
And you may get what virtue gives.
LUCIUS.
Pine-Street, June 28th, 1796.
For sources, see the end of the second installment ([pg. 16]).
For the New-York Weekly Magazine.
AN EPISTLE FROM OCTAVIA TO ANTHONY.
From the French.
BY MATILDA.
While Anthony without the chance of arms,
Contemn’d by all, and lost to glory’s charms,
A woman’s signal leads across the wave,
To share the just derision of the brave:
I shudder at thy weakness and thy shame,
The price a worthless mistress pays thy flame;
Now Rome disowns thee—blushes to have borne
The power of him who fills the world with scorn;
O hero still belov’d, ere quite undone,
Recal the palms thy youthful valour won;
Recal those times, those actions, that applause,
That join’d the senate people in thy cause,
When Rome in Cæsar’s friend beheld him live,
And emulation all his worth revive.
Then judge, unhappy, of thy heart’s estate,
Thyself avenging Brutus’ hapless fate;
Betray’d by female arts to boast a flame,
That leads to thy misfortune and thy shame;
’Tis she that stifles all the warrior’s glow,
And tears the fading laurel from thy brow.
O husband mid thy weakness, still too dear
Are such the actions of a love sincere;
Grant but these lines with true affection fraught,
The calm indulgence of unbiass’d thought;
Does not remorse, even in some tender hour,
O’er thy fond soul extend her chilling power;
How oft do Rome and sad Octavia rise,
And glance reproaches to thy mental eyes;
Ah if ’tis so, and thy repentant soul
Has felt the salutary griefs controul,
Permit, at length permit this trembling hand,
To mention honour’s claim and love’s demand;
And if some crime thy just aversion draws,
Tell, only cruel, tell the hapless cause.
My brother all prepar’d, assum’d his arms,
When war between you kindled fierce alarms;
To reunite two heroes then became
Of me, the glorious and successful aim;
Your jarring int’rests in one point to blend,
And change each stern opponent to a friend;
Our marriage made—I hop’d to ratifie
Your union, and confirm the mutual tie.
Th’ Egyptian queen, her love, your weakness prov’d,
No apprehensions in my bosom mov’d.
Ev’n Cleopatra secretly defy’d,
I hop’d to humble guilty beauty’s pride,
And wish’d in loving thee, th’exalted fate,
To punish her, and greatly serve the state.
Rome sought, applauding, from my eyes to raise,
The pleasing prospect of serener days;
These glorious aims inflam’d my ardent breast,
And tender prepossession did the rest.
That happy day on which thy faith was giv’n,
Bestow’d dear Anthony, the joys of heaven!
What pomp, great Gods! and with what transport join’d
To sway the lords of Rome, and of mankind;
I dissipated rage and banish’d art,
And rul’d a brother’s and a husband’s heart.
Extinguish’d in her breast discordant hate,
And reign’d the sovereign of the Roman state.
A pardonable pride I dare confess,
That generous pride that only knows to bless;
The love of Cleopatra, her alarms,
Augmented both my triumphs and my charms.
The conqu’ror crown’d his conquest with repose,
And own’d the laws affection dar’d impose.
With war and with Octavia shar’d his life,
Augustus rivalled and ador’d his wife.
What did I say—That Rome which saw thee yield,
Was not to shew me a sufficient field,
Thou would’st, thy soul’s supreme content to prove,
Teach all mankind thy happiness and love;
T’admire Octavia ev’ry eye must join,
And render her more fair and dear to thine.
O days of splendour pass’d on Athen’s plains,
Where all things seem’d but to cement our chains,
That race by Mars and Pallas jointly crown’d,
Who arts diffuse to all the world around.
Witness’d my happiness so pure serene,
And press’d each day to ornament the scene.
Mild in my arms repos’d the warrior’s art,
Thy face expressive of thy tranquil heart;
No more proclaim’d a victor’s pride you knew,
And peaceful virtue gain’d your valour’s due;
That Athens, Rome, with envy view’d before,
A Roman countenance embellish’d more.
(To be concluded in our next.)
For the New-York Weekly Magazine.