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LITERARY REMAINS 
 
 OF 
 
 JOSEPH BROWN LADD, MI). 
 
 COLLECTED BY HIS SISTER, 
 
 MRS. ELIZABETH HASKINS, 
 
 OP RHODE ISLAND. 
 
 TO WHICH IS PREFIXED, 
 
 A SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR'S LIFE, 
 
 BY 
 
 W. B. CHITTENDEN. 
 
 And wiioie be they who sang their rugged hymns 
 O'er freedom's cradle— cherished now no more 
 Save in their hearts who stood in that darli hour 
 Battling for liearth and home 1 Let pious hands 
 Embalm those lays ere yet their echoes die, 
 And give our early bards their fame. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 H. C. SLEIGHT, CLINTON HALL. 
 
 1832. 
 
-pcj-jql 
 
 L'f«3» 
 
 "Entorod according to Act of Congress in the year 1832, by Henry C 
 Sleight, in the office of the Clerk of the Southern District of New York." 
 
TO 
 
 DOCTOR J. WHITREDGE 
 
 CHARLESTON. S. C 
 
 Dear Sir, 
 
 The following publication is an attempt 
 to rescue from oblivion the scattered relics of a genius 
 which, had it reached maturit)^, would have shed lus- 
 tre on the age that produced it. Dr. Ladd, as you 
 are aware, perished nearly fifty years ago, in the very 
 dawn of manhood. In this age of fastidious taste 
 and severe criticism, when it requires no small de- 
 gree of courage even for matured talent to come be- 
 fore the public with its most elaborate efforts, it may 
 appear presumptuous to bring forward these imper- 
 fect productions. In justice to their author, they 
 ought to be compared only with the writings of his 
 cotemporaries, due allowance being made for his 
 youth and limited means of education. This indul- 
 gence granted, it is hoped they will prove not an un- 
 welcome offering to those who love to dwell upon the 
 early history of our republic ; since genius and the 
 labors of genius form an important ingredient in that 
 glory of a nation, which the patriot is wont to contem- 
 
IV DEDICATION. 
 
 plate with honest pride. In presenting the following 
 work to the public, with the hope just expiessed, I 
 am happy in being allowed to grace it with the name 
 of one, not only distinguished for talents and learn- 
 ing, for his patronage of living merit, his fidelity to 
 the memory of departed w^orth, and his readiness to 
 claim for our country every ray of glory shed upon 
 her annals by the genius and achievements of her 
 sons, but who adds to these the more endearing claim 
 of having been in early life the intimate companion 
 and valued friend of the juvenile author. 
 
 To you, therefore, who knew and loved him, who 
 ■witnessed the dawning of his bold and bright intel- 
 lect, and w^ept over his untimely grave — to you, sir, 
 with a sense of obligation for the permission, the lite- 
 rary remains of Joseph Brown Ladd are respectfully 
 inscribed by their editor, 
 
 ELIZABETH RASKINS. 
 
SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR'S LIFE. 
 
 Joseph Brown Ladd, the author of the miscellany 
 now presented to the public, died nearly half a century 
 ago ; and at this distant period, httle can be ascertained 
 with accuracy in regard to his short but brilliant ca- 
 reer. He was the eldest son of William and Sarah 
 Ladd, of Newport, Rhode Island ; at which place he 
 was born, in 1764. He was therefore a mere child at 
 the breaking out of the war of the revolution. Bear- 
 ing this in mind, the reader need only be informed, in 
 addition, that his father's pecuniary circumstances were 
 moderate, to know that his opportunities of education 
 must have been very limited. A system of common 
 schools established by law was unknown in Rhode 
 Island ; and owing to the embarrassment of the times, 
 scarcely a single institution for the study of the higher 
 V 
 
Vi SKETCH OP THE 
 
 branches of science or literature was in operation ; or if 
 in operation, they were beyond the reach of any but 
 the weaUhy. Private and neighborhood schools, how- 
 ever, were not wanting ; and of the best of these in 
 Newport, young Ladd, during the first ten years of his 
 life, from time to time had the benefit. But, in general, 
 little more was aimed at in them than the mechanical 
 parts and first elements of an Enghsh education ; and 
 to these, it is believed the instruction afibrded him was 
 confined. He never afterwards attended a school of 
 any description. 
 
 Of the method of elementary instruction then in 
 vogue, and which, in spite of modern improvements, 
 still prevails to a great extent, it may be remarked that 
 it was calculated to paralj^-ze rather than to benefit the 
 mind ; for it did violence to nature. Knowledge is the 
 aliment of the mind ; but it is the knowledge of sensi- 
 ble, or at farthest, of imaginable objects, which is 
 adapted to its infant state. Abstractions, abstruse con- 
 clusions, and relations, form the proper exercise of ma- 
 turer faculties. The fault of the system alluded to 
 was, that it commenced by forcing upon the memory 
 lessons which the understanding could not comprehend. 
 
vu 
 
 The child became disgusted with the labor imposed 
 upon him, and could only be aroused to exertion by 
 some ulterior motive, such as fear, emulation, interest, 
 or ambition — motives which never yet made a scholar. 
 The reverse of this is undoubtedly the correct course. 
 Cuiiosity is the strongest trait of childhood, and it is 
 gratified by knowledge adapted to the capacities of the 
 mind. That which gratifies at the same time stimu- 
 lates it ; and when stimulated to a high degree in refer- 
 ence to proper objects, it becomes a passion which we 
 dignify by the name of " a thirst for knowledge" — a 
 passion which looks upon obstacles, not as "uncon- 
 querable bars," but as things to be overcome. Without 
 it, none need aspire to intellectual eminence ; while its 
 possessor will either consume in its fires, or illumine the 
 age in which he lives. Common sense, therefore, 
 would seem to dictate that this passion should be ex- 
 cited (as it easily can be) before even the alphabet is 
 put into the child's hands. The labor of acquiring the 
 elementary branches would then be regarded as the 
 means of gratifying the passion thus aroused, and sub- 
 mitted to with alacrity ; and what, under the old sys- 
 
VIU SKETCH OF THE 
 
 tern, was the labor of years, would be accomplished in 
 as many months. 
 
 The accidental excitement of this passion for know- 
 ledgCj in early childhood, in connection with a constitu- 
 tional ardor of temperament, is perhaps sufficient to ac- 
 count for the most surprising instances of precocious ge- 
 nius on record ; and undoubtedly illustrates the case of 
 the subject of this memoir. The elementary schools 
 which he had attended, however imperfect, having fur- 
 nished him with the key of knowledge, his mind was 
 too bold and enterprising, and too thoroughly stimu 
 lated, to remain on the threshold for want of a guide. 
 With the heroism of true genius, he plunged into the 
 labyrinth alone, 
 
 "Proud of the strong- contention of his toils, 
 " Proud to be daring"." 
 
 Devoting himself incessantly to study, to the neglect of 
 the ordinary sports of childhood, and possessing an un- 
 usual quickness of intellect, his progress must necessa- 
 rily have been rapid. There is reason to believe, that 
 at the age of eleven, without instruction, except what 
 has been stated, or other facility save the possession of 
 
books, he had made no small proficiency in mathema- 
 tics, acquired such a knowledge of Latin as to read au- 
 thors in that language with satisfaction, and accom- 
 plished an extensive course of historical reading. He 
 was intimately acquainted with the Bible, and could re- 
 peat a large portion of it from memory. 
 
 Even at this early age, a passion for scribbling had 
 seized him, and was frequently indulged in. One of 
 his pieces in verse, entitled "An address to the Al- 
 mighty," written at the age of ten, is preserved in the 
 following pages. It was first published in a newspaper 
 edited by Solomon Southwick, of Newport, and deemed 
 worthy of a place in a collection of hymns compiled 
 shortly afterwards, in which, the author being un- 
 known, it was by mistake attributed to Collet. What- 
 ever may be said of its poetical merit, it is the effusion 
 of a feehng heart and reflecting mind, and evinces the 
 most correct views on the part of the infant writer, of 
 his relation to his fellow-creatures, and to the Author of 
 his being. 
 
 In 1775, Mr. Ladd removed to Little Compton, 
 Rhode Island, where he purchased a farm, and put in 
 requisition the labor of his sons for its cultivation. This, 
 
X SKETCH OF THE 
 
 to the subject of our memoir, was a most miwelcome 
 change. He soon became discontented with his new 
 occupation, not from any indolence of disposition, but 
 because it wholly interrupted the studies to which he 
 had devoted his soul, and threw a gloom over those 
 gorgeous but undefined visions of future greatness, 
 which we may suppose were indulged in by a boy 
 of his ardent spirit, who had become conversant with 
 the deeds and sentiments of the great men of past ages. 
 He made no secret of his unconquerable aversion to the 
 drudgery of agriculture ; and had recourse to various 
 stratagems to escape from it when compelled to labor 
 by parental authority. On one occasion, he fitted up a 
 study in a thicket of alder-bushes, in an inclosure 
 through which he had to pass to his employment, in a 
 manner so ingenious as to elude discovery for many 
 months. Having furnished it with a number of his fa- 
 vorite authors, he daily spent there as much time as he 
 dared to withhold from the labors of the farm, proving 
 in his solitary revels the sweetness of stolen waters. 
 When reprimanded by his father (as he frequently was 
 with much severity) for his neglect of business, and ad- 
 monished of the future consequences of indolence, his 
 
XI 
 
 reply was, " my head, sir, and not my hands, must sup- 
 port me." 
 
 An experiment of three years at length convinced his 
 father of the impossibility of reconciling him to a far- 
 mer's life, and the necessity of giving him some other 
 profession. At the age of fourteen, therefore, he was 
 placed in a mercantile establishment. But this proved 
 even more revolting to his taste than his former occupa- 
 tion. In that, if but Kttle opportunity was afforded for 
 reading, there was much for reflection and reverie. 
 The duties of a farmer are mostly simple, and may 
 be rendered so purely habitual, that the attention re- 
 quired of the mind shall form but a slight interruption 
 to the more engrossing trains of thought by which it is 
 occupied. Thus, some of the sweetest effusions of 
 Burns were composed while following the plough. 
 But in a store, an unremitted wakefulness of attention 
 is required to minute particulars, and a value attached 
 to trifles which in the eyes of Ladd must have been 
 worthless. For one whose habit of abstraction from 
 objects of sense for the pursuit of intellectual pleasures, 
 had become so imconquerable, a situation of greater 
 discomfort could hardly be imagined, and he endured it 
 
Xll SKETCH OF THE 
 
 but for a few months, when, at his argent request, he 
 was removed. 
 
 His next location was in the printing-office of Mr. 
 Southwick, of Newport, where, it was thought, he 
 might, while acquiring a trade, gratify, in some mea- 
 sure, his inordinate passion for books. Here he re- 
 mained about a twelvemonth ; and the anecdotes related 
 of him forcibly bring to mind the career of Franklin in 
 a similar situation. It was during this year that a 
 gentleman of Newport, having remarked his ready- 
 talent at composition, induced him to write some bal- 
 lads upon certain quacks with whom the town was in- 
 fected. These performances, which are now lost, are 
 said to have been specimens of the most vigorous satire. 
 Transported beyond the bounds of propriety by the ap- 
 plause which they ehcited, and instigated by the person 
 who had before employed him, he aimed at a more con- 
 spicuous but less vulnerable object, and in a satirical 
 poem dared to assail the venerable Hopkins, who, not 
 being disposed to bear such abuse from a boy, had re- 
 course to parental authority for redress. The sensation 
 produced by this unjustifiable attack was probably the 
 immediate occasion of his removal from the printing- 
 
xm 
 
 office ; but it also gave rise to a series of consultations 
 on the part of his father, which resulted in a determina- 
 tion to let him take the course indicated by his natural 
 bias, and to give him as liberal an education as possible. 
 His choice was to become a physician ; and with this 
 view, at the age of fifteen, he was placed under the tu- 
 ition, and received into the family of Dr. Isaac Senter, 
 a distinguished physician and surgeon of Newport, who 
 had long remarked his genius, and passion for learn- 
 ing, and felt the most lively interest in his behalf 
 
 In this arrangement, Ladd saw the hopes, whose de- 
 lay had for years sickened his heart, at length realized ; 
 and entered upon his studies as though sitting down to 
 a banquet with an appetite sharpened by long fasting. 
 He proposed to himself not merely to acquire the medi- 
 cal profession and the branches immediately connected 
 with it, but to accomphsh a full course of science and 
 literature similar to that pursued in the collegiate insti- 
 tutions of the day. The want of instruction, which to 
 most persons would have proved an insuperable ba^ier, 
 was, to one of his enterprising spirit and bold, original 
 mind, but a trifling difficulty. Dr. Senter was, indeed, 
 well qualified and ever ready to give him every aid 
 
 1 
 
XIV SKETCH OF THE 
 
 consistent with his professional duties ; but all that 
 Ladd ever required, besides an opportunity for study^ 
 was the necessary books ; and these were supplied him 
 by the Doctor's private collection, and a free access to 
 the Redwood library of Newport. With so arduous a 
 task before him, his application, as might be expected, 
 was incessant ; and w^ould probably have been attended 
 with fatal consequences, had it not been restrained by 
 the parental soHcitude of his new preceptor and patron, 
 who compelled him to take relaxation and exercise ; 
 and who found it necessary to deprive him of light after 
 a certain hour at night, and when the moon shone 
 brightly, even to take away his books. 
 
 But notwithstanding Ladd's great devotion to books, 
 he was by no means the mere passive recipient of other 
 men's thoughts. He subjected their doctrines and theo- 
 ries to a rigid investigation by a method of his own ; and 
 by the exercise of logical weapons in solitude — an ex- 
 ercise usually requiring the stimulus of opposition — he 
 acquired a critical acumen, an acuteness in the detec- 
 tion of sophistry, and a dexterity in the use of argu- 
 ments, which would have done no discredit to a tho- 
 rough-bred dialectician. Studying, generally, with pen 
 
XV 
 
 in hand, the thoughts suggested to his mmd, the con- 
 clusions which he arrived at on disputed points, and his 
 reasonings in opposition to the author under perusal, 
 were noted down, and frequently took the form of cri- 
 tiques and theses of various lengths, which, though 
 written in haste for his own use, and therefore unfit for 
 publication, show, at least, the severity of the mental 
 discipline to which he subjected himself, as well as the 
 variety of important subjects to which his attention was 
 directed. Indeed, self-taught as he was, it may be as- 
 sumed, at the end of the four years which he spent 
 with Dr. Senter, that in academical attainments (inde- 
 pendent of his professional studies) he was not behind 
 the graduates of the best public institutions then in ope- 
 ration. In mathematics his course had been unusually 
 extensive. Of chemistry, in its then imperfect state as 
 a science, and in physics, his knowledge was as ample 
 as could be acquired by a diligent perusal of the best 
 treatises, without the aid of apparatus and experiments. 
 Physiology, of course, as belonging to his professional 
 studies, was not neglected. The writings of Locke 
 had been read with delight, and were his guide in men- 
 tal philosophy, as were the lectures of Blair in the de- 
 
XVI SKETCH OF THE 
 
 partment of rhetoric and criticism. He had studied the 
 Greek and Latin classics usually comprised in a colle- 
 giate course, in connection with the antiquities and my- 
 thology of Greece and Rome. Besides these, he is 
 known to have been acquainted with Hebrew, and 
 familiar with the French language and literature ; 
 though these were perhaps acquired subsequently to 
 the period above mentioned. 
 
 In his hours of relaxation, the English poets and 
 essayists were his favorite companions ; and as in his 
 severer studies the authors he consulted were made use 
 of only as aids to his investigation of the subjects upon 
 which they treated ; so his light reading served as a 
 means of exciting his own fancy, and usually pro- 
 duced some effort at composition either in prose or 
 verse. In his occasional visits at Little Compton, his 
 time was generally occupied in this manner. Most of 
 the poetical pieces published in this volume were writ- 
 ten during his residence with Dr., Senter; but they 
 form only a small proportion of what he wrote. The 
 greater part, and probably the most valuable of them, 
 are now irrecoverably lost. 
 
author's life. xvu 
 
 Some of these pieces appeared in the newspapers of 
 the day, under the name of Arouet— a name which he 
 always afterwards retained, and by which he became 
 at length well known to the public. At the period we 
 are speaking of, however, he rarely ever wrote with a 
 view to publication, but rather for the sake of the plea- 
 sure it gave him, and the improvement he expected to 
 derive from it as an exercise. He could not help being 
 flattered by the eagerness with which his manuscripts 
 were sought after by his acquaintances ; and not \\n- 
 frequently expressed a hope that at a future day he 
 might produce something fit for the eye of the public : 
 but his standard of excellence in writing was high ; 
 and, fully alive to the defects of these juvenile effusions, 
 he never would have published them himself, and it 
 was with extreme reluctance that he permitted his 
 friends to do it. 
 
 It is but justice to remind the reader of this fact, as 
 well as of the time at which these pieces were written, 
 that they may be compared only with the poetry with 
 which the author was conversant, and from which his 
 taste was formed. This ought especially to be kept in 
 view in reference to the amatory effusions inscribed to 
 1* 
 
XVlll SKETCH OF THE 
 
 "Amanda." Love-letters in rhyme are now out of 
 date ; and at best were but an indifferent medium for 
 the expression of the master passion, which has indeed 
 a language of its own, unutterable by tongue or pen. 
 Even when most in vogue, such compositions were 
 chargeable in no small degree with affectation — the 
 sentiment versified being generally fictitious, and ad- 
 dressed to an imaginary mistress. But the poetical let- 
 ters of Arouet to Amanda were dictated by genuine 
 feeling. During the latter part of his residence with 
 Dr. Senter, he became attached to the lady whom he 
 chose to address by that name — a being "lovely to soul 
 and to eye" — and this new sentiment, it is needless to 
 say, partook largely of the fervor and enthusiasm 
 which formed so prominent an ingredient in his character. 
 She was an orphan heiress, under the guardianship of 
 mercenary relatives, who finding the management of 
 her estate a source of profit to themselves, did not 
 hesitate to sacrifice her happiness to their own interest. 
 As their trust would terminate with her marriage, they 
 seemed resolved to delay such an event as long as pos- 
 sible, if not to prevent it altogether. Hence they stre- 
 nuously opposed the advances of Ladd, refusing their 
 
AUTHOR'S LIFE. XIX 
 
 countenance to his suit, and endeavoring, by a species 
 of petty tyranny, to break off his intercourse with her. 
 Not content with open opposition, they had recourse to 
 calumnies, which, though groundless, were so ingeni- 
 ously devised, and industriously bruited, as at one time 
 to shake the confidence of some of his best friends. It 
 was while suffering under these wrongs, and brooding 
 over the many obstacles which stood between him and 
 the accomplishment of his wishes, that the letters to 
 Amanda were written. From their plaintive tenor, one 
 is at first led to suppose him harping upon the stale 
 topic of unrequited love. But this was far from being 
 the case. The lady in question returned his affection 
 with equal warmth, and duly appreciated his worth, 
 notwithstanding the efforts made to destroy his charac- 
 ter in her estimation. His narrow circumstances, and, 
 as yet, uncertain prospects, and the opposition of her 
 guardians, to say nothing of the youth of both parties, 
 prevented their marriage at the time ; but they did not 
 prevent a private engagement between them, which 
 continued up to the period of his untimely death. She 
 survived him, indeed, for several years, but never wholly 
 recovered from the shock occasioned by that event. 
 
XX SKETCH OF THE 
 
 In 1783, Ladd closed his studies with Dr. Senter, 
 and received license to practice medicine. While on 
 the look-out for a location, he was so fortunate as to 
 make the acquaintance and secure the friendship of 
 Gen. Nathaniel Green, who had just returned from the 
 field of his military labors, to the bosom of his native 
 state. By his advice, Ladd was induced to try his for- 
 tune in the southern states ; and shortly after removed 
 to Charleston, S. C, where, in the spring following, being 
 then in his twentieth year, he commenced the practice 
 of medicine. An introduction from "the hero of the 
 south," for whose distinguished services in the revolu- 
 tionary struggle then just closed, every heart was filled 
 with gratitude, could not fail of securing to our aspi- 
 rant the ready confidence of the people whose patron- 
 age he sought. Commencing his professional career 
 under such favorable auspices, his assiduity, his success 
 in the treatment of difficult cases, and his engaging 
 manners, soon gave him an extent of practice such as 
 physicians generally think themselves fortunate in ob- 
 taining after a probation of many years, 
 
 Beneath the caresses and approving smiles of the 
 warm-hearted Carolinians, his genius seemed to receive 
 
author's life. xxi 
 
 new life, and burst forth with fresh luxuriance. He 
 now, for the first time, felt encouraged to come forward 
 as a writer in the public journals ; and his contribu- 
 tions, which were continued as regularly as his other 
 duties would permit, were received with unequivocal 
 applause. He sported in every measure of verse, and 
 is known to have engaged in the discussion of most of 
 the topics of public interest at the time. The critique 
 on Dr. Johnson's works, however, is the only one of his 
 prose essays written during that year which can now 
 be found ; but that will suffice to illustrate the indepen- 
 dent character of his mind. It was a bold deed for a 
 stripling of his age to cast the first stone at the Hterary 
 giant in the very hour of his triumph ; but he dealt a 
 palpable hit ; and the justice of his remarks is well 
 sustained by the decision of later times. 
 
 In the next year, 1785, we hear of him as the orator 
 named by Governor Moultrie to deliver an address in 
 presence of the executive authority and the Cincinnati 
 of South Carolina, on the birth-day of American inde- 
 pendence. To the citizens of Charleston is due the ho- 
 nor of first marking the anniversary of this event by 
 public demonstrations of joy. This was on the 4th of 
 
XXU SKETCH OF THE 
 
 July, 1778, when Dr. Ramsay, the distinguished 
 scholar and historian, delivered an address. The cele- 
 bration in 1785 was the second which was observed in 
 Charleston. The address of Dr. Ladd on this occa- 
 sion, a part of which has been preserved by Niles in his 
 "Principles and Acts of the Revolution," was never 
 written out in full. He received the appointment but a 
 few days previous to the celebration, during the sickly 
 season, while employed day and night in his profes- 
 sional duties ; and could only arrange his thoughts on 
 horseback, or pencil hasty notes while stopping at the 
 houses of his patients. His address therefore is to be 
 regarded as an extemporaneous effort ; and the extract 
 given from it in this volume, as the sketch of a reporter. 
 It was during this year, also, that he delivered a course 
 of public lectures on chemistry in Charleston, a syllabus 
 of which was published in one of the newspapers of 
 that city. 
 
 Of the particular incidents of his Hfe, while a resident 
 of Charleston, we have no knowledge ; and a sketch 
 of his character farther than is indicated by the forego- 
 ing memoir, unless drawn from an intimate personal ac- 
 quaintance, would, of course, be a mere fancy-piece. 
 
author's life. XXlll 
 
 Of his standing and prospects, however, which were 
 doubtless the result of a due estimation of his worth, 
 we are enabled to speak from authority and with confi- 
 dence. Admired, esteemed, and beloved by a numerous 
 circle in the highest ranks of society, and at the same 
 time popular with the humbler class for his active be- 
 nevolence ; toiling incessantly at his profession, yet 
 neglecting no opportunity to inform himself on subjects 
 of interest to the scholar, philosopher, or politician ; in- 
 teresting himself in the important public questions of 
 the day, particularly such as regarded the rising institu- 
 tions of the commonwealth of which he had become a 
 citizen ; with a good constitution, temperate habits, and 
 talents of the highest order, no young man perhaps 
 ever had a fairer prospect of rising to eminence, useful- 
 fulness, an(} high political distinction, than Dr. Ladd, at 
 the period of which we are speaking. 
 
 A situation so enviable did not fail to excite envy. 
 To be obnoxious to its baleful eye, is the " hard condi- 
 tion twin-born with greatness." Though entirely 
 amiable in his disposition, and courteous in his manners, 
 no man possessed a more high-toned sensibility, or more 
 chivalrous spirit. It was not difficult, therefore, for one 
 
XXIV 
 
 bent on his destruction, to draw him into a quarrel. In 
 November, 1786, at the age of twenty-two, he under- 
 went a challenge for some frivolous cause ; and, though 
 averse to dueling from principle, yet the tyranny of 
 public sentiment was such, that to decline the rencounter 
 would have made him the mark of public scorn, and 
 wholly destroyed his standing and influence in society. 
 His conduct on the field was firm ; but acting without 
 enmity in his heart, and with no other motive but the 
 preservation of his character, he purposely fired wide 
 of his mark. Not so his antagonist. His purpose was 
 murderous, his aim careful — and Ladd became his 
 
 victim. 
 
 "Multis ille bonis flebilis occidit." 
 
POEMS. 
 
 ODE TO THE SPIRIT OF OSSIAN. 
 
 Bard of the melancholy brow, 
 
 whither dost thou wander now 1 
 
 1 hear not, when the storm is past. 
 Thy voice upon the hollow blast ; 
 Nor dost thou sweep with dying fall, 
 The trembling harp of Lara's hall. 
 
 Say, dost thou stalk with pleasure still, 
 O'er scenes of death, on Lara's hill ? 
 Where dark-browed Fereuth — man of blood ! 
 Connal, and mighty Fingal stood ? 
 Where Oscar shook the bloody spear. 
 When Ossian, king of songs, was there ? 
 2 
 
14 
 
 No, awful spirit ! thou dost fly, 
 Like a dim meteor, through the sky : — 
 A thin gray mist thy glory shrouds, 
 While thou art on thy sunny clouds. 
 There, Fingal and thy son appears, 
 With all the chiefs of other years. 
 
 Late to my slumbers didst thou corae ; — 
 The songs of bards were in the room ; — 
 Thy voice was on the passiag storm ; 
 The moon-beam trembled through thy form ; 
 And thou didst strike, with wonted fire. 
 The wild, the sorrow-sounding lyre. 
 
 Hark ! 'tis not wind that idly sings 
 Across yon harp, and sweeps the strings. 
 'Tis Ossian's self inspires the blast, 
 With living songs from ages past ! 
 Those ages past awake his soul : 
 And all their deeds before him roll. 
 
 Bard of the mournful brow ! again 
 Repeat thy spirit-stirring strain. 
 For see, Malvina comes along. 
 To hear the sweet, melodious song. 
 Oh ! wake our terror, and our tears, 
 With tales of ages past, and deeds of other years 
 
15 
 
 RUNIC ODE. 
 
 Radiant orb, revolving round. 
 Where, oh ! whither art thou bound ? 
 Thou, that Uke some shining shield, 
 Blazing o'er the bloody field. 
 Dost on high majestic move. 
 Pouring sun-shine all above. 
 
 Where, oh ! whither art thou bound, 
 RoUing now in glory round ? 
 Red and fiery round thy brow, 
 Lo ! the western waters glow ; 
 And behind, across the vales. 
 Every lengthening shadow trails. 
 
 Where, oh ! whither art thou bound. 
 Deep in distant surges drowned ? 
 Evening marches, wrapt in clouds, 
 And each prospect gaily shrouds ; 
 While on yonder sea-beat shores. 
 Blacker night in silence pours. 
 
 Hark ! hear the rushing blast — 
 What shrieks it mutters round ! 
 
16 
 
 It bellows o'er the dreary waste. 
 And death is in the sound. 
 
 See, see what horrid forms, 
 
 Like thin gray mists appear ! 
 They ride at midnight on the storms, 
 
 With horror in the rear. 
 
 Hark ! hear the feeble shriek, 
 
 How shrill the echoes rise ! 
 Ye grim-gray spirits speak, oh ! speak — 
 
 Why — why those dying cries ? 
 
 What — do ye vanish so ? 
 
 Are ye already gone ? 
 Where, grim-gray shadows, do ye go, 
 
 To pour the plaintive moan ? 
 
 Hushed are the winds — in their dark silent house, 
 The stormy breezes sleep — save one soft gale. 
 That whistles through the grass, and seems to say, 
 Hence, bard of sorrow — plaintive poet, hence ! 
 
 I go, sweet gale ! — on yon lone echoing shares. 
 Where, midst the foam, sharp-pointed rocks emerge, 
 To hear the stormy cataract, that roars 
 Tremendous ! answered by the bellowing surge. 
 
17 
 
 And while around the foamy billows sweep, 
 The briny wave sheds momentary gleams, 
 By which, the spirits of the awful deep 
 Shall court my vision with horrific screams. 
 
 Stay, bard ! a moment stay ; 
 For see, the morning ray 
 
 Breaks from the eastern sky. 
 Where has the morning been 
 Thus wandering, long unseen, 
 
 In dim obscurity ? 
 
 Where, oh ! whither didst thou stray, 
 Radiant orb, that givest the day ? 
 Long did we thy absence mourn ; 
 Long we've waited thy return ; 
 Say, refulgent planet, say. 
 Where, oh ! whither didst thou stray ? 
 
18 
 
 ODE TO RETIREMENT, 
 
 Hail, sweet retirement ! hail ! 
 Best state of man below ; 
 
 To smooth the tide of passions frail. 
 
 And bear the soul away from scenery of wo. 
 When retired from busy noise. 
 Vexing cares, and troubled joys, 
 To a mild serener air 
 In the country, we repair ; 
 Calm enjoy the rural scene, 
 Sportive o'er the meadows green, 
 When the sun's enlivening ray, 
 Speaks the genial month of May ; 
 Lo ! his amorous wanton beams. 
 Dance on yonder crystal streams ; 
 In soft dalliance pass the hours. 
 Kissing dew-drops from the flowers ; 
 W^hile soft music through the grove, 
 Sweetly tunes the soul to love ; 
 And the hills, harmonious round, 
 Echo with responsive sound. 
 There the turtle dove alone. 
 Makes his soft melodious moan : 
 
19 
 
 While from yonder bough 'tis heard, 
 Sweetly chirps the yellow bird : 
 There the linnefs downy throat, 
 Warbles the responsive note ; 
 And to all the neighboring groves, 
 Robin redbreast tells his loves. 
 
 There, Amanda, we might walk. 
 And of soft endearments talk ; 
 Or, anon, we'd listen, love. 
 To the gently cooing dove. 
 In some sweet embowering shade, 
 Some fair seat by natm'e made, 
 I my love would gently place. 
 On the tender-woven grass ; 
 Seated by thy lovely side. 
 Oh ! how great would be my pride ; 
 While my soul should fix on thine — 
 Oh ! the joy to call thee mine. 
 
 For why should doves have more delight. 
 Than we, my sweet Amanda, might ? 
 And why should larks and linnets be 
 More happy, lovely maid, than we? 
 
 There the pride of genius blooms, 
 There sweet contemplation comes ; 
 There is science heavenly fair ; 
 Sweet philosophy is there. 
 
20 
 
 With each author valued most, 
 Ancient glory, modern boast : 
 There the mind may revel o'er 
 Doughty deeds of days of yore ; 
 How the mighty warriors stood — 
 How the field was dyed in blood — 
 How the shores were heaped with dead- 
 And the rivers streamed with red — 
 While the heroes' souls on flame, 
 Urged them on to deathless fame : 
 Or we view a different age. 
 Pictured in the historic page ; 
 Kings descending from a throne — 
 Tyrants making kingdoms groan — 
 With each care on state aUied, 
 With all the scenery of pride : 
 Or perhaps we'll study o'er 
 Books of philosophic lore ; 
 Read what Socrates has thought, 
 And how god-like Plato wrote ; 
 View the earth with Bacon's eyes, 
 Or with Newton read the skies ; 
 See each planetary ball, 
 One great sun attracting all : 
 All by gravitation held. 
 Self-attracted, self-repelled : 
 
21 
 
 We shall cheat away old time, 
 Passing moments so sublime. 
 Hail, sweet retirement ! hail ! 
 
 Best state of man below ; 
 To smooth the tide of passions frail. 
 
 And bear the soul away from scenery of wo. 
 
 THE PATRIOT^S WISH. 
 
 How sweet the prospect to the generous mind, 
 Whose views can grasp the love of all mankind. 
 To see, beneath these glorious western skies, 
 A noble empire thus to freedom rise. 
 Whatever motives can impel the heart 
 To act a decent or distinguished part. 
 Here have their sway, and offer lasting fame 
 To grace and honor every patriot's name. 
 Think how, in ages that are hastening on, 
 The deeds of such shall reach from son to son. 
 And as America shall greatly soar 
 Above the nations that have gone before. 
 Her noon-day splendor, with illustrious rays. 
 Their names shall cover and assert their praise : 
 
22 
 
 The faithful poet and historian true, 
 With wreaths of triumph, all their way pursue ; 
 And when their ashes rest within the grave, 
 From dumb oblivion shall their memory save. 
 Oh, Washington ! thy name revered shall be, 
 As long as man shall glory to be free. 
 On every pillar of each rising state. 
 That name ingrafted shall partake its fate ; 
 And still, more splendid, as by time more old, 
 The hand that once protected shall uphold ; 
 Since such the meed is of eternal praise. 
 That must attend the honest statesman's days. 
 Oh ! that one spark could animate the whole, 
 With councils steady as the good man's soul ; 
 That faction dire would quit this sylvan shore, 
 And cease the Wds of greatness to devour ; 
 That how to serve his country's interest best 
 Should be the sole ambition of each breast ; 
 And each man'& study were to aid with zeal, 
 And guard with vigilance, the public weal. 
 Then should the dawn that now begins to appear, 
 With double blessing every bosom cheer ; 
 Then our sweet pastures, and our fertile plains 
 Repay with wealth the toil of cheerful swains ; 
 Trade should revive, the plough protected speed, 
 The arts should flourish, and the state succeed ; 
 
23 
 
 Learning should then her drooping genius raise, 
 And churclies crowded yield united praise 
 To Him, whose arm has made our nation free, 
 And bids his blessings with our prayers agree. 
 
 THE PROSPECTS OF AMERICA. 
 
 [Of the first 150 lines of this poem, only two detached 
 fragments are to be found. These are first inserted ; after 
 which, the remaining part is given entire.] — Ed. 
 
 Hancock ! thy name the ambitious muse inspires, 
 With heaven-born strains and with immortal fires. 
 First in the senate, flowing, clear, and strong. 
 Thy elocution waked the admiring throng : 
 The nervous strains a generous rage conveyed. 
 And swift was bared each patriotic blade. 
 How rose the patriots resolute and bold, 
 How shook the senate, when thy periods rolled ! 
 Thick on the field they stood in dire display, 
 Whilst thou, great chieftain ! led'st the glorious way. 
 
 At once from business and from fame retired, 
 Thou leavest the world — forever still admired ; 
 
24 
 
 Content at home to hear the crowds declare, 
 Which pass thy door, " the first of men Hves there." 
 
 With thee, an early candidate for fame, 
 Thy firm colleague asserts the rightful claim ; 
 Dear to remembrance when all time is past, 
 The name of Adams shall forever last. 
 
 She saw thee, chief, in all thy greatness shine. 
 And doomed the honors of the patriot thine ; 
 Intwined the wreath of glory for thy ]5row, 
 And bade for thee succeeding laurels grow ; 
 That w^hile the bards shall of thy country tell, 
 Who greatly conquered, and who bravely fell. 
 They sing, distinguished, from the train approved, 
 RuTLEDGE the great, the honored, and beloved. 
 
 Long live the man in early contest found. 
 Who spoke his heart, when dastards trembled round ; 
 Who, fired with more than Greek or Roman rage, 
 Flashed truth on tyrants from his manly page — 
 Immortal Payne ! whose pen, surprised we saw, 
 Could fashion empires while it kindled awe. 
 
25 
 
 When first with awful power to crush the foes, 
 All bright in glittering arms Columbia rose, 
 From thee our sons the generous mandate took, 
 As if from heaven some oracle had spoke : 
 And when thy pen revealed the grand design, 
 'Twas DONE, Columbia's liberty was thine. 
 
 Great Washington ! thy sounding fame inspires 
 The heaven-rapt bard with more than human fires: 
 Come, like thyself, with all the dazzling rays 
 Of glory crowned, thou fairest child of praise : 
 Oh, come ! as when victorious on the plain, 
 The vanquished legions trembled in thy train ; 
 When thro' the earth thy brightening splendor shone, 
 And glad Columbia hailed her conquering son. 
 
 Britannia first, in swarmy numbers proud, 
 Frowned on the hill-tops, like a blackened cloud : 
 Then we beheld thee, glorious chief ! — thy arm 
 Swept the thick ranks and shook the battle storm ; 
 While thy firm squadrons through the curling gloom 
 In steady thunders poured Britannia's doom. 
 As when o'er guilty heads Jehovah forms 
 Black sheets of vengeance, and impending storms ; 
 The power of heaven his whole creation shrouds. 
 In sable horror, and a night of clouds ; 
 Lo ! swift as thought the angry flashes fly, 
 Red flames and darkness roUing in the sky : 
 3 
 
26 
 
 Above, from pole to pole, with deepened sound 
 The thunders peal — loud, awful, and profound ; 
 Vice and her favorites tremble at the sign, 
 And guilty wretches fly the wrath divine. 
 So where thy arm the storm of battle spread. 
 Scattered and pale the adverse legions fled ; 
 But not escaped — for numbering with the slain, 
 Their mighty warriors prest the sanguine plain ; 
 Ill-fated youths ! destined to view no more 
 The brightening prospect of fair Albion's shore ; 
 No more from fighting fields the warriors come, 
 For fate denies to view their natal home. 
 
 As broad black billows, boihng from the deep. 
 Burst in destruction o'er the shattered ship, 
 When roaring North the foaming surge deforms. 
 And calls dread ruin from a hundred storms ; 
 So black, so dreadful, o'er the astonished foes 
 Burst floods of vengeance when thy wrath arose. 
 
 To thee, great chieftain, now far lovelier pours' 
 The soft smooth sound, where no rough torrent roars. 
 From scenes of slaughter, where the echoing heath 
 Is shook with battle, and is filled with death ; 
 From shouting bands tumultuous in applause ; 
 From wondering states, ambitious of thy laws. 
 Thou turnest : what chief could (oh Columbia^) shine 
 With all the heaven-born dignity of thine ? 
 
 m 
 
27 
 
 Once more to thy fair seats we view thee come, 
 While each pleased neighbor gratulates thee home : 
 On grass-green Vernon lovelier beams the morn, 
 And glad Potomac murmurs thy return. 
 
 Illustrious chief ! amidst thy sweet retreat, 
 Mayst thou live happy, as thou'rt good and great : 
 While yet thou viewest, with transport in thy eyes, 
 Thy darling land, in full-orbed glory rise ; 
 While no dark tyrant o'er Columbia frowns, 
 But glorious freedom every blessing crowns, 
 While raptured states in gratitude bestow 
 Their thanks for blessings, which to thee they owe. 
 
 No more thy bands their Washington implore ; 
 Thy rescued country calls to arms no more ; 
 But smiling heaven has lulled thy cares to rest. 
 And calmed with lenient hand thy troubled breast : 
 Midst sweet retirement, bids thy labors cease, 
 And gilds the evening of thy day with peace. 
 In halcyon flow, and smooth as summer seas. 
 Thy hours shall pass in philosophic ease, 
 Till time shall gently beck thee from the stage. 
 In the mild mellow of a ripe old age ; 
 And many an eye shall start the gushing tear. 
 While thy loved coimtry holds thy memory dear. 
 
28 
 
 Nor shalt thou mourn in Alexandrian lays,* 
 Thou hadst no Homer to record thy praise : 
 For many a bard of ages yet unborn, 
 Shall, with thy name, the tuneful lays adorn ; 
 In lasting archives shall thy glories rest, 
 Engraved forever in each grateful breast ; 
 In every heart thy monument be known. 
 With this inscription — "Here is Washington." 
 
 To thee, oh Greene ! each muse her tribute pays, 
 Great Chieftain ! crow^ned with never-fading bays : 
 Thy worth, thy country, ever grateful, owns, 
 Her first of warriors, and her best of sons. 
 
 Hail, Putnam !t hail, thou venerable name ! 
 Though dark oblivion threats thy mighty fame, 
 In vain it threats — for long shalt thou be known, 
 Who first in virtue and in battle shone. 
 When four-score years had blanched thy laureled head, 
 Strong in thine age, the flame of wrath was spread. 
 
 * It is a well known lamentation of Alexander the 
 Great, that he was destitute of a Homer to celebrate his 
 actions. 
 
 f The brave Putnam seems to have been almost obscured 
 amidst the glare of succeeding worthies ; but his early and 
 important services entitle him to an everlasting remem- 
 brance. 
 
29 
 
 Behold what names Fame's sweUing list adorn ! 
 
 Great, glwious names, for age eternal born. 
 
 • 
 
 There Gates, there Wayne, there Lincoln stand 
 
 enrolled. 
 And Fleury glitters there in lettered gold. 
 To these Columbia, at the latest day, 
 The debt of heart-felt gratitude shall pay : 
 They once in hours of gloomy danger rose. 
 Towered on her fields, and crushed her stubborn foes : 
 Now to their country ends their great design, 
 In heaven-born peace and liberty divine. 
 
 What forms* are they, which flit along the glades 
 With silent sweep ? What visionary shades ? 
 Ah ! see them move, the brave, the bleeding train 
 Of glorious men, in fields of battle slain. 
 There was thy wound, Columbia — still to thee, 
 In memory, dear thy martyred sons shall be ; 
 Their names, their fates, remotest ages hear, 
 While virtue sheds the sympathizing tear. 
 See yonder ghost, whose pallid face outvies 
 The white moon glimmering in the eastern skies : 
 His shadowy arms ! his mantle like the snows ! 
 His wounded breast, whence seeming crimson flows ! 
 
 * The poet beholds passing before him, the ghosts of those 
 brave men who fell in the American contest. 
 
 3* 
 
30 
 
 He was the first who gained the martyr's fame : 
 Say, who has heard not mighty Warren's name ? 
 
 There flits great Me rcer's shade, and here is known 
 The much loved Ye ates — fair freedom's genuine son. 
 
 But who emerges from yon gloomy cloud. 
 With bleeding bosom crimsoning his shroud ? 
 'Tis he ! In all the pomp of death displayed, 
 Montgomery comes ! Behold the mighty shade. 
 Greater than life, while never to divide, 
 Lo ! Wolfe, immortal Wolfe, attends his side. 
 M'Pherson too ! and (who can tears refrain ?) 
 See ! gentle Cheeseman glides along the plain. 
 
 Hail ! warrior shades ! whose awful tombs are found 
 On Ahram^s Plain, that consecrated ground. 
 Hail ! ye great chieftains ! who, amidst the roar 
 Of thundering cannon, laved the field in gore : 
 Still shall your memory wake the tender tear, 
 Dear to your country, to whole nations dear : 
 Columbia's bard, smit with the heaven-born flamCj 
 To latest times perpetuates your name ; 
 While heaven's first angel bids your glories rise, 
 And prints them deathless in your native skies. 
 
 But ye, great worthies, genuine sons of praise, 
 Whose patriot virtues claim immortal lays ; 
 Blame not the poet, if his much-loved song- 
 Bears not the glory of your deeds along ; 
 
31 
 
 For should he strive to sound each mighty name, 
 With which his country swells the list of fame, 
 Midst the vast labor of the arduous tale. 
 His time, his numbers, and his verse would fail. 
 
 Columbia, hail ! fair rising to the eyes, 
 Midst the warm sun-shine of the western skies : 
 Thy fruitful coasts, with rich luxuriance crowned, 
 Where the blue ocean rolls his waves around : 
 Thy vales, which summer spreads his fragrance o'er, 
 While the soft zephyrs waft it from the shore : 
 Thy verdant hills, afar by strangers seen, 
 Thy spreading glades, thy fields forever green ; 
 Thy rising cities, lengthening round the coast. 
 And those deep forests, where the eye is lost 
 With beauteous grandeur mingling in the sight ; 
 All these conspire to give the soul delight. 
 
 To thy v/arm plains, the northern subject flies 
 From the cold pinching of inclement skies ; 
 While India's children, from her sun-burnt glades. 
 Seek cool retirement in thy happier shades. 
 The man of wealth, whose gathered stores exceed 
 The happy sums ten thousand wretches need. 
 Surveys the prospect, beauteous all and fair. 
 And leaves his native for Columbia's air ; 
 While the poor wretch, by palhd hunger nurst, 
 Worn down by labor, and by taxes curst, 
 
32 
 
 From lands where famine or a tyrant reigns, 
 Comes, and is happy on thy loveher plains. 
 
 See thy blest sons in every shape renowned, 
 Some tend the flocks, while others till the ground ; 
 Some shear the sheep, and fleece on fleece they spread, 
 From whence the matron spins the lengthening thread; 
 While the lone laborer through the forest hies, 
 And sells those woods which soon in fleets must rise. 
 
 Nor in rude arts thy sons excel alone. 
 Are they not great in paths of science known ? 
 Do they not tread that spot the muses love. 
 Through flowery mazes of the laurel grove ? 
 
 Yes, fair Columbia, rushing into day. 
 See where thy Franklin points the glorious way ; 
 Like New^ton skiliedy- dark error to control, 
 And pour bright knowledge on the enraptured soul. 
 See where the sage all venerable stands, 
 The electric tube red glimmering in his hands. 
 
 Go, mighty genius, where thy judgment spreads 
 The road to glory — where fair science leads. 
 From yon black clouds, that low with tempests bend. 
 Compel the angry thunder to descend ; 
 And as the lightning flashes swift on high. 
 Oh ! seize it glimmering from the darkened sky : 
 Then, like thyself, with flame enveloped o'er, 
 While round thy brow thy thunders harmless roar, 
 
33 
 
 Rise greater still — from tyrants snatch the rod, 
 And be the second only to thy God. 
 
 Thou hast — for lo ! whence sweUing oceans foam. 
 Fair to the view, commutual treaties come. 
 Thy wisdom joined the widely differing powers, 
 And made sweet peace and independence ours. 
 
 Through the calm breast what loved ideas roll, 
 What flowing periods elevate the soul, 
 When the great /armer,* generous, clear, and strong, 
 Bears the raised mind by magic power along. 
 Well known that pen, in smooth persuasion skilled, 
 Which none but freedom's Dickenson can wield. 
 
 Behold great Winthrop, studious to explore 
 The mystic page of philosophic lore ; 
 Nor studious less to view that tome refined. 
 Which heaven indulgent opens to the mind. 
 There Williamson pursues the mazy road. 
 And points, through nature's works, to nature's God.t 
 
 * J. Dickenson, Esq. the celebrated author of the Far- 
 mer's Letters. 
 
 f This is the true end of philosophy ; here all her re- 
 searches terminate. What can be more beautiful, and at 
 the same time more just, than the following passage from 
 the immortal Fenelon : 
 
 " He discoursed with Mentor of the first cause, which 
 formed the heavens and the earth ; of that infinite un- 
 
34 
 
 There too great Oliver his page refines. 
 And vindicates the omnipotent designs ; 
 Shows the red comet which through ether flames, 
 The sovereign wisdom of its God proclaims. 
 
 Here our loved poets tune the immortal lays. 
 While praise inspires, for much they merit praise. 
 Hark ! Freneau's voice attunes the solemn air, 
 He sings to freedom, and he sings of war ; 
 
 changeable light, which is communicated to all without 
 being divided ; of that sovereign universal truth, which 
 illuminates all spirits, as the sun illuminates all bodies. 
 The man, added he, who has never seen this pure light, is 
 as blind as one who is born blind ; he passes his life in pro- 
 found darkness, like the nations which the sun enlightens not 
 for many months in the year. He thinks himself wise, and 
 is a fool ; he thinks he sees all things, and sees nothing, and 
 dies without having seen any thing : at most, he perceives 
 but glimmering and false lights, vain shadows, and phan- 
 toms that have nothing of reality. Such is the condition 
 of all who are carried away by the pleasures of sense, and 
 the allurements of imagination. There are in the world no 
 men really rational, except those who consult, who love, 
 who obey this eternal reason. It is that which inspires us 
 with good thoughts ; it is that which reproves us for our ill 
 ones. We are indebted to it for our understanding, as well 
 as for our lives ; it is like a. great ocean of light ; our souls 
 are like rivulets which flow from it, and return into, and 
 are lost in it again." How few are the philosophers of the 
 present age who realize such noble sentiments. 
 
 I 
 
35 
 
 With noble warmth shows man created free, 
 
 " When God, from chaos, gave this world to be." 
 
 What plaintive song, what melancholy tale, 
 Rides on the breeze and spreads upon the vale ? 
 'Tis Barlow's* strain, which solemn pours along, 
 For Hosmer's dead, and saddened is the song. 
 
 Here the fair volume shows the far-spread name 
 Of wondrous Wheatly,! Afric^s heir to fame. 
 Well is it known what glowing genius shines, 
 What force of numbers, in her polished lines : 
 With magic power the grand descriptions roll 
 Thick on the mind, and agitate the soul.+ 
 
 * Mr. Joel Barlow, of Connecticut. At the time when 
 this was written, the author had only seen his Elegy on 
 Judge Hosmer, which contains much sublimity. 
 
 f Phillis Wheatly, a negress, and the authoress of some 
 ingenious poems, which seem to be entitled to a remem- 
 brance here, although not written by a native of America. 
 
 I We need only peruse the following lines, extracted from 
 her poems, to be convinced of this : 
 
 " When Homer paints, lo ! circumfused in air, 
 
 Celestial gods in mortal forms appear : 
 
 Swift as they move, hear each recess rebound, 
 
 Earth quakes, heaven thunders, and the shores resound. 
 
 Great sire of verse, before my mortal eyes 
 
 The lightnings flash along the gloomy skies : 
 
 And as the thunder shades the heavenly plains, 
 
 A deep-felt horror creeps through all my veins." 
 
36 
 
 Such warmth of fancy once a Maylem* fired, 
 Untaught he sung, by all the muse inspired. 
 
 Near each famed city o'er the wide domain, 
 Where beauteous nature spreads the level plain, 
 Where healthy breezes spin the lengthened age, 
 The youthful student turns the classic page ; 
 From noise retired, salubrious airs invite 
 The soul to knowledge — teeming with delight. 
 On such fair spots, the traveler with surprise 
 Sees many a college in bright prospect rise : 
 There the learned youth the willing tribute pays 
 To his loved ancients — " bards of other days ;" 
 There, taught the force of rolling Greek to join, 
 With the smooth polished Ciceronian line, 
 He stands for fame, and add a rival soon 
 To Stiles,! to Varnum,! or to Witherspoon. 
 
 * John Maylem was a poet of genius, who lived not many 
 years since. His productions bear every mark of a deficient 
 education ; but his genius rose superior to every inconve- 
 nience, and he remains a shining example of the Horatian 
 maxim, that *' Poeta nascitur nonfit.^' 
 
 t The Rev. Ezra Stiles, D. D. and President of Yale 
 College, in Connecticut; a gentleman of distinguished 
 abilities, uniting the amiable qualities of a great philosopher 
 and most excellent divine. 
 
 I James M. Varnum, Esq. an eminent attorney in ih< 
 state of Rhode Island. 
 
37 
 
 Rich in the knowledge of five thousand years, 
 Lo ! lovely fair philosophy appears, 
 With smiles of joy, with pleasure in her eyes, 
 Beholds her young academy arise ; 
 Complacent views societies that join, 
 In wisdom's sacred cause, and science all divine. 
 
 Here kindly nature every blessing spreads 
 O'er the brown forests, and the flowery meads. 
 See yon tall pine which threatens to the sky. 
 And must, ere long, through sea-green surges fly. 
 Changed to a mast, (for so the fates decree,) 
 On some proud ship it rides the billowy sea. 
 There towers the oak, for many a purpose good, 
 Midst all his pride, the monarch of the wood. 
 Here poplars rise, and ever weeping there 
 In constant verdure, the balsamic fir. 
 Tall maples here their treasured sweets disclose. 
 And there the poet's much-loved laurel grows ; 
 With many a tree unknown to other skies. 
 And many a forest whence their navies rise. 
 
 Hence swarming merchants o'er the briny floods, 
 In hollow ships shall bear the leafless woods ; 
 And hence to distant chmes, they too shall bear 
 The well-spun cordage, and th' unequaled tar. 
 
 No more the loom of fair Hibernia groans 
 With the rich linen for Columbia's sons ; 
 4 
 
38 
 
 For native here, it emulates the snows, 
 And here the silk with native purple glows. 
 
 As the wide sea her refluent billows pours, 
 Now flows, now ebbs upon the sounding shores ;* 
 So fair Columbia's wayward merchants roam 
 To every port, from every port they come ; 
 And wealthy nations pour the golden tide, 
 As waves on waves o'er sea-green oceans ride ; 
 While nothing enters, but for use designed, 
 Lo ! every export leaves its wealth behind. 
 Midst swarming nations, heaven-born justice reigns 
 O'er the thronged cities, and the busy plains ; 
 
 * These lines, and some of the following, are translated 
 almost literally from the Archbishop of Cambray : 
 
 " Ainsi les peuple y accoururent bientot en foule de toutes 
 parts. Le commerce de cette ville etoit semblable au flux 
 et reflux de la mer. Les tresors y entroient comme les 
 flots viennent I'un sur I'autre. Tout y etoit apporte et en 
 sortoit librement. Tout ce qui entroit etoit utile ; tout 
 ce qui sortoit, laissoit en sortant d'autres richesses 4 
 sa place. La justice severe presidoit dans le port, au mflieu 
 detant de nations. La franchise, la bonne-foi, la candear, 
 sembloient du haut de ces superbes tours appellor les mar- 
 chands des terres les plus eloign ees : chacun de ces mar- 
 chands, soit qu'il vint des rives orientales on le soleil sort 
 chaque jour du sein des ondes, soit qu'il fut parti de cette 
 grande mer ou le soleil, lasse de son cours, va eteindre ses 
 feux, vivoit paisible et en surete dans Salente comme dans 
 8a patrie." — TeUmaquef Liv, xii. 
 
39 
 
 While smiling freedom, whence loud surges roar, 
 Invites fair commerce to her peaceful shore. 
 
 The swarthy merchant, here from eastern skies, 
 Whence from the deep the beams of morning rise, 
 Or o'er the dark blue surge, whence Phoebus laves 
 His setting glory in the western waves, 
 Receives delighted, what our country gives, 
 Where free, where happy, as at home he lives. 
 
 PROSPECT OF CAROLINA. 
 
 FOR JULY. 
 
 Lo ! wrapt in sun-shine all divinely bright, 
 Fair Carolina rises to the sight : 
 Here the hot sun, with fierce effulgent ray. 
 Darts from his orb intolerable day. 
 UnUke the northern beam, his fervid glow 
 Pays fiercer courtship to the streams below : 
 Hence from each stagnant pool thick vapors rise, 
 Curl to the clouds, and blacken in the skies ; 
 On such dire fogs, death rides with murky wing, 
 And hei'e thy w^oes, oh Carohna ! spring. 
 
40 
 
 When vertic sun- beams wrap the mountain-headS; 
 And the red dog-star's cursed venom spreads ; 
 Then smoke the hills ; for from the marshes round, 
 The curling fog invades the higher ground. 
 Unblest is he, who, in this luckless hour, 
 By dread experience proves its deathful power. 
 
 But what rash man, celestial muses say, 
 Bends o'er yon mist-clad marsh his dangerous way ? 
 Oh stay, fond youth ! no living wight can bear 
 The deadly influence of impoisoned air : 
 Stay, while thy frame the rigid fibres brace. 
 And vermil health sports lovely in thy face : 
 Stay, ere Phobera,* through thy circhng veins. 
 Spread the dire prelude to more fatal pains : 
 For know, youth, o'er yon dreary marshes glide 
 The mists envenomed, Miasmata! ride. 
 If in thy veins they taint the generous blood. 
 Fair health, adieu ! and every earthly good. 
 
 Hence comes dire Tertian, Carohna's bane. 
 And all the haggard family of pain : 
 The van pale horror leads, and anguish bhnd ; 
 Infernal megrim follows close behind. 
 
 * The harbingers of disease, f The seeds of disease. 
 
41 
 
 Taste not the air, for death is in the breeze, 
 And the whole hydra of abhorred disease. 
 
 C-a:TERA DESUNT. 
 
 FAREWELL TO CAROLINA. 
 
 Charleston, adieu ! delightful land, farewell ! 
 Where late I passed the joyous smiHng hours*^ 
 Thy charms, the bard shall ever grateful tell. 
 And sing of thee upon his distant shores : 
 For see ! propitious gales 
 Extend our canvas sails ; 
 And while the vessel leaves her wonted strand, 
 Behind the convex ocean, sinks thy happy land. 
 
 Yet trust the bard, he will return again, 
 
 When blooming March re-welcomes in the spring; 
 When flowers and verdure smile upon the plain 
 From tree to tree, and warbhng songsters sing. 
 And while the vessel braves 
 The darkly azure waves ; 
 4* 
 
42 
 
 And while the whitening surge in tempest roars. 
 He'll ride the foaming prow, and hail again thy shores. 
 
 Now, jocund winter leads along the year, 
 
 And in the train enchanting pleasure comes ; 
 Again thy sons in wonted strength appear ; 
 Again with health each roseate visage blooms : 
 And now the social powers 
 Roll on the happy hours ; 
 Now, CaroUna, every joy is thine ; 
 The charms of social life, and pleasures all divine. 
 
 Ah ! when the plaintive melancholy bard, 
 
 Bends unresisting to the fate's decree ; 
 In banishment from hence, his sole reward, 
 Shall be in prospect to revisit thee. 
 Then gratitude's sweet song 
 Shall bear thy name along : 
 Then will he tune each soft harmonious string. 
 And sing thy happy plains, thy much loved children 
 sing. 
 
43 
 
 THE JOURNEY. 
 
 Our destined course we next pursue, 
 
 Till Eutaw Springs appear in view ; 
 
 Here we behold the bloody field. 
 
 Where British bands were forced to yield — 
 
 The fair historic page shall tell, 
 
 That here full many a Briton fell. 
 
 Our horses left, around we stray. 
 
 And all the scene of death survey : 
 
 There lay a heap of bleaching bones, 
 
 And there whole human skeletons ; 
 
 In every prospect did appear, 
 
 The sad effects of cursed war. 
 
 Here first my foot disturbed with impious tread, 
 The sacred relics of the silent dead ; 
 From a large grave, with skeletons displayed, 
 To tear the peaceful bones 1 next essayed ; 
 For here full oft th' anatomist may find 
 The separate frames, which may with skill be joined. 
 First, a large tibia from the grave I tore ; 
 Next, an os femoris, from distance bore ; 
 
44 
 
 The different bones by art replaced again, 
 The left trochanter still I sought in vain ; 
 But while my search laborious I pursued, 
 Thi'ough the recesses of the spreading wood, 
 In form scarce human, with terrific brows, 
 The awful genius of the wood arose : 
 His reverend head a lofty cedar crowned ; 
 A zone of bushes clasped his body round. 
 Onwai'd he came, all ghastly was his look ; 
 The tall trees trembled, the whole forest shook : 
 At length, in thunder his expressions broke. 
 And slowly solemn thus the phantom spoke : 
 
 Oh, impious stranger ! suffer still to rest 
 
 These hallowed bones — and from dispersion save 
 
 The sleeping patriot. Say, canst thou molest. 
 Nor let the soldier slumber in his grave ? 
 
 What pledge hast thou, unthinking stranger, say? 
 
 What surety hast thou when grim death shall come, 
 That none will tear thy peaceful bones away, 
 
 Or none deny thy skeleton a tomb ? 
 
 The bones thou seest were drest with heavenly skill. 
 Whilom, as thine, with nerves and vigor too ; 
 
46 
 
 Go ask of Britain, if she bears not still 
 Their dread remembrance, in each deathful blow 1 
 
 Those sleeping warriors taught their foes to yield, 
 And Fame's shrill trumpet left no name behind ; 
 
 But loud proclaimed, through the bloody field, 
 The brothers, fdends, and fathers of mankind. 
 
 Disturb not then the slumbers of the brave ; 
 
 At least, these hallowed bones a tomb afford : 
 For who deserves an honorable grave. 
 
 Like those who earned it by the bloody sword ? 
 
 Depart in peace, forbear this hallowed shade ; 
 
 But think, oh stranger ! as thou dost depart. 
 And let the instruction which is here conveyed, 
 
 With deep impression sink into thy heart. 
 
 Here ceased, and swift as lightning's rapid flight, 
 The horrid phantom vanished from my sight ; 
 Amazed I stood — by terror all inspired — 
 I viewed, I trembled, and with awe retired. 
 
46. 
 
 REMONSTRANCE OF ALMASA, 
 
 WIFE OF ALMAS ALI CAWN, TO GENERAL HASTINGS. 
 
 My subjects slaughtered, my whole kingdom spoiled, 
 My treasures rifled, and my husband slain — 
 Oh say, vile monster, art thou satisfied 7 
 Hast thou (rapacious brute !) sufficient wealth ? 
 And, cruel murderer, art thou filled with blood ? 
 Perhaps insatiate, thou art thirsting still 
 For human gore ! — oh, mayst thou ever thirst ; 
 And may the righteous gods deny thee water, 
 To cool thy boiling blood. Inhuman wretch ! 
 Have not the bravest of my subjects bled ? 
 Are they not butchered all — ALL massacred ? 
 And did not India foam again with gore 7 
 
 Where is the murderer who has slain his fellow? 
 Where is the robber ? Where the parricide ? 
 Approach — for ye are innocent and clean ; 
 Your souls are whiter than the ocean foam. 
 Compared with him, the murderer of millions ! 
 Yes, bloody brute, the murderer of MILLIONS ! 
 Where are the swarms that covered all my land 7 
 That cultured land, of which each foot was garden. 
 
47 
 
 Doomed to support the millions of my host ; 
 Are they not butchered all — all massacred ? 
 And butchered, bloody monster, by thy hands ? 
 But why ? — because, vile brute, thou must have wealth. 
 Because thou must have wealth, my people bled ; 
 The land was floated with a tide of gore ! 
 My fields, my towns, my cities, swam in blood ! 
 And through all India one horrendous groan. 
 The groan of millions, echoed to the heavens. 
 
 Curst be your nation, and forever curst 
 The luckless hour, when India first beheld you. 
 We have a custom here, as old as time, 
 Of honoring justice. Why ? — because 'tis justice ; 
 And virtue is beloved — because 'tis virtue. 
 As Indians need no hell, they know of none : 
 You Christians say you've one ; 'tis well you have — 
 Your crimes call loudly for it. And I'll swear, 
 If Hastings is not damned, your boasted gods 
 Are worse than he : and heaven itself becomes 
 A black accomplice in the monster's guilt. 
 
 Hastings ! my husband was your prisoner: 
 The wealth of kingdoms flew to his rehef : 
 You took the ransom, and you broke your faith ; 
 Almas was slain ! — 'twas perjury to yom* soul ; 
 But perjury is a little crime to you. 
 In souls so black it seems almost a virtue. 
 
48 
 
 Know, monster, know that the prodigious wealth 
 You sold your soul for, was by justice gained : 
 'Twas not acquired by rapine, force, and murder ; 
 The treasures of my fathers ! theirs by conquest, 
 And legal domination : from old time 
 Transmitted by the father to the son, 
 In just succession. Now you call it yours. 
 And dearly have you purchased it — for know, 
 When the just gods shall hear the cry of blood, 
 And of yourhands demand the soulsyou've murdered. 
 That gold will never pay their price — will never pay 
 Your awful ransom. You must go where Almas 
 Sits on a lofty throne, and every hour 
 He stabs an Englishman, and sweetly feasts 
 Upon his bloody heart, and trembling liver : 
 For, monstrous wretch, to thy confusion know. 
 Almas can relish now no other food 
 Than '•' hearts of Englishmen !" Yet thou art safe — 
 Yes, monster ! thou art safe from this repast : 
 A heart, polluted with ten thousand crimes, 
 Is not a feast for Almas. Tremble yet ; 
 He'll tear that heart out from its bloody case, 
 And toss it to his dogs : full many a vulture 
 Be poisoned by thy corse : wolves shall run mad, 
 By feeding on thy murderous carcass : More ! 
 When some vile wretch, some monster of mankind, 
 
49 
 
 Some brute, like thee, perhaps thy relative. 
 Laden with horrid crimes without a name, 
 Shall stalk through earth, and we want curses for him, 
 We'll torture thought to curse the wretch ; and then. 
 To damn him most supreme, we'll call him Hastings. 
 
 A NIGHT PIECE AT SEA. 
 
 Painter ! describe where mingling in the eye. 
 Spread the blue waters and impending sky ; 
 Where boisterous ocean holds his rough domain, 
 And wishful sailors look for land in vain : 
 For there, ah ! there, borne by the troubled tides, 
 The wave-tossed bark of my Leander rides. 
 
 Painter ! 'tis done — by thy strange magic powers, 
 The surge is liquid, and the ocean roars. 
 'Tis midnight all : but see ! the moon-beams bright 
 Silver the ocean with reflected light ; 
 Smooth flows the wave, and whitening o'er the deep, 
 In silent grandeur moves the stately ship. 
 5 
 
50 
 
 No rough winds blow, but every well filled sail, 
 
 Bespeaks the genial canvas-swelling gale. 
 
 Now view the bending deck — lo ! faithful there 
 
 The seamen stand, with ever watchful care ; 
 
 And lo ! the wizard hand to move the soul, 
 
 With seeming life has crowned the wondrous whole : 
 
 Behind the ship the sparkling waters glow ; 
 
 The flashing billows foam around the prow ; 
 
 No clouds arise, the moving bark to brave ; 
 
 The moon pale trembles o'er the dark blue wave 
 
 1 
 
 CJETERA DESUNT. 
 
 ODE FOR THE ANNIVERSARY OP AMERI- 
 CAN INDEPENDENCE, JULY 4, 1785**^, 
 
 Tune — " That power who formed the unmeasured seas." 
 
 Sons of Columbia ! all attend, 
 And give the genius of your land, 
 The tribute of a song ; 
 
51 
 
 For now, eight summers past away. 
 Again returns the glorious day, 
 When Freedom made us strong. 
 
 She warmed our hearts and armed our hands, 
 Breathed generous ardor through our bands, 
 .. And bade us dare be free : 
 By her inspired, we rush to fight, 
 Resolved to conquer in her right, 
 And INDEPENDENT be. 
 
 But while with joy the board is crowned. 
 Oh ! let some generous tears flow round. 
 
 For heroes great and good : 
 Who, martyrs in the glorious cause, 
 Their country, liberty, and laws, 
 
 Defended with their blood. 
 
 Let not great Warren's name expire. 
 While your breasts glow with living fire. 
 
 And swell with lust of fame : 
 But through the track of ages known, 
 Transmitted from the sire to son, 
 
 Immortal be the name. 
 
52 
 
 Bards long shall sing the illustrious train. 
 Who sleep on Abraham's fatal plain. 
 
 Near famed St. Lawrence coast : 
 There to the great Montgomery's shade, 
 Be everlasting honors paid, 
 
 And peace attend the ghost. 
 
 Such patriots, still to memory dear. 
 Let Carolina long revere ; 
 
 By whose brave fall we rise. 
 While joy proclaims, that Moultrie bears 
 Our government ; and high he rears 
 
 Its fabric to the skies. 
 
 Thus, long as time itself endure. 
 Our INDEPENDENCE rests secure, 
 
 Nor fears a tyrant's nod. 
 When the last fire involves this ball. 
 Then, not till then, the cause shall fall. 
 
 Of hberty, and God. 
 
 Then, as the circhng year comes round. 
 With freedom's choicest blessings crowned, 
 We'll hail the illustrious day ; 
 
53 
 
 And every poet shall resume 
 His annual task, in years to come, 
 To raise the votive lay. 
 
 BATTLE OF SWARAN AND CUCHXJLLIN. 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM FINGAL. 
 
 As from dark Cromla's* solitary steep, 
 ^ The foam down rushes with impetuous sweep, 
 When dark brown night is shadowing half the grove, 
 And thunder rolls all terribly above ; 
 So fierce, so vast, so terrible, came on 
 The darkened strength of Erin's dreadful son : 
 Like some strong whale the chieftain rushed before. 
 While far behind the mountain billows roar ; 
 
 * As torrents roll, increased by numerous rills, 
 With rage impetuous, down the echoing hills, 
 Rush to the vales, and pour along the plain, 
 Roar through a thousand channels to the main. 
 
 Pope's Homer. 
 Aut ubi decursu rapido, de montibus altis, 
 Dant sonitum' spiimosi amnes, et in ffiquora currunt, 
 Quisque suum populatus iter. 
 
 Virgil. 
 
 5* 
 
54 
 
 He rolled his might along the stormy main, 
 And poured forth valor, like a stream of rain. 
 
 Like winter streams, impetuous from afar, 
 The sons of Lochlin heard the moving war ; 
 First, Swaran called, and struck his bossy shield, 
 The son of Arno echoed through the field. 
 
 " What, hke the gathered flies of evening still. 
 Comes rolling onward from the distant hill ? 
 The stormy* sons of Innisfail descend. 
 Or rustling winds the gloomy forest rend : 
 Thus, wintry Gormal echoes through the skies. 
 Ere in white clouds the bursting billows rise. 
 Go, Arno's son, and from the mountain's head, 
 View the dark valley whence the murmurs spread." 
 
 Trembling he went, and swiftly he returned. 
 His eyes rolled wild, and in their sockets burned ; 
 Slow, weak, and broken, were his words exprest. 
 His heart beat high, and labored in his breast. 
 " Rise, son of ocean, view the fields — 
 
 Arise, thou chief of dark-brown shields : 
 
 For see — deep moving from afar — 
 
 The dark, the mountain stream of war ; 
 
 * As when the hollow rocks retain 
 The sound of blustering wind. 
 
 Milton. 
 
55 
 
 The car — the car invades the heath — 
 
 The rapid car of gloomy death : 
 
 Behold, it comes all dreadful on — 
 
 Cuchullin's car ; old Semo's son, 
 
 Like ocean's wave, behind it bends, 
 
 As golden mist the heath ascends : 
 
 The stone-bossed sides shed sparkling light, 
 
 Like seas around the boat of night ; 
 
 The beam of pohshed yew displayed, 
 
 The seat of smoothest ivory made. 
 
 The sides with glittering spears are crowned. 
 
 And heroes press the bottom round. 
 
 Full on the right, with rapid course, 
 
 Behold the proudly snorting horse. 
 
 Son of the hill, (a generous breed,) 
 
 High-leaping, strong, broad-breasted steed : 
 
 His hoof, with loudly echoing sound, 
 
 All dreadful thunders o'er the ground ; 
 
 Above him spreads the flowing mane, 
 
 As streams the smoke on yonder plain ; 
 
 His sides reflect a beamy flame. 
 
 And Sulin-Fadda is his name. 
 
 Full, on the left, to deeds of war, 
 Dufronnel hurls the rapid car ; 
 The lofty, bounding, thin-maned horse, 
 Strong-hoofed, and matchless in the course. 
 
56 
 
 A thousand thongs the car intwine, 
 
 In foam the poHshed bridles shine ; 
 
 The thongs which gems, bright-studded, deck, 
 
 Bend o'er each courser's stately neck — 
 
 The coursers, that, with slackened reins, 
 
 Like mist fly o'er the streamy plains : 
 
 No deer more rapid, wild, than they, 
 
 No eagle stronger on her prey ; 
 
 Like winter blasts their echoes spread, 
 
 Which roar from Gormal's snowy head. 
 
 And see the chief within the car. 
 The strong, tempestuous son of war. 
 Midst clashing arms, Cuchullin dwells—- 
 Old Semo's son, the king of shells. 
 His ruddy visage, to the view. 
 Shines like my brightly polished yew : 
 Beneath his brow with darkened mein, 
 The wide, blue-rolling eye is seen. 
 As bending on, he shakes his spear. 
 Behind him spreads his flamy hair : 
 Fly, king of ocean, fly ; hke death. 
 He comes along the streamy heath.'' 
 " When did I fly," the stormy king replied, 
 " From many spears that battled at my side ? 
 When, son of Arno, from the loud affray, 
 Did I retire ? thou coward chieftain, say ; 
 
57 
 
 Dark Gormal's storm I met ; my waves foamed high, 
 Loud raged the heavens, but Swaran did not fly ; 
 Nor shall he fly ! — though Fingal's self were here, 
 The soul of Swaran could not yield to fear ; 
 Rise to the war, my thousands ! crowd the plain, 
 And ponr around me like the echoing main : 
 Round the bright steel of gloomy Swaran stand, 
 Strong as the rocks, the mountains of my land, 
 That meet with joy, the storms which round them pour j 
 And stretch their dark woods to the tempest's roar." 
 
 As from two hills loud thundering to the deep. 
 The darkened storms of gloomy autumn sweep ; 
 So fierce, so dreadful, o'er the field of fame. 
 In swift approach the gloomy warriors came : 
 As from high rocks, two streams of gloomy rain, 
 Meet, mix, and foam, and roar upon the plain. 
 Loud, rough, and dark, the embattled chiefs appear; 
 There Innisfail,* tremendous LochHn here : 
 
 * The reader may compare this passage of Ossian, with 
 a similar one in Homer : 
 
 Now shield with shield ; with helmet, helmet closed ; 
 To armor, armor ; lance to lance opposed ; 
 Host against host, with shadowy legions drew ; 
 The sounding darts in iron tempests flew ; 
 
58 
 
 On clanging steel, the clanging steel resounds. 
 Men mix with men, and chieftain chieftain wounds ; 
 Bursts forth the gushing blood, and smokes around. 
 And iron helmets cleft on high resound ; 
 Along the sky the rushing javelins sing ; 
 The polished bows remurmur to the string ; 
 And spears fall ghmmering, like the beams of hght. 
 That gild the dark face of tempestuous night. 
 
 As troubled noises of the ocean rise, 
 When the loud waves roll mountains to the skies ; 
 As the last peal heaven's awful thunder yields; 
 Such is the noise of the embattled fields. 
 Though Cormac's hundred bards their notes prolong, 
 To sound the contest in immortal song, 
 Weak is the voice a hundred bards could raise, 
 To give the slaughter to succeeding days : 
 
 With streaming blood the slippery fields are dyed, 
 And slaughtered heroes swell the dreadful tide. 
 
 Pope's Homer. 
 Statius has very happily imitated Homer : 
 
 Jam clypeus clypeis, umbone repellitur umbo, 
 Ense minax ensis, pede pes, et cuspide cuspis, &c. 
 
 Statius. 
 Arms o'er armor crashing, brayed 
 Horrible discord, and the madding wheels 
 Of brazen chariots raged, &c. 
 
 Milton. 
 
59 
 
 Unnumbered warriors on the field were spread, 
 And wide the blood streamed of the valiant dead. 
 
 Mourn, mourn, ye bards, for silent in the grave 
 Sithallin* lies, the noble and the brave : 
 Let fair Fiona's! melancholy sighs, 
 On the dark heaths of her loved Ardant rise : 
 Like two fair deer they stood, but ah ! the steel 
 Of Swaran lighted, and the warriors fell : 
 Midst all his thousands, Swaran roared aloud. 
 Like the shrill spirit of a stormy cloud, 
 That dim on Gormal, sees cold death enslave 
 The hapless sailor in the flashing wave. 
 
 Nor yet inactive slept thy hand the while, 
 Undaunted chieftain of the misty isle :§ 
 CuchuUin's steel in warrior blood was dyed, 
 And death was round him terrible and wide : 
 His sword, the war, hke lightning overturned, 
 When men are blasted, and when hills are burned. 
 
 * Sithallin signifies a handsome man. 
 
 f A fair maid. 
 
 X Pride. 
 
 } The Isle of Sky, not improperly called the Misty Isle, 
 a€ its high hills, which catch the clouds from the western 
 ocean, occasion almost continual rain. 
 
60 
 
 O'er heaps of dead, Dufronnel* snorted loud, 
 And strong Sith-Faddat bathed his hoofs in blood. 
 
 Behind their car appeared the scene of death, 
 Like groves o'erturned on Cromla's desert heath, 
 When roaring winds across the plain have past. 
 And night's dim spirits ride upon the blast. 
 
 Weep on the rocks of roaring storm, 
 Oh ! beauteous maid of Innistore ]t 
 
 Bend o'er the waves thy lovely form, 
 For, ah ! the warrior is no more. 
 
 Mourn, mourn the desert rocks among. 
 Thou fairer than the spirit pale, 
 
 * Dud Stron Geal, the name of CuchuUin's horse. 
 
 f Sith Fadda, i. e. Long Stride. 
 
 I The maid of Innistore was the daughter of Gorlo, king 
 of Innistore, or Orkney Islands. Trenar was brother to the 
 king of Iniscon, supposed to be one of the islands of Shet- 
 land. The Orkneys and Shetland were at that time subject 
 to the king of Lochlin. We find that the dogs of Trenar 
 are sensible at home of the death of their master, the very 
 instant he is killed. It was the opinion of the times, that 
 the souls of heroes went, immediately after death, to the hills 
 of their country, and the scenes they frequented the most 
 happy time of their life. It was thought too that dogs and 
 horses saw the ghosts of the deceased. 
 
61 
 
 Which on a sun-beam moves along", 
 At noon o'er Morven's silent vale. 
 
 He's fallen ! the youth is pale and low, 
 
 Beneath Cuchuliin's sword he lies ; 
 No more Ids valor's generous glow, 
 
 To match the blood of kings shall rise ; 
 Trenar, sweet maid, is in his tomb, 
 
 The lovely youth is ever lost ; 
 His gray dogs howl around their home, 
 
 And see his plaintive shivering ghost. 
 
 Within his hall the stranger finds 
 
 His polished bow, unstrung and bare ; 
 
 No sound is in his heath of hinds — 
 'Tis all a mournful silence there. 
 
 On comes bold Swaran with impetuous roar, 
 As to the rocks a thousand billows pour ; 
 As some high rock a thousand billows braves, 
 So fierce CuchuUin met the king of waves. 
 And now death raises all his voices round. 
 The clashing shields mix dreadful with the sound 
 A cloud of darkness, every hero stands, 
 The sword is fire, which lightens in his hands. 
 6 
 
62 
 
 As o'er the anvil with tumultuous noise, 
 With thundering din a hundred hammers rise ; 
 From wing to wing the sounds of battle fly, 
 And the wide fields re-echo to the cry. 
 
 Who, dark and gloomy, like two clouds of rain,^ 
 With swords of lightning, move across the plain ? 
 The rocks are shook with all their shaggy moss. 
 And hills around them tremble as they pass. 
 Who but the king of waves, and Semo's son, 
 (The car-borne Erin) come all dreadful on ? 
 What anxious eyes view, dim upon the heath. 
 The adverse warriors meditating death ! 
 But noAV within her gathered clouds the night 
 Conceals the heroes, and delays the fight. 
 
 * As when two black clouds 
 With heaven's artillery fraught, come rattling on 
 O'er the Caspian. 
 
 Milton. 
 
"as 
 
 CONNAL AND CREMORA. 
 
 FROM OSSIAN. 
 
 The voice sounds deep, it shakes my troubled soul, 
 Like the hoarse surge when mountains roll ! 
 'Tis death that seeks ! The shady ghosts that ride 
 On dreary clouds, and sway the foamy tide ! 
 Before my sight the awful shades appeared ; 
 Deep in the winds their hollow groans are heard. 
 Firm as a rock, oh Connal ! didst thou stand 
 On Erin's plain, where fought thy martial band, 
 Impetuous as the northern blasts which blow 
 The aged oaks, on w^oody Cromla's brow : 
 Dire from thy starry eyes Jhe lightning broke ; 
 Deep in thy voice the storm of thunder spoke. 
 Then fell the mighty ! Erin's deathful plain, 
 With crimson gore, the sons of Lochhn stain. 
 Say, king of Morven, king of Selma, say, 
 Where gleamed the lightning of thy sword that day 1 
 As stands near Luber's stream the stubborn wood, 
 Firm on the heath the mighty Connal stood ; 
 
64 
 
 On came bold Dargo with the dark red hah* ; 
 Like stars of death his rolling eye-balls glare : 
 The warriors met, like two black clouds of rain, 
 Their falchions rose ; brave Connal bit the plain. 
 Cremora then, the raven-haired, was nigh, 
 She let the shaft at stormy Dargo fly ; 
 Prone fell the warrior, like the strong big oak, 
 By the rough force of powerful thunder broke ; 
 Then sought the place where late her Connal stood, 
 Where now he lies, disfigured all with blood : 
 From his cold hand she seized the shaft, and sped 
 Deep in her side — Cremora's spirit fled. 
 Low at the mountain's foot their tomb is found, 
 The name of Connal consecrates the ground : 
 The hardy sailor oft descries their grave. 
 As swift he ploughs the loud resounding wave ; 
 And still their memory Lochlin's sons adore. 
 While the reed trembles on the sea-beat shore. 
 
65 
 
 THE SONGS OF SELMA. 
 
 FROM OSSIAN. 
 
 Resplendent star of falling night. 
 
 How lovely in the west thy light ! 
 
 Clouds round thy unshorn temples move. 
 
 And stately are thy steps ahove. 
 
 What dost thou gaze at on the plain ? 
 
 The stormy winds no more complain ; 
 
 But torrents murmuring lash the shore ; 
 
 Waves climb the distant rock, and roar ; 
 
 On busy wing the flies of night 
 
 Hum and pursue their drowsy flight. 
 
 What dost thou, radiant stranger, view 7 — 
 
 But thou dost smile and bid adieu ; 
 
 Around thee joyful waves repair, 
 
 And kiss and bathe thy lovely hair. 
 Farew^ell ! — thy beams depart, and twilight dies 
 Now let the light of Ossian's soul arise. 
 
 It comes ! — in all its strength it doth arise, 
 And brings departed friends before my eyes : 
 They crowd on Lora as in former years, 
 And Fingal foremost in the train appears : 
 6^ 
 
66 
 
 A watery column of thin mist he seems, 
 Midst swarms of heroes, visionary gleams ! 
 And see ! the bards in solemn state appear, 
 There hoary Ullin, stately Ryno here ; 
 With tuneful Alpin, sweet melodious shade, 
 And thy soft plaint, Minona, blushing maid. 
 How changed, alas ! since Selma's festive days, 
 When we contended for heroic praise ; 
 Like vernal gales that unresisted pass. 
 And bend by turns the feebly whistling grass. 
 
 Minona, softly blushing dame, 
 
 With downcast look, disordered frame. 
 
 And tearful eye, came forth : 
 Her hair flew loosely on the blast, 
 That shrill, unfrequent, o'er the waste, 
 
 Rushed from the storni}^ north. 
 Love, grief, and pity chained each tongue. 
 Each bosom melted while she sung. 
 
 And sternest heroes wept ; 
 For oft they Salgar's grave had seen, 
 And the dark dwelling where serene 
 
 White bosomed Colma slept. 
 
 See Colma, on the hill alone, 
 And hear the sad melodious moan 
 Break from her heavenly tongue ; 
 
67 
 
 Her Salgar promised — but in vain, 
 For night descending veiled the plain, 
 And thus the mourner sung : 
 
 'Tis night ; upon the stormy hill, 
 
 Deserted I remain ; 
 The mountain winds are whistling shrill, 
 
 The torrent pours amain. 
 No friendly hut a shelter forms 
 
 For this defenseless head ; 
 Forlorn, upon the hill of storms, 
 
 I roam, a wretched maid : 
 Rise, moon ! kind stars of night ! appear, 
 
 And guide me to the place. 
 Where lies my love, o'erspent with care. 
 
 And wearied in the chase. 
 Through night's uncomfortable shade. 
 
 I see him press the ground ; 
 His unstrung bow beside him laid. 
 
 His panting dogs around. 
 Here where the mossy streamlet pours, 
 
 All night must Colma rove ; 
 The torrents rage, the tempest roars, 
 
 Nor can I hear my love. 
 Ho ! Salgar ! ho ! why this delay ? 
 
 Why is thy promise broke ? 
 
68 
 
 Here is the rock, the hill, the tree, 
 
 And here the bubbling brook ; 
 Why didst thou promise with the night, 
 
 Forgetful ! to be here ? 
 Ai"e then my Salgar's vows so light 7 
 
 Am I no more his care 7 
 For thee, I'd from my sire be torn, 
 
 My haughty brother flee ; 
 For thee, friends, kindred, country scorn ; 
 
 Leave all the world for thee. 
 What though our race have long been foes. 
 
 And oft in battle strove ; 
 Yet we did ne'er their strife espouse. 
 
 We are not foes, my love. 
 Cease, winds ! suspend your senseless noise : 
 
 Waves ! stand a moment still ; 
 Perhaps, my love may hear my voice. 
 
 Upon yon echoing hill. 
 Ho ! Salgar ! ho ! 'tis I, my love ; 
 
 Ah ! why this long delay ? 
 Here is the rock, the tree, the grove — 
 
 Haste, Salgar ! haste away. 
 
 Lo ! the wan moon, majestic, silent, pale, 
 
 Wide o'er the etherial vault her beams displays ; 
 
69 
 
 The silver current brightens in the vale, 
 
 And rocks and mountains glitter with the rays. 
 
 In vain around the bright effulgence gleams, 
 The rocks in vain reflect the splendors wide ; 
 
 I see not Salgar, by the fruitless beams, 
 His panting dogs rejoicing by his side. 
 
 But who are they, all pale, on yonder heath ? 
 
 My love, my brother, speak ; oh ! speak, my friends ; 
 They answer not — cold ! cold they he in death ! 
 
 Oh ! my distracted soul, what horror rends ! 
 
 And see ! their swords in mutual blood imbrued ; 
 
 The purple stream yet smokes upon the plain : 
 Why, Salgar, hast thou shed my brother's blood ? 
 
 Why, oh ! my brother, hast thou Salgar slain? 
 
 Ye both were dear to Colma ; oh brave men ! 
 
 How shall I half your matchless worth declare ? 
 Midst thousands thou wert fairest on the plain, 
 
 He terrible among the sons of war. 
 
 Speak, I adjure you by the love I bore ; 
 
 Oh ! hear my voice, dear objects of my pain : 
 
70 
 
 Pale, senseless, silent, on the naked shore 
 
 They he; and prayers, and tears, and cries are vain. 
 
 Oh ! by yon rock, sublimely spread. 
 By the black mountain's airy brow, 
 
 Speak, speak, ye spirits of the dead ! 
 
 The balm of consolation spread, 
 
 And sooth my heart, and ease my wo. 
 
 Oh ! whither are ye gone to rest 7 
 In what lone cave may ye be found ? 
 
 No airy form glides o'er the waste, 
 
 No hollow sound is in the blast ; 
 
 No answer — half in tempests drowned. 
 
 Oh friends ! in pity rear the tomb. 
 Nor close it till your Colma come : 
 My life flies swifter than a dream ; 
 
 Why should I stay when ye are fled 1 
 Here by the rock and roaring stream 
 
 I'll sit, companion of the dead ; 
 At night, when tempests tear the heath, 
 I'll tell to every blast, your death. 
 
71 
 
 THE SHIELD OF ACHILLES. 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK OF HOMER — ILIAD XVIII. 
 
 Then formed the artist-god, by skill divine, 
 The enormous work, and bade the surface shine ; 
 A silver chain suspends the glowing shield, 
 And three rich circles glitter round the field. 
 Broad and five- fold, of spacious plates 'twas made, 
 Where the great master all his art displayed : 
 Heaven, earth, and sea in wondrous order shone, 
 The full round moon, and the unwearied sun ; 
 The burning stars that o'er Olympus rise. 
 Crown the high heavens, and glitter in the skies. 
 Pleiads and Hyads, and refulgent there. 
 Shone great Orion, with the constant Bear,* 
 
 * Pope's translation : 
 
 The Pleiads, Hyads, with the northern team, 
 And great Orion's more refulgent beam ; 
 - To which, around the axle of the sky, 
 The Bear revolving points his golden eye, 
 Still shines exalted on the ethereal plain, 
 Nor bathes his blazing forehead in the main. 
 Mr. Pope, amidst a small mistake of the sex, keeps only 
 the forehead above water : but the poet seems to exempt her 
 
72 
 
 (Oft called the Wain,) the star that never laves 
 Her glowing axle in old ocean's waves ; 
 But wheeling round the pole with constant light. 
 Keeps the red Dog-star ever in her sight. 
 
 Two cities next the artist's hand displayed, 
 Where nuptial feasts and festivals were made ; 
 The spouses from the bridal chambers came, 
 Led through their city by the torches' flame ; 
 From every mouth soft hymeneals sound, 
 The rapid youths in circling dances bound, 
 Breathe the sweet flute, and tune the silver lyre ; 
 From every porch the female crowds admire. 
 
 The market next contained a gathered crowd, 
 Where two dispute, contentious and aloud : 
 
 entirely ; and so does Virgil, when he makes fear account 
 for the same phenomenon, that Ovid (who preserves all the 
 fables of the ancients) ascribes to force. 
 
 Maximus hie flexu sinuoso elabitur Anguis 
 Circum, perque duas in morem fiuminis Arctos : 
 Arctos, Oceani metuentes sequore tingi. 
 
 Virgil's Georgics, Lib. i. 244. 
 
 Around our pole the spiry Dragon glides, 
 And like a winding stream, the Bears divides. 
 The less and greater, who, by fate's decree, 
 Abhor to dive beneath the Northern Sea. 
 
 Dbyden. 
 
73 
 
 A murderer he, from whose polluted hands, 
 
 To urge the fine, his stern accuser stands ; 
 
 He pleads the payment made, and both demand 
 
 Impartial justice from some judge's hand: 
 
 The applauding crowd their acclamations raised, 
 
 And now the one, and now the other praised ; 
 
 While sacred heralds, thoughtful and profound. 
 
 Stilled the loud shouts, and ranged the people round; 
 
 On seats of polished stone, to hear the case, 
 
 The reverend elders filled the middle place ; 
 
 Each in his turn, slow rising from his seat. 
 
 The sceptre waved, and governed the debate ; 
 
 Two golden talents in the midst were laid, 
 
 And his the prize who better judgment made. 
 
 The other town two glittering hosts besieged ; 
 There flashed their armor, there the battle raged : 
 Both disagreed, if better to decide 
 The city's ruin, or the spoil divide. 
 Meantime the prisoners secretly prepare 
 For sudden ambush, and impetuous war ; 
 While left behind the walls, their city's aid, 
 The sires, the matrons, and the children staid : 
 Fierce at their head Mars and Minerva came. 
 The gods of gold in golden armor flame ; 
 They move, distinguished by superior height, 
 More sweet proportions, and a blaze of light. 
 7 
 
74 
 
 Now at their stand they come, a river's brink, 
 Where lowing herds and thirsty cattle drink ; 
 Hid by their shields, the margin stream they line, 
 Two spies, at distance, watch the lowing kine ; 
 The numerous cattle and white flocks appear. 
 Slowly they move, two shepherds in the rear ; 
 They tune their dulcet reeds, and all the way 
 Suspect no danger, thoughtless as they play. 
 
 Now swift in view the rushing foe appeared ; 
 They kill the swains, and captivate the herd ; 
 The distant bands, roused at the shrill outcry, 
 On thundering coursers to the battle fly : 
 Then spears to spears the differing hosts engaged, 
 Loud roared the war, and fierce the battle raged ; 
 Fate and loud tumult shake the echoing heath. 
 And discord busy in the work of death. 
 There might you see the cruel Parca's hand 
 Drag the dead soldier through the bloody band ; 
 One pierced with deadly wounds beside her bled ; 
 Her steel flashed lightning o'er another's head : 
 AH grim with blood she through the battle tore, 
 And her stained garments dropped with human gore. 
 Each form appeared upon the wondrous shield, 
 To live, to move, to battle o'er the field : 
 You'd think the figures really drew their dead, 
 That the gold Uved, and that the silver bled. 
 
75 
 
 A large deep furrowed field was next displayed, 
 Where tlirice the plough-share had unbound the glade; 
 Their useful team the sweating laborers steer, 
 And move on every side the stubborn share ; 
 Till, as they turn to end each furrowing line, 
 They meet the goblet foaming o'er with wine. 
 Cheered with the draught,abackward course they bend. 
 And eager hasten to the next land's end ; 
 The field (Yulcanian art) was formed of gold, 
 But black behind the turned-up furrows rolled. 
 
 Another field the god-like hand engraved. 
 Where yellow corn high o'er the surface waved ; 
 Each reaper bending, handled the sharp steel. 
 The swaths in thick and equal furrows fell ; 
 Three steady laborers stand, in act to bind 
 The thick strown corn, and follow close behind ; 
 While panting children carry to be bound 
 The thin loose swaths that scatter on the ground. 
 Amidst the heaps the master takes his stand 
 With silent joy, a sceptre in his hand : 
 Distant from these his household stand, and there 
 The feast beneath a shadowy oak prepare : 
 The victim ox they hold, and women knead 
 Their cates of wh eaten flour, the reaper's meed. 
 
 A vineyard next beneath his hand arose ; 
 In ripening gold the yellow vintage glows ; 
 
76 
 
 The dark plump grapes in heavy ckisters rest 
 
 On props of silver, " suing to be prest." 
 
 A different metal closes all within, 
 
 A darkened trench, and pallisades of tin ; 
 
 One narrow path leads winding to the place, 
 
 Through which the laborers to the vineyard pass ; 
 
 With woven baskets, forming in a line. 
 
 The youths and maidens bear the latent wine. 
 
 Midst these, a youth attunes the trembling strings ; 
 
 Old Linus' song the charming lyrist sings : 
 
 They dance responsive to the tuneful sound ; 
 
 All join in chorus, and the song goes round. 
 
 Now herds of gold appear ; the oxen tall 
 Erect their heads, and bellow from the stall. 
 Haste to the meadows, where with stunning sound, 
 The rapid torrent thunders through the ground. 
 Four herdsmen follow, glittering in the gold. 
 And nine large mastiffs, terrible and bold. 
 Two shaggy lions seize a bull — in vain 
 He roars, he struggles, dragged across the plain ; 
 They tear his entrails, and they quaff the gore, 
 While swift to rescue, dogs and herdsmen pour : 
 In vain the herdsmen hearten them to rage, 
 The dogs bark distant, fearful to engage. 
 
 Next, a fair scene the ravished eye beholds : 
 A beauteous valley to the sight unfolds ; 
 
77 
 
 White, snowy flocks of fleecy sheep are here. 
 And folds, and sheds, and cottages appear. 
 
 Then formed the master hand the smooth advance, 
 And various figure of the waving dance : 
 Such Ariadne, beauteous queen, beheld, 
 In Gnossus' court, by Daedalus revealed ; 
 There hand in hand the youths and maidens join, 
 Form the sweet wave, and undulate the line ; 
 The youths in glossy shining silks appear, 
 The beauteous maidens in the white cymar ; 
 Fair wreaths of flowers their lovely locks embrace, 
 The youthful band the golden falchions grace ; 
 All gayly at their sides, with graceful swing, 
 They hang, suspended by a silken string. 
 Here swift they move, and rapid as they fly, 
 The varying forms seem blended in the eye. 
 Whirled in a circle flies the giddy reel. 
 As on its centre turns the rapid wheel, 
 (His finished labor when the potter tries,) 
 And all too rapid for the sight it flies : 
 At once they move, through devious mazes meet. 
 And wind away the dance with measured feet : 
 Unnumbered crowds enjoy the pleasing sight, 
 And gaze the revels, eager with delight. 
 
78 
 
 In active feats two nimble tumblers bound, 
 While the whole circle bears the song around. 
 
 Thus grew the mighty shield ; around the verge,* 
 Poured the great ocean with its rapid surge ; 
 He made the deep its whole circumference lave, 
 And smooth against it beat the silver wave. 
 
 * Ev J'i iriQu TToTit/uoto. He described the rapid surges of 
 the great ocean, and caused the waves thereof to roll round 
 (or encompass) the whole circumference. 
 
 Mr. Pope observes, that this being the frame of the whole 
 shield, is but slightly touched upon. It was unhappy in Mr. 
 Pope, that he was more negligent than his author. Homer 
 gives us, with sublimity, the " foaming rapid course of the 
 great ocean." Of this, Mr. Pope makes no mention ; in- 
 deed, Homer's ocean, in the hands of Mr. Pope, appears to 
 have lost considerably of its majestic grandeur. 
 
 Thus the broad shield complete the artist crowned 
 With his last hand, and poured the ocean round ; 
 In living silver seemed the waves to roll, 
 And beat the buckler's verge, and crowned the whole. 
 
79 
 
 ANATOMICAL CHAPTER OF KOHELETH, 
 THE ROYAL PREACHER. 
 
 TRANSLATED. 
 
 Now, in the day while vigorous youth remains. 
 Glows in the face, and revels in the veins, 
 Attend, oh man ! To memory's care intrust 
 The God, whose wisdom fashioned thee from dust : 
 For soon, alas ! the pleasant moments fly. 
 And years of sorrow all too soon are nigh. 
 Then wilt thou say, (while time, by heaven's command, 
 Shall warp thy features with his rugged hand,) 
 Then wilt thou say, * alas ! from me is fled 
 The joyful hour, and every pleasure's dead.' 
 
 For then,each scene which moved thee with delight. 
 Each pleasant scene shall fade upon thy sight ; 
 While shortened of their rays, with visage dun, 
 Shines the full moon, and the unwearied sun ; 
 The stars grow darker in the etherial skies, 
 And rheums drop ceaseless from thy clouded eyes* 
 
 * The translator has chosen to follow this sense, instead of 
 Dr. Mead's, it being the more probable of the two. Koheleth 
 was then speaking of the decaying sight. "The clouds re- 
 turn after rain." 
 
80 
 
 Trembling shall seize thee in the palsied hand, 
 For frail the keepers of the mansion stand. 
 Few, and decayed, the grinding teeth shall be, 
 And bowed the mighty man^ the tottering knee. 
 Lo ! the soul's ivindows dark and gloomy grow ; 
 The eye sinks beamless in the gathered brow ; 
 That door J the mouth, shuts folding in the street ; 
 The falling jaw grijids silently the meat. 
 Blind and unconscious of the sunny ray, 
 The cock'^s shrill note* shall tell thee when 'tis day ; 
 Though scarce 'tis heard, for hearing is decayed, 
 And low the daughters of the songt are laid. 
 
 Then shall thy tottering step, thy failing sight, 
 Whene'er thou walkest fill thee with affright ;+ 
 Unusual terror shall possess thy mind. 
 Lest some high place§ precipitate the blind. 
 The almond tree its leafy boughs shall spread. 
 And pour white blossoms on thy snowy head ; 
 Then vigorous love shall fail, and warm desire, 
 And cold and hfeiess be the vital fire : 
 
 * He shall rise up at the voice of the bird. 
 
 f The ears. 
 
 J Fear shall be in the way. 
 
 § They shall be afraid of that which is high. 
 
 Those who wish to see more upon this curious subject, 
 may consult Poole's Annotations, and the Medica Sacra of 
 Dr. Richard Mead. 
 
81 
 
 For man then hastens to his long, long home, 
 And through the streets the busy mourners come. 
 'Tis then the silver cord of hfe is slack, 
 The spinal marrow loosens in the back ; 
 The bones give way, the tottering pelvis shakes. 
 Till at the fount the bony pitcher breaks ; 
 The skull, that whilom held the impatient soul, 
 Gives way, and broken is the golden hold; 
 The wheel stands broken at the cistern's head, 
 The heart is moveless and the pulse is fled : 
 Then while around thee, weeping kindred mourn, 
 The dust shall prostrate to the dust return ; 
 The immortal soul shall quit the frail abode, 
 And soar sublimely to the realms of God. 
 
 JOSHUA, 
 
 On that great day when heaven appeared in fight. 
 And Israel conquered the proud Amorite ; 
 Amid the tribes intrepid Joshua stood. 
 Arrayed in all the terrors of his God. 
 Whene'er he moved, the heathen were dismayed ; 
 But, when he spoke, the host of heaven obeyed : 
 
82 
 
 " Sun^ he thou silent o'er Giheon^s hill* 
 And thou^ oh moon ! in Ajalon he stilV^ 
 Then paused the astonished sun — the moon beheld 
 Each scene of death, and hovered o'er the field. 
 
 * Joshua has been wrongfully accused of commanding the 
 sun to stand still, and so of contradicting the Copernican 
 system. This error has originated from our common ver- 
 sion of the Bible, and we have by this means overlooked a 
 most remarkable beauty in the original. Joshua does not, 
 as vulgarly supposed, command the sun to stand still, that he 
 may have day-light sufficient to conquer his enemies. This 
 conquest appears to have been already effected. The sun 
 and the moon are sublimely introduced as spectators : they 
 are silent in the midst of heaven, and^a^^e with astonish- 
 ment at the acts of Israel, of Joshua, and the terrible slaugh- 
 ter of the Amorites by hailstones. Here was room for the 
 boldest figures, and the sublimest astonishment. The sun 
 and moon are introduced ; they are called upon to be silent, 
 (i. e. astonished,) and we are informed they are so. This 
 is perhaps among the finest instances of the prosopopeia ; 
 nothing can be more sublimely imagined. 
 
 The following is nearly a literal translation from the 
 Hebrew : 
 
 And Joshua spake to Aleim, the day when Aleim deliver- 
 ed up the Amorites to Israel, and Joshua said before Israel, 
 Sun, he thou silent upon Gibeon, and thou, oh moon, in the 
 vale of Ajalon. And the sun was silent, and the moon 
 stayed, after the people were avenged of their enemies. 
 Shall not this be written in the book of the (Jasher) right- 
 eous, that the sun was silent in the midst of heaven, and 
 hasted not during a whole day. 
 
 Joshua, x. 12, 13. 
 
83 
 
 Then her dun orb, by power supreme controlled, 
 Pale through the heavens in silent grandeur rolled : 
 Say, shall not this to latest time descend, 
 In the fair volume by the righteous penned 1 
 For one whole day, by heaven's eternal will, 
 The sun stood silent, and the moon was still. 
 
 THE WAR HORSE. 
 
 PARAPHRASE FROM JOB. 
 
 " And hast thou given the horse strength, hast thou 
 clothed his neck with thunder]" 
 
 Again the Almighty from the whirlwind broke, 
 And thus to Job in stern continuance spoke : 
 "Didst thou the horse with strength unequalled mould, 
 Whose lofty neck the writhen thunders fold ? 
 And canst thou make the intrepid courser fly, 
 When steely dangers ghtter in his eye? 
 
 See ! all around him spreads the flamy cloud, 
 Spurned from his nostrils, while he snorts aloud ; 
 
84 
 
 Trembling with vigor, how he paws the ground. 
 And hurls the thunder of his strength around I 
 Behold ! he pants for war : and scorning flight, 
 Collects his strength and rushes to the fight. 
 
 When clouds of darts a sable horror spread. 
 And the full quiver rattles o'er his head ; 
 To him no dread the sound of battle bears, 
 The clash of armor and the strife of spears ; 
 But o'er his neck his waving mane reclined. 
 Spreads to the gale, and wantons in the wind : 
 He spurns the field, fierce, terrible, and strong, 
 And rolls the earth back as he shoots along. 
 
 Lo ! where the strife the distant warriors wage, 
 The neighing courser snuffs the sanguine rage ; 
 Wliile roaring trumpets, and tlie dire affray 
 Provoke his laughter on that dreadful day ; 
 More loud he snorts, more terrible he foams. 
 When nearer still the storm of battle comes, 
 And mingling roars are dreadful on the heath, 
 In shouts of victory, and groans of death. 
 
85 
 
 THE DESCRIPTION OF JEHOVAH. 
 
 PROM PSALM XVIII. 
 
 TvNE — " That power who formed the unmeasured seas.' 
 
 He spoke, and lo ! the heavens were bowed ; 
 High on cherubic wings he rode, 
 
 Majestic to behold : 
 Profoundest night, the black abyss, 
 And the thick gloom of all the skies, 
 
 Beneath his feet were rolled. 
 
 Tempestuous winds about him past, 
 Sublime upon the winged blast, 
 
 The great Jehovah came ; 
 He flew abroad all clothed in fire. 
 But bade thick clouds of smoke aspire, 
 
 To wrap the horrid flame. 
 
 Enfolding skies his brightness vailed, 
 And in the depth of night concealed, 
 His dread pavilion stood : 
 8 
 
86 
 
 The blackened clouds around him sweep, 
 And the dark waters of the deep 
 Enthrone their sovereign God. 
 
 Midst pealing thunders, fire, and smoke, 
 Jehovah's awful silence broke, 
 
 And shook the powers beneath ; 
 The rapid lightnings of the sky, 
 Commissioned by the great Most High, 
 
 Were scattered by his breath. 
 
 PSALM CXXXVII. 
 
 SPECIMEN OF A NEW AMERICAN VERSION. 
 
 When Zion's memory saddened every soul, 
 
 How much we wept ! how many were our sighs ! 
 
 By those slow rivers, which in silence roll 
 Where the proud spires of Babylon arise ! 
 
 Our silent harps the lonely willows bore, 
 No longer tuneful, since no longer strung j 
 
 Alas ! their music — for 'twas heard no more, 
 No tabret trembled, and no warbler sung. 
 
87 
 
 Yet the proud victors, all insulting, stray 
 
 Through our lone bands, and bid our sorrows cease: 
 
 " Give us a song^^^ the thoughtless victors say, 
 " A song of Zion in her days of peaceP 
 
 A song of peace ! — ah ! thoughtless men, no more ! 
 
 For how can we JEHOVAH'S praises sing? 
 Midst victor nations, on a foreign shore. 
 
 How can we tune the sweetly trembhng string ? 
 
 Oh ! Salem, Salem, land forever dear ! 
 
 When thoughts of thee no longer warm my heart, 
 May I experience vengeance most severe, 
 
 And all the vigor of my hand depart. 
 
 To the parched palate may my tongue be bound, 
 Ere much-loved Salem shall forgotten be ; 
 
 Ere thou inferior to my joys art found ; 
 Or my best wishes centre not in thee. 
 
 Remember, Lord, thy Zion's many foes ; 
 
 The sons of Edom, with their warlike powers ; 
 Around our city how the crowd arose. 
 
 And urged the ruin of her peaceful towers. 
 
88 
 
 Lo ! now the dire destroying angel rides ! 
 
 And hear, oh Edom ! land forever curst — 
 Blest shall he be, who, while our vengeance guides, 
 
 Lays thy proud turrets smoking in the dust. 
 
 Thrice happy he, who, all thy little ones, 
 That prattle round, with ruthless ruin greets, 
 
 To dash them brainless on the spattered stones, 
 And spread the carnage o'er the bloody streets. 
 
 PSALM CXLIX. 
 
 SPECIMEN OF A NEW AMERICAN VERSION 
 
 To God, the King of heaven, prepare 
 The newest song, the noblest air ; 
 And let his crowded churches join 
 Their chorus in the grand design. 
 
 To Him the tribute Israel gives. 
 By whom he's formed, by whom he lives ; 
 And in their King, with cheerful voice, 
 The sons of Zion shall rejoice. 
 
89 
 
 Let them with stately steps, advance 
 His honors, in the winding dance ; 
 To praise his name, with songs conspire, 
 The tabret and the tuneful lyre. 
 
 He loves the church, and ever kind, 
 He still assists the humble mind : 
 Then let his joyful people raise 
 Melodious anthems to his praise. 
 
 Still shall the church his might proclaim, 
 And still repeat the awful name ; 
 While glittering weapons, double-steeled, 
 Each braver hand with power shall wield. 
 
 Thus shall they spread his glory wide, 
 O'er all the extent of heathen pride ; 
 And captive kings shall own his reign, 
 In many a fettered iron chain. 
 
 His awful will their God commands, 
 To spread o'er all the heathen lands ; 
 But his loved saints enjoy alone. 
 Such honors from the eternal throne. 
 
 8* 
 
90 
 
 ODE TO FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 Yks, Friendship ! though thou'rt seldom found, 
 
 Without the skirts of faiiy ground ; 
 
 Yet sometimes those of better mould, 
 
 Thy lovely visage may behold. 
 
 And sometimes thou dost deign to stay 
 
 With mortals of inferior clay. 
 
 Sweet are thy footsteps on the green, 
 
 And sweet the cots where thou art seen : 
 
 Thy wonted haunts are passing fair, 
 
 For souls are blest, when thou art there. 
 
 Oh ! leave the ambrosial scenes above, 
 
 Dear sister of impassioned love ! 
 
 And clad in thy celestial bloom, 
 
 Come to my soul, oh goddess ! come. 
 
 She came : sweet friendship all confest, 
 Presided o'er my peaceful breast ; 
 Far from my soul she banished care ; 
 And centered all Elysium there. 
 
 1 
 
91 
 
 AN INVOCATION TO THE ALMIGHTY. 
 
 WRITTEN AT THE AGE OP TEN YEARS. 
 
 My God ! the Father of mankind, 
 
 Whose bounty all things share ; 
 Let me thy grace my portion find — 
 
 All else beneath thy care. 
 
 I ask not titles, wealth, or state, 
 
 By joyless hearts possessed ; 
 Yet may I still be rich and great, 
 
 If virtue fill my breast. 
 
 Let fervent charity remain 
 
 Forever in my breast ; 
 Oh ! let me feel another's pain, 
 
 In others' joys be blest. 
 
 To charity within my breast, 
 
 Let steady faith unite ; 
 Nor let me from thy law depart, 
 
 Nor let me live by sight. 
 
92 
 
 With patience fortify my mind, 
 To bear each future ill ; 
 
 In hfe, and death, alike resigned 
 To thine unerring will. 
 
 THE lover's TRAGEDIE, 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE STORY OF ELDRED AND ISABEL. 
 
 MODERNIZED FROM THOMAS ROWLIE, OP BRISTOWE, IN 
 OWLDE INGLONDE. 
 
 There dwelt in Alberton of yore, 
 
 A knight of mickle fame, 
 Whose youth full many a hardship bore. 
 
 And Eldred was his name. 
 
 Some twenty winters had he seen — 
 
 Their openings and their close ; 
 Yet that short space, too well I ween, 
 
 Was measured out in woes. 
 
93 
 
 Heaven had with knowledge blest his mind, 
 
 And wit in high degree. 
 Where wisdom was with virtue joined, 
 
 And gentle charitie. 
 
 Ah ! luckless Eldred, what avails 
 Thy wit, and learning's store ? 
 
 To tell thy fate my heart befayls — 
 I grieve and weep full sore. 
 
 For now, alas ! the time was comej 
 
 To try his strength of heart ; 
 When he to other lands must roam, 
 
 And from his friends depart. 
 
 For now, the change of life's affairs, 
 
 And interest called him forth : 
 Oh ! let young Eldred have your prayers, 
 
 Ye men of mickle worth ! 
 
 Too much his manly bosom heaved, 
 
 To leave his friends behind : 
 Too much the sharp affliction grieved 
 
 The sweetness of his mind. 
 
94 
 
 For in that mind was softness poured ; 
 
 Much, tenderness was there ; 
 With love sincere, and friendship stored, 
 
 To soften every care. 
 
 Yet still since heaven ordained it so, 
 He could his friends yleave ; 
 
 From merriment could hghtsome go. 
 And for no pleasure grieve. 
 
 Yet there was one who held his heart, 
 
 By ties he could not break ; 
 Young Isabel — with whom to part, 
 
 Ycaused his bosom ache. 
 
 Full oft him on his couch he laid, 
 While tears in streams would flow, 
 
 And prayed dark even's friendly shade 
 To soothen all his wo. 
 
 But time, which for no Uving wight, 
 
 His running will delay, 
 Is still the lover's foeman hight. 
 
 As learned clerks do say. 
 
95 
 
 For now his glass did swiftly run, 
 
 Bringing the dreaded day. 
 When he must gird him to be gonCj 
 
 And hie him far away. 
 
 He left his friends with rueful mood, 
 
 And fast the tear drops fell ; 
 But ere he mounts his charger good, 
 
 He seeks young Isabel. 
 
 In beauty's lists the maiden shone, 
 
 The first among the fair ; 
 While wisdom made her mind his throne, 
 
 And heaven resided there. 
 
 She felt, ah ! well I ween, she felt 
 
 The youthful Eldred's wo ; 
 For heaven had formed that heart to melt. 
 
 And formed that breast to glow. 
 
 And why that sorrowing look ? she cries. 
 And why that haggard cheek ? 
 
 Oh Eldred ! whence those bursting sighs 
 That gloomy thoughts bespeak ? 
 
96 
 
 Alas ! my love, he cries, I go 
 
 All o'er the faithless sea ; 
 Say, wilt thou think of Eldred's wo? 
 
 Wilt thou remember me ? 
 
 More had he spoke, but whelmed in grief, 
 ■ The briny tears 'gan flow ; 
 Nor Isabel could give relief. 
 For theirs was mutual wo. 
 
 Alas ! he cried at length, I go 
 
 All o'er the faithless sea ; 
 Think oft, dear maid, of Eldred's wo. 
 
 And ah ! remember me. 
 
 And much he mourned his sad remove. 
 And mourned the treacherous sea, 
 
 And much he questioned his love, — 
 Say, wilt thou think on me? 
 
 With many a tender parting kiss, 
 
 And many a fond farewell, 
 He left her. — Sorrow worse than this 
 
 Sure mortal ne'er befell. 
 
97 
 
 He mounted then his steed, and straight 
 
 To Thamys' side came he : 
 A gallant vessel there did wait, 
 
 To waft him o'er the sea. 
 
 Yet ever as the bark him bore 
 
 Prom his dear native land ; 
 And ever as he wandered sore 
 
 Upon a foreign strand ; 
 
 And ever as he toiled by day, 
 And sought his couch at night ; 
 
 The image of his love did stay, 
 All fresh before his sight. 
 
 Bethink ye to what huge wo, 
 The tidings did him rouse, 
 • i. t Isabel had proved untrue, 
 -Anc- r ithless to her vows. 
 
 Ah me i in cried, this cruel stroke 
 A deathfu" ^ -^^^ will be ; 
 
 Oh Isabel ! my ueart is broke ; 
 But still remeiDDcr mc 
 
 9 
 
98 
 
 Within his bosom preyed the flame j 
 He loathed his vital breath j 
 
 And when the evening shadow came, 
 He closed his eyes in death. 
 
 Oft did his friends to see him, burn ; 
 
 And oft his absence mourned ; 
 And oft inquired for his return : 
 
 But ah ! he ne'er returned — 
 
 Save that at midnight's awful hour, 
 
 Before his Is'bel's eyes, 
 With darken^fl brow, and many a lour, 
 
 His ghost was seen to rise. 
 
 It grieved her tender heart full sore ; 
 
 She withered in her bloom ; 
 And fell remorse the maid soon bore 
 
 To an untimely tomb. 
 
 Now God grant every lover's prayer, 
 Whose heart is just and true ; 
 
 And may his lady-love be fair. 
 And kind, and constant too. 
 
99 
 
 And when the bard, by fates unkind, 
 Must cross the dangerous sea ; 
 
 May his sweet maid bear long in mind 
 This — ah ! remember me. 
 
 SWEET POLL OP PLYMOUTH'S LAMENT. 
 
 Oh William ! dearest William ! hear, 
 
 While yet the ship is nigh ; 
 For you shall drop my latest tear, 
 
 My latest breath shall sigh. 
 
 But oh ! come back ! oh hear but this. 
 
 Ere you forever go ; 
 I gave not half my parting kiss ; 
 
 I told not half my wo. 
 
 Oh ! would some kind head winds arise, 
 
 To drive you back from sea ; 
 But ah ! the billows mock my cries, 
 
 And winds are deaf to me. 
 
100 _^ ^ 
 
 And will you, will you ne'er return ? 
 
 Oh William ! say you will ; 
 And must your Poll forever mourn ? 
 
 Must she be wretched still 1 
 
 Ye cruel, ye unfeeling men, 
 
 Who force the youth to sea : 
 Oh ! will you ne'er return again, 
 
 My love, my all, to me 1 
 
 Ye know not with what anguish, parts 
 From his fond mate, the dove ; 
 
 For ye, base men, have tiger hearts, 
 And know not how to love. 
 
 And though beneath the green sea, deep, 
 
 I would ye whelmed were : 
 Still may kind Heaven protect your ship. 
 
 For ah ! my all is there. 
 
 But oh ! she flies — the vessel flies 
 
 Beyond the reach of call : 
 I hear not now the moans, the sighs. 
 
 Nor see the tears that fall. 
 
101 
 
 Still on the deck I see him stand, 
 
 His flying kerchief see : 
 I see him kiss his lovely hand, 
 
 And wave the kiss to me. 
 
 Farewell, forever ! oh farewell ! 
 
 Adieu ! thou best of men — 
 Here closed her eyes ; the mourner fell, 
 
 And ne'er awaked again. 
 
 But oft the love-lorn sailor gives 
 The mournful story tongue ; 
 
 And still, sweet Poll of Plymouth lives, 
 In melancholy song. 
 
 TO AMANDA. 
 
 From me, dear maid, one faithful verse receive. 
 The last sad offering that a wretch can give ; 
 Warm from that heart, decreed by Heaven to prove. 
 The sad experience of too great a love. 
 
 When first, Amanda, with your friendship blest, 
 Your form, too lovely, all my soul possest ; 
 
 9^ 
 
102 
 
 Tho' sweet the hours, how swift the minutes flew, 
 While pleased I sat and fondly gazed on you.' 
 Ah ! how I listened when your silence broke, 
 And kissed the air which trembled as you spoke : 
 Did you not, dearest, see my fond distress. 
 Beyond all power of language to express ? 
 Did not my soul betray the young disease. 
 The softened look, the tender wish to please ? 
 To soothe your cares, when all in vain I strove, 
 Did not each action speak increase of love ? 
 
 'Tis done ! — but ah ! how wretched must I be ; 
 That lovely bosom heaves no sigh for me ; 
 For me, that heart with no warm passion glows. 
 Nor my Amanda one soft word bestows : 
 But could she see the anguish of my heart, 
 And view the tumults that her charms impart ; 
 Could she but read the sorrows of my mind, 
 She sure would pity, for she must be kind. 
 
 Ah ! what avails, dear maid, to souls like mine. 
 That generous friendship is your sweet design ? 
 The pleasing thought, with rapture, I pursue, 
 It must be lovely, for it comes from you. 
 But oh ! how vain is friendship to repress 
 The soul-felt pang of exquisite distress. 
 How small the balm, by friendship you impart, 
 To the sharp tortures of the impassioned heart. 
 
103 
 
 What tender wish, for you alone to live. 
 Could once each dear deluding moment give? 
 When every look, bewitching as 'twas fair, 
 Seized all my heart, and played the tyrant there. 
 How did those eyes with softened lustre shine, 
 Thought unexpressed, and sympathy divine i 
 While still the hope within my bosom grew — 
 Vain hope ! — to live for happiness and you. 
 
 'Tis o'er ! — each fond, delusive hope is o'er. 
 And ne'er may Arouet see Amanda more. 
 Some happier swain has taught her breast to glow, 
 But who can soothe the wretched Arouet's wo ? 
 Whole months, w^hole ages, absent to remain, 
 Who can support the agonizing pain ? 
 Say, dearest maid, will you not give rehef. 
 By one soft sigh, to such a storm of grief; 
 When from your sight, from your sweet converse torn, 
 To other climes your Arouet shall be borne ? 
 While far between, dear charmer of my soul ! 
 Inconstant waves and cruel oceans roll. 
 
 Ah ! think not absence can afford a cure. 
 To the sharp woes, the sorrows I endure : 
 Amanda, no ! 'twill but augment distress 
 To such a height, no mortal can express. 
 My soul, distracted, still is fixed on you ; 
 Was ever heart so wretched and so true ? 
 
104 
 
 Oh ! say, shall selfish love my bosom fire ? 
 Shall you reluctant meet my fond desire ? 
 If that dear heart has vowed eternal truth 
 To some blest swain, some more engaging youth ; 
 Forgive the thought, dear angel of my breast, 
 I must be wretched — oh ! may you be blest 
 
 Yes, may the youth to whom you prove more kind, 
 Know the rich treasures of that lovely mind : 
 May he be fond, and may no cloud o'ercast 
 The virtuous passion, born to ever last. 
 But though his love in every act may shine, 
 Yet know, sweet maid, it cannot be like mine : 
 Your image never can from me depart ; 
 Fixed in my soul, and written on my heart. 
 
 TO AMANDA. 
 
 Once more, dear maid, the v/retched Arouet writes. 
 
 His pen obedient, as his heart indites : 
 
 Such lines may haply waste your precious time, 
 
 And his loathed writings may be deemed a crime ; 
 
 Yet Arouet's tender, inoffensive strains, 
 
 May reach the bosom where compassion reigns. 
 
105 
 
 When first I saw, adorned with every grace, 
 That heavenly form, that more than angel face, 
 I wished your friendship, but alas ! the snare, 
 For ah ! my woes originated there. 
 
 Once was I happy, blest with native ease, 
 A friend could cheer me, and a book could please : 
 But now, no more my friends, my books bestow 
 One moment's respite from this load of wo ; 
 While cruel love my bosom-peace destroys, 
 Ensnares my soul, and poisons all my joys. 
 
 Soon must to other climes my course be borne, 
 Whence Arouet never, never may return : 
 For there, ah ! Ions;-, too cruel fate detains 
 The wretched youth on Carolina's plains- 
 There, while your absence does my soul distress, 
 Will you not kindly wish my sorrows less ? 
 Will you not, sometimes, smooth the fates' decree. 
 Heave one soft sigh, and ah ! remember me ? 
 
 Should fate, when some few fleeting months are o'er. 
 Again return me to my native shore ; 
 Then should I view some favorite of your breast, 
 (Distracting thought !) of all your charms possest, 
 My fondest wishes would be late in time, 
 And every hope would verge upon a crime : 
 But could my heart a keener anguish prove, 
 Than now, if cruel, you should slight my love? 
 
Pure are the passions from my breast which flow, 
 With flames hke these angeUc bosoms glow : 
 But if regardless of your lover's grief, 
 You cease to pity, and refuse relief; 
 Should I be doomed to feel your utmost hate, 
 No time shall ever find my love abate ; 
 Should you the heaviest wrath on me bestow, 
 I bless your memory and I kiss the blow. 
 
 Death, friendly death, may soon relieve my pain, 
 Long, sure, he cannot be implored in vain : 
 Soon the grim angel will restore my peace. 
 Soothe my hard fate, and bid my sorrows cease ; 
 Will calm tlip. tpmpest of r,^y soul to vest, 
 And tear Amanda's image from my breast. 
 
 When to my sight, the monarch of the tomb 
 Shall rise terrific, and pronounce my doom ; 
 When deep oblivion wraps m}?" mind in night ; 
 When Death's dark shadows swim before my sight; 
 Will then Amanda ? — ah ! she will, I trust, 
 Pay the last tribute to my clay-cold dust ; 
 Will, sighing, say, " There his last scene is o'er. 
 Who loved as mortal never loved before." 
 Dear, matchless fair, that kind concern displayed, 
 Would sweetly soothe my melancholy shade ; 
 O'er my lone tomb, oh ! yield that sad rehef ; 
 Breathe that soft sigh, and pour out all your grief; 
 
107 
 
 Or shed one tear in pity as you pass, 
 And just remember that your Arouet was. 
 
 TO AMANDA. 
 
 SaYj sole directress of thy Arouet's heart, 
 Shall not one line his faithful love impart? 
 Oh ! think, though parted by the cruel main, 
 How much for thee he suffers every pain : 
 And know, dear maid, upon his soul imprest, 
 Thy lovely image must forever rest. 
 
 When thou art absent, with w^hat long delay, 
 The sun's slow chariot roll the hours away I 
 But blest with thee, time all too rapid plies 
 His flippant wings, and on the minute flies. 
 
 Full oft remembrance, by her magic power, 
 Crowds with past scenes the visionary hour : 
 When oh ! 'twas thine, dear maid, to check the sigh 
 Of rising grief, and wipe the tear-clad eye ; 
 With soft endearments, such as angels prove. 
 We sighed — and looked — unutterable love I 
 
 Distant from thee, fate spreads my mournful scene : 
 Ah ! cruel distance — oceans roll between. 
 
108 
 
 But, love, I'm thine, and I appeal to thee, 
 •What son of sorrow measures wo with me? 
 Borne on the stormy seas, a length of way, 
 From that dear land, where 'tis my heaven to stay. 
 
 Though rigid censors term the verse profane, 
 Yet know, ye bigots, this my honest strain ; 
 I deem not grateless to that power above. 
 Whose throne is mercy, and whose name is LOVE. 
 
 TO AMANDA, 
 
 WITH EMMA CORBETT. 
 
 Amanda, view the soft pathetic lines. 
 Where tender love and glowing genius shines ; 
 Where Emma weeps ; where hapless Henry draws 
 The heart-felt tear, in love and virtue's cause. 
 
 Yes, Emma weeps ! — behold her sorrows rise ; 
 View the dear dew-drops trembling in her eyes : 
 See ! round her Henry's corse the mourner moves ; 
 She dies — the martyr of unhappy loves. 
 
109 
 
 So the poor turtle, desolate, and lone, 
 Breathes to the winds his melancholy moan ; 
 Mourns his lost dove, with many a plaintive coo, 
 And sighs his soul out with the fond adieu. 
 
 Amanda, say, by such sad scenes impressed, 
 What gloom pervades the sorrow-teeming breast ! 
 How weeps the soul ! what sighs the bosom swell ! 
 Speak, angel-softness, for thou best canst tell. 
 
 Here, oft thy Arouet's manly bosom glows, 
 And the soft tear all sympathetic flows : 
 Full oft for Emma, lovely maid, distressed. 
 His tender heart-strings vibrate in his breast ; 
 For Henry, oft the bursting sighs give place, 
 And the soul melts on his impassioned face. 
 
 But while embosomed in this vale of tears. 
 Increasing wo on every side appears ; 
 If right the bard, Amanda, can divine. 
 Fair happiness shall be forever thine. 
 
 The indulgent care of Providence, shall bless 
 Thy lovely mind, and ward off keen distress ; 
 Joy shall beam on thee with her sunshine ray. 
 And peace eternal gild thy happy day. 
 10 
 
110 
 
 TO AMANDA. 
 
 THE WISH. 
 
 CoMEj gentle love, whose smiling form inspires 
 
 Sweet, painful throbs, and languishing desires ; 
 
 Come, thou soft power, who, with Amanda's charms, 
 
 My soul enraptures, and my bosom warms ; 
 
 Who bids the fair, unconscious of her art, 
 
 Reign in the pulse, which flutters at my heart, 
 
 When active fancy to ray mind supplies 
 
 The absent object of my bosom sighs. 
 
 For whom, I quit the academic lore, 
 
 And shun that laurel which I loved before ; 
 
 For whose idea all my youth decays 
 
 In sleepless nights, and unamusing days : 
 
 Dear, matchless maid ! too true, if torn from thee, 
 
 Not one amusement bears a charm for me. 
 
 Come, gentle love, and to my wishes give 
 
 The angelic fair, for whom alone I live : 
 
 Bring her all beauteous to my longing arms, 
 
 In sweet confusion, and a heaven of charms ; 
 
 While o'er my frame the unwonted tremor glides, 
 
 And the warm spirits flash in crimson tides ; 
 
Ill 
 
 While the deep blush, and treacherous sighs betray 
 
 The bounding heart, the pulses' maddening play ; 
 
 While the breast heaves, by laboring passions shook, 
 
 And the soul flies with every eager look, 
 
 ^' Lapped in Elysium" by the impassioned kiss, 
 
 And all dissolved in extasies of bliss. 
 
 Hear me, great love ; and hear, indulgent Heaven, 
 
 If to my vows the charming maid be given, 
 
 For her alone your smiles will I implore, 
 
 Be these her virtues, and I ask no more : 
 
 With mental charms, by beauty's aid, to move 
 
 The heart to raptures, and the soul to love ; 
 
 Of gentle mind, with tears inured to flow 
 
 At others' ills, and melt at others' wo ; 
 
 Oh ! be it hers, in exquisite employ. 
 
 To share each grief, and double every joy ; 
 
 Be hers the pleasure of the rural grove, 
 
 Sweet fields of science which the muses' love ; 
 
 Good nature hers, and hers let judgment be, 
 
 With depth of sense, and sprightly repartee. 
 
 But let not fortune, with officious claim, 
 Debar my bHss, and disappoint my flame ; 
 Let vulgar souls the charms of riches prove, 
 A nobler right be mine, the right of love, 
 
 I'd sooner clasp a beggar to my arms, 
 Of youthful beauty and persuasive charms, 
 
112 
 
 Than wed the fair, with wealth alone, to prove 
 The base enjoyments of a sordid love. 
 
 Yesj sweet Amanda, if denied thy heart. 
 The wealth of kingdoms would no bliss impart : 
 Thy love alone exceeds the utmost store, 
 Thy Arouet asks it, and he asks no more. 
 
 TO AMANDA. 
 
 THE FAREWELL. 
 
 BARD, 
 
 Ah ! why that sigh ? and why that falling tear ? 
 And whence comes mournful melancholy here ? 
 Sweet maid ! these tears are yours; these swelling sighs 
 For you, dear maid ! in my pained bosom rise. 
 Ah ! could you, could you read my constant mind, 
 Yiew all the sorrows of my soul combined, 
 The ceaseless tortures of a faithful heart. 
 Which speak too plainly, that — 'tis death to part ; 
 Sure, lovely maid ! your tender soul would join 
 Sighs to my sighs, and mingle tears with mine, 
 
113 
 
 FRIEND. 
 
 Ah ! why that sigh ? and why that falling tear ? 
 And whence comes mournful melancholy here 7 
 What cause of sorrow wakes the tender strain 1 
 Why should the bard of solitude complain ? 
 Why strive by power of language to express, 
 The soul-felt pang of exquisite distress ? 
 Do not thy friends their sympathy impart, 
 With anxious, warm sohcitude of heart ? 
 Nor Heaven smile on thee with the sunshine ray 
 Of promised bliss ? — oh, bard of sorrow ! say. 
 
 BARD. 
 
 Heaven smiles on all below ; the liberal beam 
 Pours from its source in an unwearied stream j 
 O'er all the earth the blessing is confest, 
 To lift the low, and succor the distrest : 
 But lost to me each cheerful ray appears, 
 And bUnd I wander through this vale of tears. 
 Oh, ye fond youths ! whose trembling hearts have 
 
 proved 
 Commutual warmth, beloving and beloved : 
 If by the pangs of separation torn. 
 Your sweet associates you in absence mourn ; 
 How weep your souls ! what sighs each bosom swell ! 
 Speak, absent lovers, you alone can tell ; 
 10* 
 
114 
 
 For you alone, by sad experienccj know 
 The bursting heart, the agony of wo. 
 
 Hear you that note ? The tender cooing dove 
 Breathes the sad lay, in absence from his love : 
 Amanda absent, shall not I complain, 
 When the soul saddens, and when hfe is pain ? 
 Amanda absent, can the world impart 
 One glimmering ray, to illuminate the heart ? 
 No ; every scene the face of sadness wears, 
 And the whole earth one wilderness appears : 
 Unchanged, the soul each varying prospect proves. 
 Through peopled cities, or through savage groves ; 
 And breathes her sad, her melancholy moan, 
 Midst gathered crowds all desolate and lone. 
 Dark o'er the mind invasive sorrows spread ; 
 I start, I turn, and tremble at each tread ; 
 And oft my eyes, with eager longings rove, 
 To the dear mansion where resides my love ; 
 Slow the sun's chariot rolls the hours away, 
 And each sad minute lengthens to a da}^ 
 
 Now all in vain I seek for Stoic ease ; 
 No Plato now, no Seneca can please : 
 Yet midst this dismal solitary gloom, 
 Come to my soul, oh resignation ! come 
 Calm fortitude ! to combat every grief; 
 And come, oh virtue ! come to my relief: 
 
115 
 
 Once you could lull my woes, and soothe each pain, 
 Must now your Arouet ask for aid in vain ? 
 No ; the blest shadows, all divinely bright, 
 All clothed in sunshine, court my mental sight ; 
 Divine contentment, virtue, ever fair, 
 Sweet hope, and loved philosophy is there : 
 O'er all my soul they beam celestial rays, 
 And bid their poet wish for happy days. 
 
 TO AMANDA. 
 
 ABSENCE. 
 
 Say, my dear maid, can nought express, 
 The pain a tender bosom proves ; 
 
 Or speak a doating youth's distress. 
 When absent from the maid he loves. 
 
 Can language breathe his many sighs, 
 Amanda "l — no ! all words are vain : 
 
 The experienced son of sorrow cries, 
 To speak an absent lover's pain. 
 
116 
 
 Wilt thou not weep, by pity moved ? 
 
 Responsive as my sorrow rolls ; 
 Wilt thou not say, oh ! best beloved, 
 
 That absence is the death of souls ? 
 
 Yet cease, Amanda ! cease to mourn ; 
 
 For happier days great Heaven will give 
 Thy absent Arouet shall return. 
 
 And blest in meeting, both shall live. 
 
 TO AMANDA. 
 
 IN ANSWER TO " WHY I LOVE 
 
 1" 
 
 Fair as thou art — possessed of every charm. 
 Which e'en the breast of frozen age might warm ; 
 Decked as thou art with every matchless grace, 
 Of pleasing form, and of bewitching face ; 
 Although to me thy beauties matchless are. 
 Yet not alone, thus charming, and thus fair^ 
 Yet not alone should these externals fire. 
 And fill my bosom with such pure desire 1 
 Possessed of these alone, you could not move 
 My faithful heart to such excessive love ; 
 
117 
 
 A flame for you would not thus fire my soul, 
 Nor thus its every faculty control ! 
 Those charms which will exist when these decay, 
 Which long will bloom when these have died away ; 
 Those charms which beautify the nobler part, 
 Which shine, fair maid ! which centre at your heart ; 
 Those are the charms which captivate my mind ; 
 Those are the charms which my affections bind ; 
 Those are the charms by which you reign confessed 
 Unrivalled empress of this honest breast ! 
 
 ODE TO LOVE. 
 
 " Say, love, why with such pleasing smart, 
 Such painful bliss, you throb the heart ? 
 Why do such different feehngs join 
 To move a soul so frail as mine ? 
 Say, why Amanda's charms molest, 
 And raise such tumults in my breast ? 
 Why at her sight my pulses swell ; 
 My refluent blood in tides rebel ; 
 My bounding heart unruly beat, 
 And throb succeeding throb repeat ; 
 
118 
 
 My breast alternate fall and rise ; 
 
 My breath grow short, sighs following sighs ; 
 
 My every feature speak desire ; 
 
 My frame by sudden tremor shook ; 
 1 almost faint, almost expire. 
 
 And send my soul at every look ? 
 Kind, gentle god, the cause explain ; 
 Relieve my doubts, and ease my pain." 
 
 One day, as o'er the flowery mead, 
 I with a brother poet strayed. 
 Thus to the god of love I cried ; 
 And thus love's gentle god rephed : 
 
 " Oh heaven-loved youth ! celestial bard ! 
 Thy woes are known, thy plaints are heard ; 
 Well canst thou soar on venturous wing, 
 For thee the gods have taught to sing ; 
 But to no purpose wouldst thou know. 
 Why thy Amanda moves thee so. 
 Since smiling heavens thy bliss ordain. 
 The fair shall burn with equal pain : 
 Nor shalt thou make thy plaintive moan. 
 Of love-lorn misery alone." 
 
119 
 
 He drew the bow, unknown to save. 
 And pierced my sweet Amanda's breast 
 
 The pain that fated arrow gave, 
 In sweet rehef, her lover blessed. 
 
 ELEGY, 
 
 SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF PHILANDER, 
 
 WRITTEN ON A RAINY TEMPESTUOUS MORNING. 
 
 Lo ! clouds on clouds, obsequious to the blast. 
 With spreading gloom the face of heaven o'ercast ; 
 Down pours the rain ; and thirsty earth receives 
 The humid burden, pattering from the eaves ; 
 Whilst her dark wing, black melancholy spreads 
 O'er every joy, and wraps the mind in shades. 
 
 Come,heaven-born muse,for tragic sweetness known, 
 Where high thou sh ado west thy cerulean throne ; 
 In this dark hour, to lend thy votary aid, 
 From brighter realms descend, celestial maid : 
 Since none like thee, among the tuneful nine, 
 Can melt the soul in sympathy divine ; 
 
120 
 
 Since none like thee, beyond the grave can give, 
 
 The poet's or the patriot's name to Hve : 
 
 Lo ! raised by thee, the mounting bard would soar 
 
 Beyond all view — subhme in tragic lore ! 
 
 Oh, come ! the great, immortal thought inspire, 
 
 That every line may glow with native fire : 
 
 Then whilst I sing, forever sacred be 
 
 The lays, Philander ! for I sing ^f thee : 
 
 Thee, with dire frowns, the ruthless fates beheld, 
 
 When o'er thy bark the bellying canvas swelled ; 
 
 Consigned by them, Britannia's sons enslave 
 
 Those free-born youths, who press the Atlantic wave. 
 
 Oh ! could I fall, the undaunted brave might say, 
 In arms of conquest, and the face of day ; 
 Could I expire, the peaceful swain might cry, 
 My friends around me, all my kindred by : , 
 
 Then would grim death his friendhest aspect wear, 
 Nor all his terrors shake my soul with fear. 
 
 But ah ! Philander no such blessing knew ; 
 No weeping kindred took their last adieu : 
 All unbemoaned the aerial spirit flies. 
 And swift revisits its paternal skies. 
 
 When the tall oak, amidst tempestuous gloom. 
 From heaven's own thunder shades the lowly broom ; 
 If o'er its head the vivid Mghtnings burst, 
 Rive the big trunk, and level it with dust. 
 
121 
 
 Each shrub laments the fall : and full in view, 
 A mournful chasm tells them where it grew. 
 So fell Philander ; and where once he stood. 
 We long shall mourn the generous and the good. 
 
 Ye sons of Psean,* by your parent led, 
 Weep round his grave, and mourn your brother dead. 
 Like you, he once approached, with sweet relief, 
 The house of sickness, the abode of grief; 
 With generous ardor, striving to impart 
 The heavenly blessings of the healing art. 
 
 With no rash tread, ye passers-by, presume 
 To print the ashes on Philander's tomb ; 
 But, ever sacred, may the lone retreat 
 Be solitude's supreme^ awful seat ; 
 Round all the place may mournful cypress grow, 
 And deatKs dread angel keep his charge below. 
 
 * Physicians. 
 
 11 
 
122 
 
 ELEGY, 
 
 SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF MAJOR BKNJAMIN Ht'GEK. 
 
 Enrolled among the mighty dead, 
 Where honor points the trophied grave^ 
 
 And virtue bends the pensive head ; 
 Sweet is the memoiy of the brave. 
 
 There friendship breathes the sigh sincere. 
 And freedom with disheveled hair, 
 
 Bedews the turf with many a tear. 
 While sorrow's dew-drops mingle there. 
 
 But, pensive bard ! oh, poet ! say- 
 Columbia's weeping genius cries — 
 
 Does not yon sod, which skirts the way^ 
 Mark the lone spot where Htjger lies 7 
 
 There melancholy loves to dwell, 
 And pale- eyed grief forever weeps ; 
 
 She roams but where my Huger fell, 
 And lives but where the warrior sleeps. 
 
 1 
 
123 
 
 While bards, his virtues to relate, 
 Awake the symphony of songs ; 
 
 Each sad remembrance of his fate 
 The melancholy verse prolongs, 
 
 'Tis done : and ah ! resign we must 
 In peace, dear shade, forever rest ; 
 
 Nor ever may thy sacred dust 
 Be by unhallowed steps imprest. 
 
 The friends, who loved him here belov/, 
 And still enraptured spread his fame, 
 
 Have bid these lines of sorrow flow, 
 In sweet remembrance of his name. 
 
 On what great springs his spirit moved, 
 Let those, with tears, who knew him, tell j 
 
 He lived, and he was all beloved ; 
 He died^ md all lamented, fell 
 
124 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF AN UNFORTUNATE YOUNG LADY. 
 
 Ah me ! she spoke : did not Almena say. 
 Come, Arouet, come, my much-loved youth, away ? 
 Did she not seem to court me from the place, 
 While smiles angelic beamed upon her face 7 
 
 Dear shade, accept the tribute of this tear. 
 While to my soul thy memory shall be dear ; 
 Still in my griefs thy idea shall have part, 
 And hold a place superior in my heart. 
 
 See what thick gloom the sable evening shrouds : 
 No meteor trembles through the night of clouds ; 
 In sleep^s soft arms, surrounding nature lies, 
 Me, me alone, the envied blessing flies ; 
 The night, the silence, but augments my wo. 
 While streaming tears in ceaseless torrents flow. 
 
 Ah ! why did I behold, with raptured eyes, 
 The early dawn of glowing genius rise? 
 When fair Almena strove the soul to gain. 
 And nature listened to the pleasing strain : 
 
 1 
 
125 
 
 Oh ! much 'twas hers the bosom to inspire 
 With heaven-bred warmth, and fill the mind with fire; 
 To melt the soul, and bid our sorrows flow 
 To the soft tale of heavenly-pensive wo. 
 
 No more the music of thy voice we hear ; 
 No more thy strains command the falling tear ; 
 But the stern monarch of the silent tomb 
 Shades all thy beauties in funereal gloom. 
 Ah ! what availed that thy superior mind, 
 In its first dawn, with glowing lustre shined ; 
 That thy loved form by heaven was taught to please 
 "VTith native charms, serenity, and ease ? 
 Since nought, dear maid, could all that sweetness save 
 From the dark angel of the gloomy grave. 
 
 How fair thy beauties met the early dawn ! 
 The sun beheld them glorious in the morn ; 
 But e'er his beams had pierced the noontide shade, 
 On earth's cold lap the withered rose was laid : 
 Almena fell, and o'er the lovely dead, 
 Her shadowy vail the silent mansion spread. 
 
 Come, kindly cruel fate, relieve my breast, 
 And lull my sorrows to eternal rest ; 
 In yon lone tomb, beneath the foliage deep, 
 The loved Almena and myself may sleep. 
 May pale- eyed sorrow consecrate the seat, 
 And there the angel of the grave retreat ] 
 IV 
 
126 
 
 While no rash foot disturbs, with impious tread. 
 The sacred ashes of the silent dead. 
 
 AYDER ALL 
 
 See Ayder, at his armies' head, 
 Bend o'er the field where nations bled ; 
 The bloody fates his ensign bore, 
 And rivers foamed with human gore. 
 
 Behold, like death, within his hand, 
 The fatal sword that drenched the land ! 
 'Tis thirsty still for warriors' blood. 
 And longs to drink the vital flood. 
 
 All bathed in gore, untaught to yield, 
 The chieftain thunders through the field ; 
 And swift impels, with fatal force, 
 O'er heaps of death, his foaming horse ! 
 
 Wliere'er his sword the warrior waved, 
 With carnage all the field was laved ; 
 And where his deathful armies stood, 
 The plains around them swam in blood. 
 
127 
 
 Hark ! heard you not the horrid moan, 
 That dismal, universal groan ? 
 The death of nations echoed round, 
 And dying milHons graced the sound. 
 
 Yet, while thy swift successes fly. 
 
 Oh, Ayder ! think thyself must die : 
 
 And India, weltering in her gore. 
 
 Shall bless her gods, when tlioiUrt no more. 
 
 WHAT IS HAPPINESS? 
 
 'Tis an empty, fleeting shade, 
 
 By imagination made ; 
 
 'Tis a bubble, straw, or worse ; 
 
 'Tis a baby's hobby-horse ; 
 
 'Tis a little living, clear ; 
 
 'Tis ten thousand pounds a year ; 
 
 'Tis a title ; 'tis a name ; 
 
 'Tis a puff of empty fame. 
 
 Fickle as the breezes blow ; 
 
 'Tis a lady's yes or no : 
 
 And when the description's crowned, 
 
 'Tis just no where to be found. 
 
128 
 
 FABLE, 
 
 When Homer wrote, as scholiasts say, 
 BATRAKOMUOMACHIA, 
 
 Hoarse frogs, a warlike race, were then 
 Immortalized by Homer's pen : 
 There Meridarpax shines in fame, 
 His javelins flasli, his eyeballs flame ; 
 His voice shakes all the region round, 
 And hills reverberate the sound. 
 There Pelius too, terrific frog, 
 All dire emei-ges from the bog. 
 Gloomy as night ; the mice he dares, 
 And lo ! the great Psycarpax fears. 
 
 Such mighty deeds were done ; and more, 
 By mighty frogs in days of yore : 
 They then achieved such deeds of might, 
 As Homer did not scorn to WTite. 
 But bards no longer deign to praise 
 The frogs of our degenerate days ; 
 Though in old ^sop's happy time, 
 When beasts could talk, and birds could rhyme, 
 There lived a frog, whose mighty name 
 Deserves an everlasting fame. 
 
 1 
 
129 
 
 He, with great ambition fired. 
 By more than all the frog inspired, 
 Beholds the bulky oxen feed, 
 And emulates the horny breed : 
 At once, he spurns his native floods. 
 Resolved to graze and dwell in woods. 
 Thus while he meditates the scheme, 
 Each feature swells ; swells every limb ; 
 And now, almost an ox he rears. 
 His fancied horns protrude his ears ; 
 Already scorns his brother frog, 
 And stalks indignant o'er the bog. 
 
 But Jove looked wrathful down, 'tis said, 
 To see the boaster's vain parade ; 
 Then this dread fiat thundered wide : 
 " Yon frog shall peris] i for his inideP 
 
 But him nor thunders can control, 
 Nor tempests shake his steady soul ; 
 Lo ! struggling into bulk he seems. 
 Transported at his growing limbs ; 
 When — so decrees resistless fate, 
 And such the lot attends the great — 
 The sinewy nerves, o'erstrained, divide ; 
 His fabric burst ; his frogship died. 
 
 Insulted by his late disdain, 
 The frogs in thousands crowd the plain. 
 
130 
 
 Entomb the wretch, with scornful laugh, 
 And o'er him raise this epitaph : 
 " Such fates on VANITY attend, 
 And so shall PRIDE forever end." 
 
 EPITAPH ON AN OLD HORSE. 
 
 Let no facetious mortal laugh, 
 To see a horse's epitaph ; 
 Lest some old steed, with saucy phiz, 
 Should have the sense to laugh at his, 
 As well he might ; for prove we can 
 The courser equal to the man. 
 
 The horse was of supreme degree ; 
 At least, no common steed was he ; 
 He scorned the tricks of sly trepanners, 
 And ne'er a horse had better manners ; 
 He scorned to tell a lie, or mince 
 His words, by clipping half their sense ] 
 But if he meant to show you why, 
 He'd out with't, let who would be by. 
 And (how can man the blush restrain ?) 
 Ne'er took his Maker's name in vain ! 
 
131 
 
 A better servant, horse was never ; 
 His master owned that he was clever \ 
 Then to his equals all obhgingj 
 To his inferiors quite engaging ; 
 A better Christian too, I trow. 
 Than some denominated so. 
 In him we the good father find, 
 The duteous son, the husband kind ; 
 The friend sincere — though not to brag. 
 The honest, and well-meaning nag. 
 
 Then let those fools who vainly laugh, 
 To see a horse's epitaph. 
 Go grope among the human dust, 
 And find an epitaph more just. 
 
 THE HAPPY MAN. 
 
 TO HORATIO. 
 
 Blest with the joys impassioned fathers know, 
 And all that Heaven could in a wife bestow : 
 A wife endeared to that congenial breast ; 
 In three sweet prattlers most supremely blest. 
 
132 
 
 Blest with enjoyments that on wealth attend, 
 And blest by Heaven with many a social friend ; 
 In calm delight, whose ever-smiUng rays. 
 Spread a sweet sunshine o'er thy happy days : 
 And blest to know, that high enrolled in fame, 
 Ages shall love and venerate thy name. 
 To every friend thy memory dear shall be, 
 And sweet the song be, when they sing of thee. 
 Oh ! read this verse, where blessings all combine. 
 And view thyself in each descriptive line. 
 
 1 
 
 THE SORROWS OF CHARLOTTE AT THE 
 TOMB OP AVERTS R. 
 
 Here, fond, impassioned Werter lies ; 
 
 Dear youth too soon removed : 
 His mind was firm ; his soul was wise ; 
 
 But fatally he loved. 
 
 Ah, Werter ! why was that dear mind, 
 
 By lawless passion swayed ? 
 And why that heart to me confined. 
 
 Formed for some happier maid ? 
 
133 
 
 Alas ! the dead no answer make ; 
 
 All silent is the tomb ; 
 Yet, Werter, for thy passion's sake, 
 
 To thy sad grave I come. 
 
 The breezes sleep ; the storms are laid ; 
 
 Calm, silent is the air ; 
 A light gleams dimly o'er the glade ; 
 
 The moonbeam trembles there. 
 
 Before my view, the forms of night. 
 
 Their awful revels keep ; 
 Around me, by the pale moonlight, 
 
 Thin airy phantoms sweep. 
 
 Here, by the sad and silent tomb, 
 I breathe my plaintive moan ; 
 
 Or through the midnight's horrid gloom, 
 Wandering, I weep alone. 
 
 Ha ! didst thou call ? the voice was nigh ! 
 
 I heard the feeble shriek ! 
 'Twas on the blast ! 'tis Werter's cry ! 
 
 Again, oh spirit ! speak. 
 
 12 
 
134 
 
 Werter ! I come ; I come to thee ; 
 
 Receive me, realms above : 
 From earth, from vanity I flee ; 
 
 I flee to meet my love. 
 
 THE DEATH OF TV^ERTER. 
 
 And say, did Charlotte's hand these pistols give? 
 
 Come, ye dear pledges, sacred to my love ; 
 Since given by her, 'twould be a crime to live ; 
 
 No : come, ye pistols ; all your death I prove. 
 
 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. 
 
 May Heaven forgive the unconsidered deed ! 
 
 It gave me passions, nor could I control : 
 But if, poor Werter, 'tis a crime to bleed. 
 
 The God of heaven have mercy on thy soul ! 
 
135 
 
 Charlotte, I go ! my pistols have their load : 
 My last, my dying thoughts are fixed on you ! 
 
 I go ! I go through death's untrodden road ; 
 Once, and forever, Charlotte ! oh, adieu ! 
 
 werter's epitaph. 
 
 Stranger ! whoe'er thou art, that from below 
 This grass-green hill, with steady steps, dost press, 
 
 Shed sympathetic tears : for, stranger, know, 
 Here Hes the son of sorrow and distress. 
 
 Although his soul with every virtue moved ; 
 
 Though at his birth deceitful fortune smiled ; 
 In one sad hour, too fatally he loved ; 
 
 False fortune frowned, and he was sorrow^s child. 
 
 Heaven gave him passions, as she virtue gave. 
 But gave not power those passions to suppress ] 
 
 By them subdued, he slumbers in the grave, 
 The soul's last refuge from terrene distress. 
 
136 
 
 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. 
 
 ODE TO HEALTH. 
 
 Hygeia ! in thy charms arrayed, 
 
 In all thy heavenly bloom. 
 Come, wend with me, and be my aid ; 
 
 Oh lovely goddess ! come. 
 
 The vermil rose, that shames the morn, 
 Shall bloom upon thy face ; 
 
 Thy presence little loves adorn. 
 And health, and joy, and peace. 
 
 Sweet goddess ! in disease's hour, 
 At bedside dost thou stand ; 
 
 And aidest full oft the healing power 
 Of the prescribing hand. 
 
137 
 
 When thou from mortals dost depart, 
 
 And raging fevers burn ; 
 The skilled physician tries his art, 
 
 And woos thee to return. 
 
 Diseases fly, a ghastly band I 
 For armed with power to save, 
 
 Skillful he spreads his healing hand. 
 And disappoints the grave. 
 
 To him the power, who gives the day. 
 
 All healing knowledge gives ; 
 He bids the rapid fever stay — 
 
 The dying patient Hves. 
 
 When grimly, death, with caverned eyes 
 And horrid stride, comes on ; 
 
 Begone ! the godlike mortal cries. 
 And death, rebuked, is gone. 
 
 When life seems quite extinct, yet mark, 
 
 A spark may still remain ; 
 He blows the still remaining spark ; 
 
 And life returns again. 
 
 12^ 
 
138 
 
 But skill nor medicine will restrain 
 
 Disease's pang severe ; 
 Unless, oh lovely power ! thou deign 
 To shed thy influence there. 
 
 Then come, celestial goddess ! come ; 
 
 Beside me ever stand ; 
 And second, with returning bloom, 
 
 Each effort of my hand. 
 
 So may I boast the heavenly skill, 
 
 To rescue from distress : 
 So shall m}^ powers of healing still 
 
 Be crowned with sweet success. 
 
 ODE TO DEATH. 
 
 How shall I sing to thee, oh death? 
 How swell the song with living breath — 
 
 The breath that is not mine ? 
 E'en while the pensive muse complains. 
 Thy poison rankles in my veins, 
 
 And I almost am thine. 
 
139 
 
 Why dost thou, monarch of the dead, 
 With ghastly form, and visage dread, 
 
 Thy trembling subjects fright 7 
 Is't not enough, that soon or late, 
 AH mortals, by resistless fate, 
 
 Are doomed to feel thy might ? 
 
 Is't not enough, that mortals own 
 Allegiance to thy horrid throne. 
 
 That kings thy subjects are ; 
 But thou with majesty must come, 
 Clad in the terrors of the tomb. 
 
 To shake our souls with fear ? 
 
 Thy solemn stride, and awful mein, 
 By godlike Socrates were seen ; 
 
 No fear to him they gave ; 
 Serene, the good man smiled, and cried, 
 Thy terrors, death, are all defied ; 
 
 Thy threatening dart I crave. 
 
 When, all aside thy horrors laid. 
 Thy form the placid sage surveyed, 
 He clasped thee to his breast ; 
 
140 
 
 And oh ! amidst my mortal hour, 
 Come to my bedside thus, dread power ! 
 Tlius fold me into rest. 
 
 When for my breath the summons flies. 
 Oh, view me not with caverned eyes. 
 
 And horrid gorgon stare ! 
 Oh, come not with thy bloodless face, 
 Thy crooked scythe, thy running glass, 
 
 Thy skeleton all bare ! 
 
 The blast across the desert howls ! 
 The clock strikes one ! the curfew tolls ! 
 
 Leaves rustle from the tree ! 
 With spectral-hghts the church-yard gleams ! 
 The raven shrieks ! the night-bird screams ! 
 
 Now, death ' I think on thee. 
 
 When racked with spasm and headache dire. 
 With ague's chill, or febrile fire, 
 
 I lie, and gasp for breath, 
 And feel, retired from every part, 
 The generous flood that warms the heart, 
 
 I think on thee, oh death ! 
 
141 
 
 Oh ! when thou dost approach, dread king ! 
 Aside thy ghastly terrors fling ; 
 
 Let smiles adorn thy face : 
 Come, clothed in sunshine, to my sight ; 
 So shall I view thee with delight ; ' 
 
 And spring to thy embrace. 
 
 HYMN TO THE SUN. 
 
 FROM OSSIAN. 
 
 Oh thou ! that rollest on high, 
 
 As round as the shield of my sires ; 
 
 Say, whence draw thy beams their supply ? 
 Who kindles thy radiant fires ? 
 
 The stars hide themselves from the day, 
 When thou comest all gorgeously dressed ; 
 
 The moon, cold and pale, hastes away, 
 And sinks in the wave of the west. 
 
142 
 
 But thou, through the crystaline hall, 
 Companion hast none on thy way : 
 
 The oaks of the mountains shall fall ; 
 The mountains themselves shall decay ; 
 
 The tides shrink and grow on the main ; 
 
 The moon oft recedes from our sight ; 
 But thou dost forever remain 
 
 Unchanged, and rejoice in thy light. 
 
 When thunders are bellowing loud, 
 And tempests the heavens deform ; 
 
 All calmly thou look'st from the cloud 
 In ihy beauty, and laugh'st at the storm. 
 
 But Ossian no more can behold 
 
 Thy beam from the gates of the west ; 
 
 Nor view thy hair sparkling with gold, 
 When it flows on the clouds of the east. 
 
 Yet thy years may, like mine, have a close ; 
 
 The skies thou may'st cease to adorn ; 
 In thy cloud-curtained couch may'st repose ; 
 
 Nor care for the summons of morn. 
 
 n 
 
143 
 
 Exult then, oh sun ! in thy youth ; 
 
 For age, that may find thee full soon, 
 Is dark and unlovely in sooth ; 
 
 Like the glimmering light of the moon. 
 
 When feebly it shines through the clouds, 
 And the blast of the north is abroad ; 
 
 When the mist every mountain-top shrouds 
 And the traveler shrinks on his road. 
 
 FRAGMENT 
 
 OF AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND, WHO HAD DESIRED THE 
 AUTHOR TO WRITE SOME ACROSTICS. 
 
 Must still such themes the poet's verse profane ? 
 Will still the shade of Addison refrain ? 
 Ah ! no : before my sight the spectre stands, 
 And waves my sentence* in his deathless hands ; 
 
 * Mr. Addison, in his Spectators, is particularly severe 
 against acrostic compositions. 
 
144 
 
 Oh ! much-loved friend, my valued Hill, no more 
 For such low themes the unready bard implore ; 
 Direct the muse to some far nobler view, 
 Some heaven-born theme, some subject worthy you ; 
 Then w^ould the bard, with far sublimer fire, 
 Raise the bold song, while Heaven and you inspire : 
 As soaring high, in epic verse he sings 
 The fate of empires, and the fall of kings ; 
 How great Achilles, furious to destroy, 
 Withstood the force of heaven-defended Troy ; 
 Till o'er her turrets waved the aspiring flame, 
 And left all Ilium nothing but a name : 
 Or Maro-like, on Pegasean wings, 
 In friendship's cause attune the trembling strings ; 
 How Nisus loved ; how Euryalus burned. 
 And flame for flame the virtuous youths returned. 
 Illustrious pair ! by mutual fates allied. 
 Nor death's grim king their union could divide ; 
 Even the stern soul of great Pehdes moved. 
 Loved by his friend, by his Patroclus loved. 
 Yet if no spark of glowing genius shines 
 Through the long train of these increasing lines ; 
 For friendship's sake the humble verse receive. 
 Your bard's presumption and his lays forgive ; 
 Once read him through, and if your patience tire, 
 Condemn the culprit to an instant fire. 
 
145 
 
 ADDRESS TO ACROSTIC WRITERS. 
 
 Ye scribbling herd, who, in acrostic lays, 
 Yourselves, your writings, or a mistress praise ; 
 Remit your labors, and for once attend 
 The unsought counsel of a faithful friend : 
 Awhile give ear ; attention shall repay, 
 The fond instruction of the well meant lay. 
 
 Acrostic labors, by no muse inspired, 
 Are praised by dunces, and by fools admired ; 
 Yet bards and critics of superior vein, 
 In vile contempt have ever held the strain. 
 Those paltry works such judges ne'er could please. 
 Though true in letters, and though wrote with ease 
 But all agree, this maxim to recite. 
 Who writes acrostics, nothing else can write. 
 Scorned are the wretched lays ; and, lost to fame. 
 The author caiTies an oblivious name. 
 
 When Homer's muse, in majesty of song, 
 Pours all the thunder of the war along, 
 We read no anagram on Hector's name ; 
 Nor was the prince of poetry to blame. 
 (Achilles too, retired from martial strife, 
 Writes no acrostic on his captive wife.) 
 13 
 
146 
 
 But the great bard, inspired by every muse, 
 Bounds to the skies, and spurns all narrow views : 
 Swells the bold song, while listening crowds admire,- 
 And soars sublimely on the wings of fire. 
 On comes Achilles with impetuous rage ) 
 The tumult thickens ; now the chiefs engage ; 
 And now great JOVE, eternal ruler, shrouds 
 His whole creation in a night of clouds. 
 Death follows death, the clashing arms resound, 
 Loud roar the heavens, blue lightnings flash around ; 
 Fierce Discord storms, Apollo loud exclaims, 
 Fame calls, Mars thunders, and the field's in flames. 
 
 But when wild Ossian wakes the Celtic fire, 
 The voice of spirits trembles on his lyre. 
 He, pensive bard, all lonely loved to stray 
 O'er barren heaths, and every desert way. 
 What warm description all his works unfold \ 
 He writes, we hear ! he paints, and we behold ! 
 While yet we read, the gale seems whistling still 
 Through the long grass, on Morven's lonely hill ; 
 In every passing breeze we hear the dead, 
 And see the tempest roll o'er Cromla's head. 
 
 'Tis power like this awakes the mournful tear. 
 In that sweet bard, unhappy Falconer, 
 Who thrills the soul with his poetic fire, 
 " As lightning glances on the electric wire." 
 
147 
 
 But, ye vile rhymers, who, in modern strain 
 Of base acrostics, tell the fair your pain ; 
 Though just our judgment, though the muse be true> 
 Such grand descriptions are but lost on you. 
 You comprehend them not ; and trifles will 
 Best fill those heads, an anagram can fill. 
 
 ^' Love makes a man a poet ;" grant it so ; 
 Are ye then bards ? Parnassus echoes, NO ! 
 When )'e have sweetly tuned your sing-song lays ; 
 When just no meaning every word conveys ; 
 Your theme complete ; the intended name portrayed ; 
 In side-long letters prettily displayed ; 
 Then, rhymers, know you've gathered all your fame. 
 And gained at last the Poetaster's name. 
 That name, by fops, and fools, and dunces, prized, 
 By men of sense forever was despised. 
 
148 
 
 RECIPE FOR A COUGH.* 
 
 Much coughing, dear PhebEj with ease you might 
 
 spare. 
 Much hoarseness and trouble, much headache and 
 
 If a wet parlor-floor you would seldom admit. 
 Or a window shoved up in the room where you sit : 
 If abroad 'twere your rule but few moments to spend, 
 When the damp shades of evening unhealthy descend: 
 But when sable night with its vapors molest, 
 Be sparing of supper, be early to rest : 
 Then lie in the morning as long as you please, 
 While something diverts you — for nothing should 
 
 tease ; 
 With the steam of your hysouj if health you pursue, 
 Accept, without butter, a biscuit or two ; 
 When you rise, it will further the care of your cough, 
 Though your dress should be light, let there still be 
 
 enough : 
 
 * A medical prescription, (impromptu,) on being con- 
 sulted by the lady to whom it is addressed. 
 
149 
 
 Serene be your passions, the temper be calm ; 
 Keep easy, contented ; keep cheerful and warm : 
 These are ray directions ; be this your belief, 
 I'm an ignorant old quack, if they give not relief. 
 
 ADDRESSED TO DELIA. 
 
 Delia ! mankind are false, you say : 
 And like the rest of men, I may 
 
 Be counted a deceiver ; 
 'Tis true, my dear, but still I've thought. 
 That, Delia, you had better not 
 
 Become an unbehever. 
 
 Suppose my curious thoughts should rise ; 
 Suppose my bold observing eyes 
 Should dare to look around them : 
 
 * Occasioned by a young lady's applying these words to 
 the author. 
 
 13* 
 
150 
 
 What could they, dearest DeUa, find, 
 Or in your face, or in your mind, 
 But beauty to confound them ? 
 
 Suppose in common with mankind. 
 To speak untruths I were inchned — 
 
 For Deha seems to fear it ; 
 Sure I must speak against your name, 
 For how could I that praise proclaim, 
 
 Which Delia does not merit. 
 
 No, Delia ! when of you I speak. 
 
 And from my tongue the raptures break, 
 
 'Twill bear no contradiction ; 
 For when your beauty's power he feels, 
 Believe me, Arouet never deals 
 
 In complimental fiction. 
 
 1 
 
151 
 
 TO ASHLEY RIVER. 
 Air—" Maid of the Mill." 
 
 Hail ! sweet Ashley river, whose serpentine flow 
 Gives health, and gives pleasure around ; 
 
 I hail thee, sweet river, for well do I know 
 The charms on thy banks that are found. 
 
 The lovely fair opening that breaks on the sight ; 
 
 The prospects by nothing confined ; 
 Have filled my whole soul with ideas of dehght ; 
 
 Have fired and enraptured my mind. 
 
 Then, oh ! when the sunbeams reflect from thy stream, 
 In thy neighborhood may I remain"; 
 
 I'll sing of thy absent Amanda's esteem. 
 And thou shalt remurmur the strain. 
 
 Should any, inquisitive, ask whence belong 
 The soft flowing sounds they have heard ; 
 
 Oh ! tell them, sweet river, 'tis Arouet's song— 
 The plaintive, the sorrowful bard. 
 
152 
 
 THE DOVE. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 " What grief (it continued) my comfort destroys. 
 While absent from me is my love :" 
 
 I listened with wonder, convinced by the noise, 
 'Twas the mournful complaint of a Dove. 
 
 Dear partner in wo, if thy love be remote. 
 
 Thy cooing is all but in vain : 
 Though had I thy wings, and thy sorrowful note, 
 
 I would tell my Amanda my pain. 
 
 'Tis done, sweet Amanda ! the boon I've procured, 
 And hence when you hear the fond dove, 
 
 It is but your Arouet, sweet maid, be assured ; 
 In absence he mourns for his love. 
 
153 
 
 RONDEAU TO THE RIVER SANTEE. 
 
 Hail ! Santee, delightful river, 
 How shall I attempt thy praise ? 
 
 Bards shall sing thee oft, but never 
 Match thy splendor with their lays. 
 
 On thy shady banks reclining, 
 While the breezes fan the grove ; 
 
 Flowers, and reeds, and oziers twining, 
 I will sing of thee, my love. 
 
 Should Amanda grant the favor 
 
 Of a sigh, and think on me ; 
 I will bless the day forever. 
 
 When I hailed thee, sweet Santee. 
 
154 
 
 ASHLEY CHASE. 
 
 God save the sport, and bless the cheer, 
 And grant us joy and peace ; 
 
 And grant henceforth that hunting deer 
 May ne'er at Ashley cease. 
 
 To hunt the deer with hound and gun. 
 Three sportsmen took their way ; 
 
 The fawn shall rue, that never run, 
 The hunting of that day. 
 
 Squire M — e on a milk-white steed, 
 
 Most like a huntsman bold, 
 Rode foremost of the company. 
 
 All glorious to behold. 
 
 Then came a gallant squire forth, 
 
 A certain K was he ; 
 
 And said for the honor of our land, 
 
 I would not have it be, — 
 
155 
 
 That deer should come full in our face, 
 
 And we not have a shot ; 
 Behold where L has let them pass, 
 
 And M — e killed them not. 
 
 He raised his gun with breathless aim ; 
 
 The ball no deer could find : 
 And having each man done the same, 
 
 They all rode home, and dined. 
 
 TO TIVERTON. 
 
 Sweet Tiverton ! thy mild salubrious air, 
 Diffusing health and dissipating care, 
 Thy lovely plain, thy dear enameled meads, 
 Thy cultured gardens, and thy pensive shades ; 
 Thy much loved children, all inspire my lays, 
 With the sweet tribute of sincerest praise. 
 Ah ! let none think the poet can depart 
 From genuine praise, the purpose of his heart* 
 No : in this breast it holds too ample space, 
 Too well he loves the dear delightful place, 
 
156 
 
 Whose beauties ne'er can be forgotten more, 
 Till the last trembling of his heart is o'er : 
 Till then his tongue in grateful strains shall own 
 The much loved prospect of fair Tiverton. 
 
TRIBUTARY PIECES. 
 
 14 
 
TRIBUTARY PIECES. 
 
 TO AROUET. 
 
 BY PHILOMELA. 
 
 Sweet bard ! accept these rudely written lays, 
 Too proud to flatter, and too poor to praise : 
 Yet truth, though dressed in ragged guise, may be 
 A well owed tribute, not unworthy thee. 
 Fain would I praise some part, but all's so well, 
 That none can show wherein thou dost excel. 
 Oh ! when the angelic choir, all gathered round 
 The eternal throne, their silver harps shall sound, 
 Shall not thy numbers wake the warbling wire ? 
 And when, at last, this world dissolves in fire, 
 Shall not some cherub snatch the favored lays, 
 And save thy sacred relics from the blaze ? 
 Yes, 
 
 Eternity shall bear the strains along, 
 While listening saints admire, and seraphs learn the 
 song. 
 
160 
 
 TO AROUET THE BARD. 
 
 When sacred Homer held his rapid way, 
 
 Sublimely winged, to realms of endless day, 
 
 The Muses saw, delighted as they viewed, 
 
 His road to fame by favorite sons pursued : 
 
 First Virgil's pen retrieved the blessing lost, 
 
 And bid Italia's shore a Homer boast ; 
 
 Thence Gallia's sons and Britain's, all agree, 
 
 Caught the rich mantle of sweet poesy ; 
 
 Thence rose the chaste Despreaux — immortal name, 
 
 And great Voltaire all emulous of fame, 
 
 With glowing Pope and soaring Dryden came. 
 
 But now the Muses 'gan their loss deplore, 
 
 For Pope was gone, and Voltaire was no more : 
 
 The gods, in pity to their plaintive strain. 
 
 Have sent Moeonides to earth again ; 
 
 Again he lives, and what was Homer's^ now 
 
 W^ith common voice on Aroiiet we bestow ; 
 
 The high subhme of the divine old bard 
 
 Breathes in thy numbers, in thy song is heard ; 
 
 No more we Homefs imitator see, 
 
 For thou, sweet poet, thou thyself art he. 
 
161 
 
 POEM."^ 
 
 BY ALMENA. 
 
 Melpomene ! thou bright celestial maid ! 
 
 A wretched lover humbly craves thine aid, 
 
 If thou art on thy loved Parnassus now, 
 
 Where wreaths of laurel shade thy graceful brow ; 
 
 Say, goddess, wilt thou leave that charming place, 
 
 And deign one moment to inspire my lays 1 
 
 These eyes my Phaon ne'er will see again ; 
 That godlike man surpassing every swain : 
 Heaven had with virtue blessed his mind, 
 With manly fortitude and pity kind ; 
 The generous tears fell for another's wo. 
 Which for his own were never seen to flow ; 
 While genius led him through her boundless sphere. 
 His talent brilliant, as his soul sincere : 
 'Tis true, I never told him of my love. 
 Nor dared to hint what he might disapprove ; 
 
 * This poem is the production of " the unfortunate young 
 lady, to whose memory ♦* the monody" at page 124, was 
 inscribed by Dr. Ladd. 
 
 14* 
 
162 
 
 But oh ! when he appeared, how glowed my breast. 
 Though I with art the rising sigh suppressed ; 
 And still my greatest pleasure was all day, 
 To gaze on him, and sigh my soul away ; 
 Hoping some pitying god his soul might move, 
 And he at length return my consta'ijit love. 
 
 Yain was the hope ; his breast Minerva steeled, 
 And fixed that heart unknowing how to yield : 
 But now these fond, delusive hopes are o'er ; 
 Never, ah ! never shall I see him more. 
 
 In a tall ship he crossed the swelhng main, 
 To fight and conquer on the bloody plain. 
 Where thundering Mars, the dreadful god of war, 
 Clad in bright arms, rolls his triumphant car : 
 Thence he in peace shall seek his native shore. 
 And never think of poor Almena more. 
 
 Yet still each night, to my fond fancy dressed, 
 In all his blooming charms he stands confessed ; 
 He smiles, and bows, and oh ! he softly speaks. 
 The beauteous blushes still adorn his cheeks. 
 But when with night the dear delusion flies, 
 And I to sorrow ope my swelhng eyes, 
 I rise, and to some lonely covert stray, 
 Where all alone I mourn my life away. 
 And waste in sighs and tears the tedious day. 
 
 I 
 
163 
 
 Yet one sweet hope still cheers my troubled mind, 
 That he in yon blest clouds may prove more kind ; 
 Where soon this disembodied soul may rove, 
 Through the sweet fields and blissful plains above ; 
 Those plains where happy lovers shall deplore 
 Nor time, nor chance, nor cruel absence more ; 
 But where they pass their soft delightful hours. 
 Blessed with each other in Elysian bowers. 
 By purling streams, and ever blooming flowers : 
 There with immortal charms our souls shall shine. 
 And godUke Phaon shall be ever mine. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS PIECES 
 
 IN PROSE. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM AN ORATION, 
 
 Delivered in the presence of his excellency the governor 
 of South Carolina, at the celebration of American indepen- 
 dence, at Charleston, July 4, 1785. 
 
 " Tell ye your children of it, and let your children 
 tell their children, and their children another genera- 
 tion." 
 
 A prophet divinely inspired, and deeply impressed 
 with the importance of an event v^hich had just 
 taken place, breaks out into this exclamation — an 
 exclamation happily adapted to the present occasion ; 
 tending to perpetuate the remembrance of an event, 
 which is written upon the heart of every true Ame- 
 rican, every friend to his country. When we con- 
 
168 
 
 sider this as the natal anniversary of our infant 
 empire, we shall ever be led to call into grateful 
 recollection the fathers of our independence — those 
 to whom, under God, we are indebted for our politi- 
 cal existence and salvation. A short eulogium upon 
 them, their merits, and their honors, will be the sys- 
 tem of the present discourse ; for what more happy 
 subject can be chosen on this day, than the great 
 authors of our liberty? they, who "digged it out 
 with their swords !" who, in the grim face of death, 
 amidst perils innumerable, gave the purchase of their 
 blood ; who built it upon their own tombs ; and 
 whose spirits, bending from the sky, point with 
 pleasure to its foundation. But where am I ? Fairy 
 scenes open around me, and I seem to press the 
 ground of enchantment. Behold yon vast structure, 
 which towers to the very heavens ! Is it not ce- 
 mented with blood, and built upon the slaughtered 
 carcases of many a gallant soldier ? On its broad 
 front, American INDEPENDE^X'E shines conspicu- 
 ous in characters of crimson ! surrounding nature 
 appears animated ! tlie very tombs accost the traveler 
 and seemingly repeat, • 
 
169 
 
 ** How beautiful is death when earned by virtue ! 
 Who would not sleep with those"? What pity is it 
 That we can die but once to save our country !"* 
 
 The eventful history of our great revolution is 
 pregnant with many a source of sublime astonish- 
 ment ! Succeeding ages shall turn the historic page, 
 and catch inspiration from the era of 1776. They 
 shall bow to the rising glory of America ; and Rome, 
 once mistress of the world, shall fade on their remem- 
 brance. The commencement of our struggles, their 
 progress, and their period, will furnish a useful lesson 
 to posterity. They will teach them that men, des- 
 perate for freedom, united in virtue, and assisted by 
 the God of armies, can never be subdued. The 
 youthful warrior, the rising politician, will tremble 
 at the retrospect, and turn pale at the amazing story. 
 America, the infant America, all defenseless as she 
 is, is invaded by a most powerful nation ; her plains 
 covered by discipHned armies, her harbors crowded 
 with hostile fleets. Destitute of arms, destitute of 
 ammunition, with no discipline but their virtue, and 
 no general but their God, behold our brave country- 
 men rising to resistance. See the first encroach- 
 
 * Addison's Cato. 
 15 
 
170 
 
 ments of hostility witlistood at Lexington ; and, oh 
 Britain ! write that page of thy history in crimson, 
 and margin it with black, for thy troops fled ! routed 
 with stones, with clubs, and every ignominious wea- 
 pon, they fled from our women, they were defeated 
 by our children ! At this very time, a member of 
 the British parliament could assert in open day, that 
 a single regiment of disciplined troops would march 
 through America, and crush the rebels to subjection. 
 The experiment was tried : it was reiterated, and the 
 success was every way worthy of the rash attempt. 
 Such has been the inconsistency of theory and prac- 
 tice, relative to American subjugation. But were 
 freemen, were Americans to be intimidated by the 
 mihtary parade of hostile regiments ? Answer, ye 
 Britons ! for by a bloody experience have ye been 
 taught the reverse : by a bloody experience were ye 
 taught never to oppose men desperate for their coun- 
 try : and by that bloody experience will your chil- 
 dren, and your children's children acquire instruction. 
 They will learn wisdom from the history of defense- 
 less Americans, who, when threatened with the loss 
 of their liberties — liberties, which were coeval with 
 their existence, and dearer than their lives — arose in 
 resistance, and were nerved by desperation. What 
 is the consequence ? The invaders were repulsed, 
 
171 
 
 their armies captured, their strong works demohshed, 
 and their fleets driven back. Behokl, the terrible 
 flag, that glory of Great Britain, drooping all tar- 
 nished from the mast, bewails its sullied honors. 
 This, my countrymen, by assistance superhuman,* 
 have we at length accomplished. I say by superhu- 
 man assistance, for one of us has " chased a thousand, 
 and ten put ten thousand to flight." " The Lord 
 of hosts was on our side, the God of the armies of 
 Israel ;" and at every blow we were ready to exclaim 
 with glorious exultation, " The sword of the Lord 
 and of Washington !" Yet, how did even America 
 despair, when the protecting hand of her great 
 Leader was one moment withheld ! Witness our 
 veteran army retreating through the Jerseys; an 
 almost total withering to our hopes, while America 
 trembled with expectation — trembled, though shield- 
 ed and protected by the King of kings, and her 
 beloved Washington. 
 
 But briUiant, rapid, and successive have our con- 
 quests been, while the gloomy " times that try men's 
 souls" were few and of short duration. America, 
 destined to be independent, gathered strength amidst 
 surrounding difficulties : she arose, like Antaeus, vigo- 
 rous from every fall. Her resentment was accom- 
 
172 
 
 panied by the winged bolt of destruction : it flashed 
 like lightning from heaven against her enemies, and 
 blasted as it smote. Opposition like this, what mor- 
 tals could withstand ? for it is written in the volumes 
 of eternity, that even Britain, that hardy, that gallant 
 nation, was unequal to the conflict. Yet while we 
 justly admire the valor and success of our veteran 
 armies, let us shed one tear to the memory of those 
 "unfortunately brave," v/ho were martyrs in the 
 common cause ; and while we celebrate their actions, 
 while we glory in their virtues, let us deplore the 
 catastrophe, and lament their misfortunes. What 
 catastrophe? what misfortunes? Pardon me, my 
 respected auditors ; let your indulgent bosoms plead 
 in my favor, and remember that the timid perturba- 
 tion of a young orator, before so august an assembly, 
 must lead him into frequent improprieties. I said 
 we should lament their misfortunes : I beg leave to 
 correct that too hasty expression ; for surely it is no 
 misfortune to the man that he has died for his coun- 
 try. Quite the reverse : it is the highest acme of 
 military ambition, and gilds the soldier's name with 
 a halo of perpetual glory. 
 
 *' The gallant man, though slain in fight he be, 
 Yet leaves his country safe, his nation free, 
 
 I 
 
173 
 
 Entails a debt on all the grateful state ; 
 His own brave friends shall glory in his fate, 
 His wife live honored, all his race succeed, 
 And late posterity enjoy the deed."* 
 
 The fall of the brave man is by no means like 
 the death of the vulgar. It is the birth-day of his 
 glory, and opens to a blessed immortality. Then, 
 the hoary warrior, who has learned the rudiments of 
 his profession under Washington, or Wolfe, or Mont- 
 calm, or the great Montgomery, shall commence 
 his soldiership : then, enlisted in the armies of Mi- 
 chael, that archangelic chieftain, he shall fight the 
 battles of the Lord. Nor shall his earthly fame be 
 unremembered ; but when the historic leaf shall 
 shiver in the blaze, when all human w^orks, the 
 great Iliad itself, receive their finish from the fire, 
 the soldier's memory must survive, for it is registered 
 in heaven. Yes ! ye shall live in fame, ye shades of 
 Warren, of Mercer, of Laurens, and the brave Mont- 
 gomery ! and when in remotest ages, posterity shall 
 call forth every distinguishing characteristic of human 
 excellence, the genius of your country shall bend 
 his drooping head, and one tear, one grateful tear, be 
 
 * Pope's Homer. 
 15* 
 
174 
 
 shed to your remembrance. Then the young warrior, 
 emulous of your fates and your fame, shall feel his 
 burning soul ; and while he unsheathes the patriotic 
 blade, shall exclaim with transport, " How beautiful 
 is death when earned by virtue !" But peace to your 
 manes, ye dear departed brethren ! Ye have trodden 
 the path of honor before us, and obtained the crown 
 of glory. Brethren ! it is all your own ; for bravely 
 did ye obtain it. May the green sod lie light on 
 your breasts, and sweet be your slumbers in the dark 
 house appointed for all living. 
 
 " So sleep the brave who sink to rest, 
 With all their country's wishes blest : 
 When spring, with dewy fingers cold, 
 Returns i.^ deck their hallowed mould, 
 She there shall dress a sweeter sod 
 Than fancy's feet have ever trod. 
 By fairy hands their knell is rung- ; 
 By forms unseen their dirge is sung : 
 There, honor comes, a pilgrim gray, 
 To bless the turf that wraps their clay ; 
 And freedom shall a while repair, 
 To dwell a weeping hermit there."* 
 
 * Collins. 
 
175 
 
 But we turn to take a view of those worthy au- 
 thors of our independence who have survived the 
 contest. A Uving patriot ! Where is the bosom that 
 does not vibrate with pleasure at the sound ? The 
 dead can only receive the tribute of remembrance, 
 and long shall they possess it ; but the living are 
 entitled to our warmest thanks, our united benedic- 
 tions. Here words must fail; for who can duly 
 praise the living patriots of America ? Alas ! barely 
 to recount their names, their merits, and their 
 honors, would exhaust the powers of language ; to 
 do them justice, is above all Ciceronian rhetoric, 
 and calls for the eloquence of angels. You, and 
 you, wdth a very respectable part of my present 
 audience, have fronted danger in the bloody field. 
 With a truly masonic fortitude have ye assisted in 
 the structure of our independence ; and we will tell 
 the story to your children, and your children shall 
 tell their children, and their children another gene- 
 ration. Thus shall your honors be transmitted with 
 undiminished lustre to posterity ; and future writers 
 shall praise the brave man, and crown their eulo- 
 gium with " his father was an American." 
 
 Allow me, my auditors, one claim on your atten- 
 tion to the beloved name of Washington. For how, 
 upon a celebration like this, can the name of Wash- 
 
176 
 
 ington be distant ? he whose unbiased virtue, firm 
 patriotism, unequaled abilities, and steady perseve- 
 rance, are written upon the hearts of his bretliren ? 
 Though retired from the theatre of action in the full 
 splendor of meridian glory, he can never be lost to 
 his countr3^ We see him in our liberties, and shall 
 forever see him, while that oinis magnum^ the inde- 
 pendence of America, remains in existence. Where 
 are those who admire the unexampled patriot, and 
 " in whose ears the name of a soldier sounds like the 
 name of a friend T Oh ! that upon this day ye 
 would join your friendly voices with mine to eternize 
 the name of Washington. The august veteran of 
 Prussia has himself led the way, and left it upon 
 everlasting record, that Frederic was the oldest gene- 
 ral in Europe, when Washington was the greatest 
 general upon earth. 
 
 From scenes of slaughter, where the sanguine heath 
 Is shook with battle and is filled with death ; 
 From shouting bands, tumultuous in applause, 
 From kindling states ambitious of his laws. 
 He turned. What chief could, oh Columbia ! shine 
 With half the heaven-born dignity of thine ? 
 Once more to thy fair seats we view thee come, 
 While each pleased neighbor gratulates thee home ; 
 
IT 
 
 On grass-green Vernon lovelier beams the morn, 
 And glad Potomac murmurs thy return. 
 Illustrious chief! amidst thy sweet retreat, 
 Mayest thou live happy, as thou'rt good and great : 
 While yet thou viewest with rapture in thy eyes, 
 Thy darling land in full-orbed glory rise ; 
 While no datk tyrant o'er Columbia frowns, 
 But heaven-born freedom every blessing crowns. 
 No more thy bands their Washington implore. 
 Thy rescued country calls to arms no more ; 
 But smiling Heaven has lulled thy cares to rest, 
 And calmed with lenient hand thy troubled breast ; 
 In sweet retirement bids thy sorrows cease, 
 And gilds the evening of thy days with peace : 
 In halcyon flow, and smooth as summer's seas, 
 Thy hours shall pass in philosophic ease, 
 Till time shall gently beck thee from the stage, 
 In the mild mellow of a ripe old age : 
 Then, while thy country holds thy memory dear. 
 Full many an eye shall start the gushing tear. 
 Nor needest thou mourn in Alexandrian lays, 
 Thou hast no Homer to record thy praise ; 
 For many a bard, of ages yet unborn. 
 Shall with thy name his tuneful lays adorn ; 
 In lasting archives shall thy glories rest. 
 Engraved forever in each grateful breast ; 
 A monument in every heart will rear, 
 With this inscription, "Washington is here." 
 
178 
 
 But I proceed to pay the attention due to the 
 memory of another distinguished character ; for to 
 what is America more indebted than to the gallant 
 exertions of her beloved Greene, in whose amiable 
 character the great soldier and the good citizen are 
 so conspicuously blended ? Long shall this country, 
 in particular, retain his memory — long as the pal- 
 metto, that emblematic tree, shall flourish in Caro- 
 lina. 
 
 To thee, oh Greene ! each muse her tribute pays, 
 Great chieftain ! crowned with never fading bays ; 
 Thy worth, thy country ever grateful owns, 
 Her first of warriors, and her best of sons. 
 
 But see the long list ! upon which the names of 
 Gates, Lincoln, the brave Starke, and the gallant 
 Wayne, are conspicuously lettered ! Men, whose 
 names shall descend to posterity with coeternal 
 honor. Among them shall the brave Sullivan be 
 often mentioned ; and the name of St. Clair, though 
 sullied by mahgn censure, will shine untarnished 
 there ; and there shall the venerable name of Putnam 
 be found, that hoary chieftain, who 
 
 the flame of battle spread, 
 When fourscore years had blanched his laureled head. 
 
 1 
 
179 
 
 But there is no end of this ! The hst of deserving 
 characters is swelHng to my view, and I shall grow 
 hoarse in repeating it; I will therefore quit the 
 attempt, and hasten to conclude : 
 
 For should I strive to mention every name 
 With which my country swells the list of fame, 
 Amidst the labor of the arduous tale, 
 My time, my periods, and my voice would fail. 
 
 Previous to my quitting the subject, permit me, 
 gentlemen of South Carolina, to observe that the 
 very man, who fills the seat of your government for 
 the present year, must long remain high in his coun- 
 try's honors, which he has most bravely acquired. 
 The gallant defense of Fort Moultrie will decorate 
 the page of many a future history, and give immor- 
 tal fame at once to the hero and the historian. 
 
 And now, my most respected auditors, having in 
 some measure paid our debt of acknowledgment to 
 the visible authors of our independence, let us lay our 
 hands upon our hearts, in humble adoration of that 
 Monarch, who, in the place of George the third, was 
 this day chosen to reign over us. Let us venerate 
 the Great Generahssimo of our armies, from whom 
 all triumphs flow ; and let it be our glory that not 
 
180 
 
 George the third, hut Jehovah the first and 
 THE LAST, is King of America — He who dwelleth 
 in the clouds, and whose palace is the heaven of 
 heavens : for independent as we are with respect to 
 the poUtical systems of this world, we are still a pro- 
 vince of the great kingdom, and fellow-subjects with 
 the inhabitants of heaven. 
 
181 
 
 CRITICAL REMARKS,* 
 
 ON THE WRITINGS OF THE LATE DR. JOHNSON. 
 
 NO. I. 
 
 *' Nothing can be more contemptible than that tinsel splendor of language, 
 which some writers perpetually afTect. It is well if this could be ascribed to 
 the real overflowing of a rich imagination. We should then have something 
 to amuse us, at least, if we found little to instruct us. But the worst is, that 
 with those frothy writers, it is a luxuriancy of words, not of fancy. We 
 see a labored attempt to rise to a splendor of composition, of which they 
 have formed to themselves some loose idea ; but having no strength of genius 
 for attaining it, they endeavor to supply the defect by cold exclamations, by 
 commonplace figures, and every thing that has the appearance of pomp and 
 magnificence. It has escaped these writers, that sobiiety in ornament is one 
 great secret for rendering it pleasing ; and that, without a foundation of good 
 sense and solid thought, the most florid style is but a childish imposition on the 
 public. The public, however, are but too apt to be imposed on ; at least, the 
 mob of readers, who are very ready to be caught, at first, with whatever is 
 dazzling and gaudy."— Blair. 
 
 If to have bis works read, to be universally ad- 
 miredj to be praised in every company, and blazoned 
 in every compilation of literature, form the happiness 
 of an author ; perhaps none ever enjoyed that hap- 
 piness in a greater degree than Dr. Johnson. He is 
 now dead, and the swarms of writers, who during 
 his life were silenced by envy, are contending which 
 shall be loudest in his praise. The newspapers teem 
 
 * Published in the Columbian Herald. 
 16 
 
182 
 
 with anecdotes of Johnson ; every magazine is filled 
 with Dr. Johnson. He is called the father of Eng- 
 lish literature, the corrector of the language, and the 
 standard writer of English elegance. The baga- 
 telles of childhood, and the trifles of youth, become 
 matters cf importance, when dignified by his name : 
 and every composition, however trivial, acquires a 
 seeming sanction from the popularity of Johnson. 
 
 *''The public," says Dr. Blair, " are but too apt to 
 be imposed on ; at least, the mob of readers, who are 
 very rea^y to be caught, at first, with whatever is 
 dazzling and gaudy." But for the reasons of this 
 elegant writer, we should be partly at a loss to ac- 
 count for the number of pens lately brandished in 
 favor of Dr. Johnson. Much of his present pros- 
 perity, however, may be traced to another source. 
 He was a voluminous writer ; and his works, if sala- 
 ble, must constitute a lucrative item in the stock of the 
 booksellers. It is to the interest of the man, whose 
 shelves are filled with Ramblers, Idlers, unsold dic- 
 tionaries, and heavy criticisms, to be liberal to hire- 
 ling scribblers, who, by reckless pufis, can promote 
 the sale of his goods. This is undoubtedly the true 
 secret of much of the eulogium now passed upon the 
 works of this author. It is a mere trick of trade. 
 
183 
 
 Bat where are the abiUties of Johnson so wonder- 
 fully displayed ? Most of the numbers of the Ram- 
 bler are from his pen. Try to converse with one of 
 his admirers, and he is perpetually quoting the Ram- 
 bler. Inquire for the beauties of Johnson, you are 
 directed to the Rambler. To the Rambler, there- 
 fore, as to his opus magnum^ we direct our specula- 
 tions ; and what do we find 1 Some originality of 
 thought, certainly. But how is it dressed by this 
 corrector of tlie language, this standard of English 
 elegance ? In a swelled, pompous, bombastical lan- 
 guage, an affected ^ructure, and verbosity of style. 
 I said bombastical language — but incorrectly. His 
 style is heterogeneous, and he may be said to have 
 written in no particular language. The things he 
 calls Ramblers are composed of Greek and Latin 
 words with English terminations ; and the reader of 
 but common erudition requires a dictionary at every 
 sentence. But to render the Rambler intelligible, 
 not every dictionary will serve ; it is that alone, com- 
 piled by the author of the Rambler. The English 
 language, as a late writer judiciously observes, is ab- 
 horrent of all Latinisms, which are not introduced 
 through the medium of the French tongue. Dr. 
 Johnson, w^hose works are filled with Latin words 
 and Latin idioms, is totally regardless of French 
 
184 
 
 derivations ; for with the Frencli language he was 
 unfortunately unacquainted. But his Dictionary ! 
 his Dictionary ! that greatest production of all human 
 genius ! As a philologist. Dr. Johnson undoubtedly 
 appears to great advantage in his Dictionary. He 
 seems to be well acquainted with language. But 
 partiality itself must own, that in the Greek and 
 Latin tongues, his knowledge appears more conspicu- 
 ous than in English. Wherever he enters on Eng- 
 lish etymology, his work is full of blunders. His 
 Dictionary, however, possesses great merit. John- 
 son was a laborious writer, and for the drudgery of 
 such compilations, he was peculiarly fitted. It is 
 however remarkable of this work, that it contains all 
 the foreign eccentric words of which his Rambler 
 and other writings are composed ; differing in this 
 particular alone from the dictionaries which had gone 
 before him. People have hence been led to imagine, 
 that " he wrote his Rambler to make a Dictionary 
 necessary; and compiled his Dictionary to render 
 the Rambler intelligible." It is a work entirely void 
 of system, destitute of any original plan, except the 
 addition of a very faulty grammar. Hence, it can 
 never be named with those compilations, elegantly 
 original, of a Kenrick, or a Sheridan. And without 
 heresy in literature, we may venture to predict that 
 
185 
 
 the dictionaries of those gentlemen will be resorted 
 to, when that of Samuel Johnson shall be no more 
 remembered. Nay, more ; we may assert with con- 
 fidence, that the works of Tillotson and Boling- 
 broke, of Robinson and Blair, will remain the stan- 
 dard of English elegance, when the turgid Ram- 
 blers, with all their shining tinsel, are whelmed and 
 buried in everlasting oblivion. 
 
 It is now some time since Dr. Johnson usurp- 
 ed the literary throne, while poets and critics, 
 scribblers of every denomination, and scribblers of 
 no denomination, united in his praise. Men of 
 real genius were imposed on by the shout of 
 popularity, and mingled in the torrent of applause. 
 At that time, the English Lexiphanes was at the 
 acme of his literary fame : but that notable produc- 
 tion, the Biographical Prefaces, made no very favor- 
 ble impressions for him. The eyes of men were 
 now opened ; and they no longer beheld Dr. John- 
 son as tbe paragon of English literature. The 
 pride, arrogance, and illiberality, which characterized 
 that work, will be an everlasting stain upon the 
 memory of its author. We need only mention the 
 critique on Milton, to be convinced of this. That 
 performance discovers at once the little soul, and the 
 
 16* 
 
186 
 
 deficient genius, replete with all the ignorance, ill 
 nature, and illiberality of Dr. Samuel Johnson. 
 
 The swelled, bombastic style succeeds with the 
 lower class of readers, who are by far the most nu- 
 merous. Hence, every writer, who is deficient in 
 real genius, will affect pomposity, and magnificence 
 of language. It gives him popularity ; and popu- 
 larity is the food of authors. It is that for which 
 every writer, from the heroic poet to the critical 
 scribbler, is eagerly contending ; and the influence 
 of this popularity, upon the herd of imitators, is 
 almost beyond conception. The pious Hervey was 
 a writer of this class ; destitute of genius, he endea- 
 vored to supply its place, by a poetical style, an 
 affected, stiff, and verbose diction. Hervey has his 
 followers. Dr. Johnson was a writer of rather more 
 genius, and a greater share of popularity. He was 
 on that account the most dangerous ; and we ac- 
 cordingly find, that of all modern perversions of 
 taste, the works of Johnson have done the greatest 
 mischief. It must however be confessed, that in the 
 works of this author, amidst the Gothic cloud of lan- 
 guage, much originahty is found. Let us give him 
 credit for every feeble ray of genius ; but for God's 
 sake do not prostitute the august appellations of 
 Father of Literature, and Standard of 
 
187 
 
 Elegance, upon that surly critic, who is the per- 
 verter of taste, and the corrupter of the language. 
 
 NO. II. 
 
 "Est in quibusdam turba inanium verborum, qui dum communem loquen- 
 di moreiu reforrnidant, ducti specie nitoris, circumeunt omnia copiosa loqua- 
 citate quae dicere volunt." — Quinctilian, lib. vii. cap. 2. 
 
 The general depravation of style, which distin- 
 guishes so many English writers of modern date, 
 must afford matter of serious alarm to the real phi- 
 lologist. By men of the first reputation, has sound 
 been substituted for sense, and tinsel for ornament. 
 And we may anticipate a melancholy period, when 
 the original end of writing shall be known only by 
 the historic page. It is true, there are still writers, 
 who consider the communication of ideas as a pri- 
 mary object ; but by far the greater number are 
 absorbed in the structure of sentences. We may 
 call them the style-huilders of the age. Their 
 manner is loose, florid, and pompous, to the last de- 
 gree. Their sentences are filled with sounding epi- 
 thets, and rounded into periods of the greatest har- 
 mony ; but look not in their works, gentle reader, 
 for ideas ; the hapless authors never possessed them. 
 
188 
 
 The celebrated Hervey appears to be the leader of 
 the florid ; Dr. Johnson of the bombastic style. 
 They have both had their share in the perversion of 
 taste, and our present manner seems a compound of 
 both. I have formerly mentioned Hervey, with 
 perhaps too much severit}^, as a writer of no genius. 
 The sallies of imagination, which are sometimes 
 found in his works, have occasioned me in some 
 measure to retract that opinion. His genius is, not- 
 withstanding, trivial and cold ; his manner perfectly 
 disgusting. He is followed by a mob of admirers, 
 and the vulgar take pleasure in his style. But the 
 crowd of epithets, the pompous aflectation, the tinsel 
 description, and the continued swell of turgid, poet- 
 ical diction, though dazzling to the vulgar, is 
 intolerable to the reader of real taste. 
 
 " All glares alike, without distinction gay." 
 
 The great secret of writing, as in painting, seems 
 to consist in a regidar and proper disposition of orna- 
 ment. The painter could not be acknowledged an 
 artist, without a proper knowledge of lights and 
 shades. Nor is it possible for the writer, who is 
 always on stilts, to be otherwise than tedious and 
 disgusting. The Greek and Roman orators were so 
 
189 
 
 sensible of this important secret, that in their pubUc 
 declamations, they descended frequently to the mean- 
 est style. By this means, they gave more strength 
 to every emphatical passage ; commanded more pa- 
 thos ; and made their conspicuous ornaments, where 
 ornaments were requisite, appear to the greatest ad- 
 vantage. Dr. Johnson (setting aside his great 
 popularity) was a more dangerous writer than Her- 
 vey. Hervey gave an example for bad style ; John- 
 son corrupted the language. Though Hervey was 
 faulty in manner, yet his matter was generally 
 English ; but it would puzzle an CEdipus to discover 
 the language of Johnson. Hervey decorates the 
 most awful subjects with a florid, poetical style; 
 while Johnson stalks amidst trifles, in all the ma* 
 jesty of bombast. Critics have been ever of opinion, 
 that frivolous subjects require a light, gay manner. 
 Custom has established the rule, and it has been 
 sanctioned by writers of the first character. But 
 Johnson's bagatelles are dressed in the dignity of 
 metaphysics. That pedantic genius treats of the 
 toilet and tea-table, in the same stiff, solemn man- 
 ner with Descartes, explaining the nature and 
 seat of the soul ; and his periodical Ramblers, like 
 the voyages of Aboulsaouris, are all " great, magnifi- 
 cent, and unintelligible." From the union of the 
 
190 
 
 florid and bombastic manner is formed the stylcj 
 wliich at present obtains. This we would choose to 
 call, by way of distinction, the frothy manner; and 
 is what modern writers have in idea, when they 
 speak of a sublime style — a style as far different 
 from sublimity in writing, as tinsel is different from 
 bullion ; or as a mock-majesty of the theatre differs 
 from the grandeur of imperial magnificence. The 
 pestiferous writings of Johnson, Hervcy, Akenside, 
 Shaftesbury, and other frothy writers, have intro- 
 duced this false sublime ; have perverted our taste ; 
 corrupted our style ; and weakened, by the glitter of 
 false ornaments, the native energy of true English 
 manner. There is a certain species of composition, 
 which has not a httle assisted in the introduction of 
 this corrupt taste. This species comprehends all 
 productions, in what is called the oriental style. 
 This consists of a forced, unnatural idiom, swelled 
 with epithets, similes, and the most florid description : 
 but is no more the oriental manner, than the style in 
 which I am at present writing ; for the language of 
 eastern writers is the language of simplicity itself. 
 
 The celebrated Dr. Blair has very clearly marked 
 the difference of true and false subhme. A long 
 quotation from his lectures will require no apology, 
 as it is judicious and entertaining ; and at the same 
 
191 
 
 time throws a strong light upon what I have before 
 advanced. " As for what is called the sublime st34e," 
 says the doctor, " it is for the most part, a very bad 
 one, and has no relation whatever to the real sublime. 
 Persons are apt to imagine that magnificent words, 
 accumulated epithets, and a certain swelhng kind of 
 expression, by rising above v^^hat is usual or vulgar, 
 contributes to, or even forms, the subhme. Nothing 
 can be more false. In all instances of sublime wri- 
 ting, which I have given, nothing of this kind ap- 
 pears. ' God said. Let there be light, and there was 
 light.' This is striking and subhme. But put it 
 into what is commonly called the subhme style : 
 ' The Sovereign Arbiter of nature, by the potent en- 
 ergy of a single word, commanded the light to ex- 
 ist ;' and as Boileau has well observed, the style 
 indeed is raised, but the thought is fallen. In gene- 
 ral, in all good writing, the sublime lies in the 
 thought, not in words ; and when the thought is 
 truly noble, it will, for the most part, clothe itself in 
 a native dignity of language. The sublime, indeed, 
 rejects mean, low, or trivial expressions ; but it is 
 eqally an enemy to such as are turgid. The main 
 secret of being sublime, is to say great things in few 
 and plain words. It will be found to hold, without 
 
192 
 
 exception, that the most snbhme authors are the 
 simplest in their style ; and wherever you find a wri- 
 ter, who affects a more than ordinary pomp and 
 parade of words, and is always endeavoring to 
 magnify his subjects by epitliets, there you may im- 
 mediately suspect, that feeble in sentiment, he is 
 studying to support himself by mere expressions." 
 Thus far Dr. Blair. Mr. Burgoyne, a gentleman 
 better distinguished by his pen than his sword, has 
 attempted to introduce this false sublime into the 
 business of common life. The language of the bar, 
 noted as a dry jargon, shines in his page, with epi- 
 thets, similes, metaphors, and all the glitter of the 
 frothy style. But of all productions in the sublime 
 style, nothing, for sublimity of nonsense, exceeds 
 his famous proclamation. '' In consciousness of 
 Christianity, my royal master's clemency, and the 
 honor of soldiership, I have dwelt upon this invi- 
 tation ; and wished for more persuasive terms to 
 give it impression." What rotundity of period ! 
 What beauty of expression is here ! A fox, coming 
 into a carver's shop, w^as struck with admiration, 
 at a head the artist had just finished. "Beautiful 
 head !" exclaimed the fox, '' what pity is it, that 
 thou art destitute of brains !" 
 
193 
 
 This false taste, like an epidemic contagion, has 
 infected the whole system of literature. Few are 
 the writers of eminence, who have been able to avoid 
 its influence. To stem the torrent of popular ap- 
 plause, requires a degree of fortitude almost super- 
 human ] a fortitude with which authors are seldom 
 acquainted. The correct, the elegant Robinson— 
 with sorrow we are obliged to observe — is not un- 
 tainted. Even he has, in some instances, given us 
 examples of false ornament. But may the eye of 
 criticism be ever partial to his failings ; for with him 
 our language shall live, when the authors of Ram- 
 blers, and Meditations, shall slumber in oblivion. 
 At present, this alarming revolution of our taste 
 seems to be making hasty strides in common life. 
 There are few readers, who think a writer tolerable, 
 that is not magnificent. Overseers write florid let- 
 ters to their employers ; and men in business publish 
 sublime advertisements. 
 
 P. S. The author, who thinks and writes " invi- 
 ta Minerva," is not without his fame. But he 
 who, blessed with real genius, aflects an elegance of 
 style, will be read with admiration. As the writer 
 of these remarks is neither the one nor the other, 
 he begs the reader's indulgence, if, while he cen- 
 17 
 
194 
 
 sures the style of others, his own be found deficient. 
 He begs leave to observe, once for all, that his pro- 
 ductions appear in their rudest form. Unpolished 
 by the limcB labor, they are submitted to the 
 pubHc eye, "with all their imperfections on their 
 heads." 
 
195 
 
 ON PRIMITIVE, LATENT, AND REGENERATED LIGHT. 
 
 In which it is attempted, upon original principles, to ac- 
 count for every luminous phenomenon, the light of flame, 
 the phosphoric glow, and the sparkling of the ocean. 
 
 Light is an element with which every one, 
 blessed with the faculty of seeing, is so well ac- 
 quainted, that to him it needs no description : to such 
 as are unfortunately sightless it will admit of none. 
 The other organs of sense convey no similar percep- 
 tions to the mind, from which, by analogy of sensa- 
 tion, the unhappy bUnd man may obtain its most 
 distant idea : and, liowever the world may have been 
 deluded by fictitious narrative, it is a certain truth 
 that blind men cannot distinguish the complexion of 
 bodies by the most accurate touch.* To a person 
 born bhnd, a conception even of visible form is abso- 
 lutely impossible ; and such a person, by handling 
 and rehandhng any body, can no more conjecture in 
 
 * Several instances are on record, of persons who have 
 pretended to distinguish colors by feeling only. 
 
196 
 
 what shape it appears to the eye, than a deaf man, 
 by tasting of gunpowder, can describe the sound of 
 a cannon. Had you asked the most ignorant 
 blockhead of antiquity, what is Ught? he would 
 have resolved you in a moment, and would doubtless 
 have pitied the weakness which gave birth to so silly 
 a question. " Before I became a philosopher," you 
 might reply, "I was, sir, as k?\owing as yourself; 
 but alas ! the more I learn, the less I know." The 
 philosopher with diffidence attempts the Gordian 
 web, and finding no clue, becomes puzzled ; he sits 
 down confounded, and laments his feeble abilities. 
 The child of ignorance advances, resolved to sur- 
 mount all difficulties ; he severs the knot with a 
 blow, looks round him with satisfaction, and exults 
 with a seeming consciousness of superior wisdom. 
 But the knot is still untied ; the first principles 
 remain yet unexplored, and the intelligence of man 
 is all too feeble for the great investigation. 
 
 " The ways of Heaven are dark and intricate; 
 Puzzled with mazes, and perplexed with errors, 
 Our understanding traces them in vain, 
 Nor sees with how much art the windings run, 
 Nor where the regular confusion ends."* 
 
 * Addison. 
 
197 
 
 '' Let there be light," was the fiat of Jehovah at 
 the creation. " Let there be hght, and light there 
 was," says the sublime historian. From that mo- 
 ment all things shone by this reflected element, 
 which gave visibility of form and variety of com- 
 plexion to the whole created universe. Still, light 
 was but very little known. The doctrine of colors, 
 of phosphori, and indeed the whole philosophy of 
 vision, remained for some thousands of years unno- 
 ticed. At length, Newton arose, that superior intel- 
 ligence, formed to explore nature in every explorable 
 path. He gave us the theory of vision, and taught 
 us the doctrine of colors. He was the first of mor- 
 tals who attempted to divide light, the infinitely 
 subtile light ; and, strange truth ! by mechanical 
 separation, he discovered and demonstrated its con- 
 stituent parts. 
 
 There are two general propositions, which in the 
 course of this essay, we shall endeavor to prove ; 
 and on the strength of the probable evidence brought 
 in their favor, ell the subsequent doctrine will de- 
 pend. 1. That light is an ele7nentary principle^ 
 ^^tering and nniting with most bodies by simple 
 attraction^ or the affinity of co7nposition, and ca- 
 pable of being regenerated by decomposition. 2. 
 That all light, wherever found, and however pro- 
 17* 
 
198 
 
 ducedj is essentially the smne^ and is always ori- 
 ginally solar, or derived fro7n the sun. Light is 
 denied to be an element by some, because it is divisi- 
 ble by the prism into parts that are not similar. But 
 hy this reasoning, we shall quickly destroy the 
 arrangement of our elementary principles. The 
 more refined chemistry has taught us that the ele- 
 ment of air is not a simple homogeneous principle, 
 but a fluid composed of dissimilar parts. The ele- 
 ment of earth, too, has been found divisible into six 
 different kinds, which have never yet been decom- 
 pounded into more simple, nor changed into one 
 another.* Are there then six elements of earth ? I 
 answer, that all earths may be reduced to the first 
 principle of acid coagulated by water ; and by that 
 reasoning, earth can be no element at all. Let us 
 not dispute about words. If among the Aristotelic 
 principles, air, earth, fire, and water, the two former 
 be admitted as elements, the important principle of 
 light has a claim founded in equal propriety, and 
 ought by no means to be rejected. Here then I 
 
 * 1. The earth of the ponderous spar ; 2. calcarious earth ; 
 3. magnesia ; 4. clay ; 5. silicious earth ; 6. earth of gems. 
 These earths, by professor Bergman, are styled earths 
 primitive. 
 
199 
 
 adopt my grand proposition. Light is a real ele- 
 mentary principle, which pervades, is blended 
 withj and becomes a constituent part of almost all 
 visible substances. By the subtilty of its parts, the 
 impetus of its rays, and the absorption of bodies, it 
 enters into the composition of animals, of vegeta- 
 bles, and of substances unorganized, and becomes 
 the only inflammable principle in them all. This 
 inflammable principle must not be confounded with 
 heat, or with fire. Bodies which contain neither of 
 these, may contain light in the greatest abundance ; 
 for instance, nitre, the coldest and most inflammable 
 substance in all nature. Light will pass through 
 many bodies without remaining in them, as glass, 
 shallow water, and all transparent substances. By 
 the impetus of its rays, it enters many bodies with- 
 out mixing, and passes off without decomposing 
 them; as we may see, for instance, in wood, in 
 stones, in earth, in luminous phosphori, and in ocean- 
 water. But wherever it comes into contact with any 
 substance to which it is attracted, and for which it 
 has a peculiar affinity, it then forms a close union, 
 becomes a component part, and can never again be 
 separated, without a decomposition of the whole. 
 
 When certain substances are decomposed by fire, 
 the light which they contained resumes its elasticity, 
 
200 
 
 and passes off in its original form. Such substances 
 are said to flame ; and this property is termed inflam- 
 mabihty, or the principle of combustion. Inflam- 
 mabihty then, wherever we meet with it, is nothing 
 more than solar light become latent by its union 
 with terrene substances. It enters the earth, unites 
 with its proper acid, and forms nitre ; combined with 
 a portion of phlegm, it constitutes the fat of animals ; 
 and we trace its existence through tlie vegetable 
 kingdom in spirit and in oil. Both of these are 
 equally inflammable; and the only distinction is, 
 that the essential oil of vegetables appears to be like 
 animal oil, a composition of latent light and of gross 
 phlegm intimately united ; while the more subtile 
 spirit is constituted of light and aerial acid. 
 
 The powerful action of light on, and its intimate 
 union with, the animal, vegetable, and mineral 
 kingdoms, may appear chimerical to such as do not 
 observe that daily experience is a dail}^ demonstra- 
 tion of this fact. This demonstration is most stri- 
 kingly remarkable in the vegetable kingdom. It is 
 well known that most plants sleep in the night sea- 
 son, that is, their leaves droop, and their flowers shut 
 up. This, together with that remarkable property 
 
201 
 
 termed vegetable instinct, has been proved* to depend 
 on the privation of light. The vegetable green, too, 
 is caused not by a simple reflection of light from, but 
 its intimate union with, the vegetable composition. All 
 this is deducible from experiment. Let the seeds of 
 any plant be scattered in darkness, on earth destitute 
 of nitre ; let no light ever approach it ; when the 
 plant has acquired its full growth, examine it and 
 you will find it white, watery, subacid, and unin- 
 flammable. It will appear slender, and its leaves will 
 droop as if in a state of perpetual repose. Analyze 
 it, and 3^ou will obtain water, salt, phlegm, and a 
 little acid, but neither oil nor spirit. Another plant 
 of the same species, by being barely exposed to the 
 light, will grow straight and vigorous, appear of a 
 lively green, yield both oil and spirit, and be highly 
 inflammable. 
 
 Solar light, and artificial light or flame, appear then 
 to be essentially tlie same principle. Let us illus- 
 trate this by a famihar example. A certain piece of 
 ground, we will suppose, absorbs the luminous rays 
 in great abundance. If the ground be sandy, if it 
 contain not that salt or acid, for which light has so 
 
 * See the sleep of plants considered by Dr. Hill, and the 
 experiments of the ingenious M. Ingenhousz. 
 
202 
 
 close an affinity, the rays will suffer no detention, 
 but pass off unaltered. If, on the contrary, the 
 earth abounds with the proper principle, the absorbed 
 light will closely unite with it, and form inflammable 
 nitre. This nitre may then be chemically extracted, 
 and decomposed by means of heat ; and at the 
 instant of tbis decomposition, the concentrated Mght 
 v;ill rush forth, resume its elasticity, and pass off in 
 a flash. This seems to be the most simple state of 
 union between solar light and terrene substance. In 
 such land as this, rich with the accumulated store 
 which we must no longer call light, the industrious 
 farmer sows his corn. In tracing the process of 
 vegetation from the early germ to the plant at matu- 
 rity, we observe that the corn acquires its growth 
 and vigor from the nitrous earth at its root, and the 
 light which it absorbs and assimilates into its sub- 
 stance above. Hence, it becomes replete with those 
 grand principles of nutrition, oil and sugar. It is 
 devoured in this state by the lowing steer. The 
 essential oil, and the saccharine spirit enter the ani- 
 mal composition, and become fat ; from whence tal- 
 low is formed. If this tallow be moulded into can- 
 dles, and the wick of one of them be held in the 
 neighborhood of fire, the particles of the candle will 
 be decomposed by the heat, and the hitherto latent 
 
203 
 
 concentrated light, as it becomes elastic, will fly off 
 with its original appearance. This phenomenon 
 will continue till the decomposition has wholly taken 
 place ; or, in other words, till the candle is burnt out. 
 Hence, the flame of a candle, and every other lumi- 
 nous flame, though considered by the vulgar as a 
 different species of light, will, to the philosopher who 
 has traced the varying process, appear to be what it 
 really is, absolute regenerated sunshine. 
 
 We have now proved, as far as the proposition is 
 capable of proof, that light is an elementary princi- 
 ple, which enters the composition of almost all com- 
 pounded substances. We have shown in what 
 manner such substance is said to flame, when 
 bodies, by the presence of heat, suffer a decomposi- 
 tion of parts, and the latent light becomes again 
 visible. . We shall now enter on our second proposi- 
 tion, that all light is essentially the same^ and is 
 alivays^ in its original state^ solar, or derived 
 from the sun. So much of this proposition as 
 respects combustible matter has, we trust, been 
 already proved : but as many substances, viz. the 
 luminous phosphori, are found to emit light, although 
 they possess no inflammability, it remains that we 
 demonstrate hov/ those substances become luminous 
 by means of the solar ray. The rays of light are 
 
204 
 
 propelled from the sun in lines physicall}^ straight ; 
 and they possess the greatest velocity* of any mate- 
 rial principle known — flying nearly thirteen millions 
 of miles in a minute. Whether this velocity de- 
 pends on the inherent energy of the sun, or is 
 caused by a mutual repellency of the luminous par- 
 ticles may be questioned. I adopt the latter opinion 
 because it appears the most probable. This mutual 
 repellency may be demonstrated, and of itself is all- 
 sufficient to account for the velocity of light. If a 
 hundred large candles were lighted in a room ten 
 feet square, they would fill it with rays, which would 
 cause a strong reflection from the surrounding w^alls. 
 In this case the room is full of light. As there are 
 a thousand cubic feet to be illuminated, the light of 
 each candle must be supposed to illuminate a sphere 
 of only ten cubic feet in diameter. But if you 
 remove ninety-nine of the candles, the remaining 
 one will now occupy a thousand cubic feet, and the 
 room will be still full of light. Nay, if you expose 
 
 * Although the element of solar light possesses the least 
 perceptible weight, yet the amazing velocity of 13,000,000 
 of miles in a minute, must give it a momentum capable of 
 driving through the hardest bodies, and penetrating the far, 
 thest recesses of the earth, did the pores run in straight 
 lines. 
 
205 
 
 the same candle to the open air, its light will be 
 seen at two miles distance. So that the same light, 
 which was compressed within the space of ten cubic 
 feet, is now by the mutual repulsion of its particles 
 diffused into a sphere of four miles diameter :* and 
 this it so completely fills, that you cannot place a 
 pin's head any where in that sphere without receiv- 
 ing some particles of Hght. Hence, we take it as 
 demonstrated, that the particles of light are possessed 
 of mutual repulsion, by which they are always en- 
 deavoring to extend themselves every way. 
 
 This point established, I proceed to observe, that 
 the luminous phosphori, which we are now con- 
 sidering, almost universally emit their light without 
 suffering a decomposition of parts, and only in the 
 absence of the solar ray. Several of them, as the 
 Bolonian stone, have been long suspected of absorb- 
 ing the sun's rays, and emitting them in darkness. 
 But the cause of this phenomenon has never been 
 satisfactorily investigated, by any author that I have 
 met with. It was observed under the first proposi- 
 tion, that there are some bodies which receive and 
 transmit the radiant light. It passes through them 
 with ease, and suffers no detention. This is owing 
 
 * See Dr. Newentyit's Religious Philosopher. 
 18 
 
206 
 
 to the large rectilineal pores of such bodies. The 
 swift darting rays meet with little resistance on their 
 surfaces, and are consequently but little reflected from 
 them ; but they are driven through their pores w4th 
 the greatest facility, and give to such bodies the pro- 
 perty of transparency ; such are glass, shallow wa- 
 ter, &c. There are other bodies equally capable of 
 receiving hght ; but their pores not being rectilineal, 
 they possess not the property of transmitting it. 
 Now if such bodies have no affinity with or attrac- 
 tion of light, this element will not mix with them, 
 as we observed of inflammable substances ; but will 
 remain imprisoned no longer than while the force 
 which impelled it into their interstices remains ; or, 
 in other words, while there is light on their surfaces. 
 To make this as familiar as possible, suppose the 
 Bolonian stone introduced into a room full of dense 
 hght. This hght, by its mutual repeliency, is en- 
 deavoring to extend itself every way ; and a number 
 of its particles are, by that repeliency, forced into the 
 vacuities of the stone. The dense rays which im- 
 pelled these particles into the stone, now, by the same 
 repeliency continued, act as a pressure on its surface, 
 to prevent their escaping. But remove this pressure, 
 or, in other words, carry the stone into darkness, and 
 you will find that the particles of light imprisoned in 
 
207 
 
 its interstices, being no longer repelled by dense light 
 on its surface, endeavor by their own mutual repel- 
 lency to extend themselves every way, and issue from 
 all parts of the stone with the appearance of flame. 
 Hence, two forces are to be considered as acting 
 against each other ; namely, a vis repellendi, of 
 external light impelling certain luminous particles 
 into the pores of the stone, and there detaining 
 them ; and a vis elastica,* of the imprisoned parti- 
 cles endeavoring to recover their situation, and ex- 
 tend themselves every way. Hence, we easily con- 
 ceive wh}^ phosphoric bodies emit no light in the day 
 time ; because the force of repulsion, which drives 
 the particles of light into their pores, still detains 
 them there by its continued action upon their sur- 
 faces. We also conceive why they shine in the 
 night season ; because the repulsive force of external 
 light being taken off from their surfaces, the impri- 
 soned light extends itself every way, resumes its 
 elasticity, and rushes forth with its original appear- 
 ance. 
 
 * These two forces depend on one principle, viz. repul- 
 sion, and are in effect the same — distinguished as above for 
 the sake of perspicuity only. 
 
208 
 
 The above reasoning will equally apply to all 
 kinds of the luminous phosphori,* and demonstrates 
 the second general proposition, that all light is essen- 
 tially the same ; that it is real sunshine, wherever 
 met with, and dijSers only by variety of circum- 
 stance. 
 
 I shall now make some miscellaneous remarks, 
 which may serve still farther to elucidate what has 
 been said ; and attempt, upon principles established, 
 to account for several phenomena of light and colors. 
 Dr. Henry Moyes, a man of great ingenuity, and 
 who deserves the highest praise for his attempts to 
 dispense the soul-illuminating ray, was himself un- 
 happily sightless. This misfortune led him into 
 several erroneous notions respecting hght. His cata- 
 logue of luminous phosphori contains several sub- 
 stances not at all phosphoric. Snow may be men- 
 tioned as one of them. This substance does not, as 
 the doctor supposes, imbibe the sun's rays by day^ 
 and emit them at night. It is certain, that snow is 
 
 * The electric flash is not here included, although it 
 might be demonstrated to be dependent on the same princi- 
 ple, would the bounds allotted to this essay permit. It shall 
 be mentioned elsewhere. 
 
209 
 
 visible at night, when other substances are not ; but 
 this arises only from the disposition of its parts, which 
 are such, that not a ray is lost on them. From its 
 multitudinous points, it strongly reflects the hght in 
 all directions, and reflects it when other bodies do 
 not. Hence, if there be any particles of light left 
 in the horizon, though too few to give visibility to 
 common objects, they will be strongly reflected by 
 the snow. The doctor had been informed that snow 
 gave light in the night, and hence arose his mistake. 
 But had that ingenious man been blessed with exter- 
 nal vision, he would doubtless have been more cor- 
 rect in his arrangement, and have made an important 
 distinction between effluent light, and effluent light 
 reflected. 
 
 Although shallow water be not at all phosphoric, 
 ocean water is highly so. But the sparkling of the 
 briny waves must not be confounded with ocean 
 foam. This sparlding is often observed in the 
 smoothest water, independent of the spray, and is 
 really dense effluent sunshine ; while the visibihty of 
 the white foam, hke that of snow, arises from no- 
 thing more than its property of strongly reflecting 
 the effluent light. 
 
 18* 
 
210 
 
 COROLLARIES. 
 
 " Every white ray of light is divisible by the 
 prism into seven distinct smaller rays ; of which, the 
 red or flame-colored ray is the strongest : the others 
 gradually diminish in strength ; and the violet or 
 blue-colored ray is the weakest of all."* 
 
 1. Light is the only inflammable principle of all 
 bodies, and is what most writers mean by phlo- 
 giston. 
 
 2. Light and heat are two opposite principles, and 
 when they meet in bodies, they mutually expel each 
 other. 
 
 3. Light and heat may, notwithstanding, be uni- 
 ted in bodies in a certain proportion, by means of a 
 third principle ; but when either of them predomi- 
 nates, a decomposition will take place. 
 
 4. All hght is sunshine. 
 
 5. Animal and vegetable oils are composed of 
 light and phlegm, with some heat. 
 
 6. Dephlegmated spirit of wine is composed of 
 sunshine and heat, fixed by aerial acid. 
 
 7. Dephlegmated spirit contains the greatest 
 quantity of light and heat of any known sub- 
 stance. 
 
 * Newton. 
 
211 
 
 8. Salt of nitre possesses the greatest quantity of 
 latent light, with the strongest attraction for heat, of 
 any known substance. 
 
 9. All flame is regenerated sunshine. 
 
 10. The particles of light are mutually repellent. 
 
 aUERIES. 
 
 dues. 1. Why are vegetables green? 
 
 Ans. Because by their attraction for light, they ad- 
 mit all the rays, except such as are the weakest ; 
 and those, viz. the blue and yellow, are reflected 
 from their surfaces, and occasion their green color. 
 
 Q,ues. 2. Why is regenerated sunshine, or flame, 
 usually of a deeper red than the simple effluent light 
 of the sun? 
 
 Ans. Because all bodies, into which light enters as 
 a component principle, receive the stronger rays of 
 the sun, and reflect the weaker : hence, latent hght 
 contains a greater proportion of the flame-colored 
 rays, and must, when regenerated, appear of a 
 deeper red. 
 
 dues. 3. Why do heated and burning bodies 
 flame or glow ? 
 
 Ans. Because the heat expands, dilates, and de- 
 composes the burning substance, and expels the 
 latent light. 
 
212 
 
 dues. 4. Why does rotten wood sliine at night? 
 
 Ans. Because by putrefaction, a decomposition of 
 its parts takes place, and the hght becomes regenera- 
 ted by its own elasticity. 
 
 dues. 5. Why do other putrefying substances, as 
 fish, <fcc., shine at night ? 
 
 Ans. From the same cause. 
 
 Q,ues. 6. Why do they not shine by day 7 
 
 Ans. Because the strength and velocity of the 
 solar rays act as a repulsive pressure on the surfaces 
 of bodies, and hinder the effluence of their latent 
 light. 
 
 dues. 7. Why do they shine most in the dark- 
 est night ? 
 
 Ans. Because the less effluent light surrounds 
 them, the less their latent light is pressed upon or 
 repelled, and the more copious and strong is its sepa- 
 ration. 
 
 dues. 8. Why do not all putrefying substances 
 shine ? 
 
 Ans. Because their latent light, instead of flying 
 off, is powerfully attracted by some other principle ; 
 e. g. when vegetable and animal substances putrefy, 
 the oil and spirit are not always decomposed, but are 
 sometimes evaporated, and sometimes unite with the 
 acid of the earth, and form nitre. 
 
213 
 
 dues. 9. Why is shallow water transparent 7 
 
 Ans. Because its particles do not touch one an- 
 other :* it consequently possesses large pores, which 
 in a still time are rectilineal or nearly so, and trans- 
 mit the rays of Hght with facility. 
 
 dues. 10. Why is the water of the ocean blue ? 
 
 Ans. Because water, from its large vacuities, is 
 easily pervaded by nearly all the rays of light ; con- 
 sequently, none are repelled from its surface, but the 
 weaker or blue rays. 
 
 dues. 11. Why is sea-water green? 
 
 Ans. From the united reflections of hght from 
 the bottom of the sea, and the surface of the water. 
 The blue rays are reflected from the surface. The 
 yellow, next in strength, penetrate to the bottom, 
 and are there reflected ; they pass up through the 
 water, unite with the blue rays, and form green. 
 
 dues. 12. Why is sea-water sometimes blue ? 
 
 Ans. Because from a conjunction of several 
 causes, as the ruflHing of winds, a greater saltness 
 or compactness of the water, and a difference in the 
 bed of the sea, the reflection from the bottom becomes 
 imperceptible. 
 
 * This remarkable property of water shall be treated of 
 in another place. 
 
214 
 
 Glues. 13. Why is the foam of the ocean white ? 
 
 Ans. The air, which enters the pores of water, 
 is by the agitation of the waves more and more inti- 
 mately blended with it; whence the particles are 
 divided and blown up, and the rarified mass, having 
 no rectilineal pores, but containing the greatest va- 
 riety of polished surface, reflects the rays of light 
 from every point : and as in this case no particles 
 are absorbed, the Vv^hole rays are reflected, and the 
 foam is consequently white.* 
 
 Q.ues. 14. Why does one light deaden the splen- 
 dor of another ? 
 
 Ans. From the repellency of the luminous par- 
 ticles. 
 
 Q.ues 15. Why does the effluent sunshine extin- 
 guish the light of flame in a wood fire ? 
 
 This is answered under questions 6 and 14. Be- 
 cause the solar rays repel the regenerated light 
 within the interstices of the wood, as fast as it is 
 separated by the decomposition of heat : whence the 
 effluent hght cannot rush forth in streams, but is 
 
 * This is the case with ice and snow. Thin glass is 
 generally blue ; thicker or more compact glass reflects more 
 rays, and is green : but if the rectilineality of its pores is 
 destroyed by pulverization, every kind of glass becomes 
 white. 
 
215 
 
 collected around the burning substance, and by the 
 repellency of heat is driven off in a dense glow. 
 
 dues. 16. Why does the sun appear red through 
 mist? 
 
 Ans. Because the weaker rays are reflected from 
 the superior surfaces of the collected mist, cloud, or 
 vapor ; and consequently among these rays which 
 penetrate through and reach us, the flame- colored 
 ray bears more than a usual proportion. 
 
 dues. 17. Why is the moon's radiance paler 
 than that of the sun ? 
 
 Ans. Because the strong red rays penetrate the 
 lunar surface, the weaker rays are principally re- 
 flected.* 
 
 In the beautiful and sublime fabric of the universe 
 not an atom is lost. Such is the economy of na- 
 ture ! Matter is still varying itself under new forms, 
 its essence still unvaried. Flame, and all kinds of 
 regenerated light, we know, do not loosely adhere to 
 terreous substance, but in the moment of their sepa- 
 ration acquire a velocity upwards : and as the rays 
 
 * This almost entire absence of the active red ray ap- 
 pears to be one reason, why the moonbeams do not reflect 
 heat, or, in common language, why the light of the moon is 
 cold. 
 
^ 216 
 
 cannot be lost, they are undoubtedly accumulated 
 somewhere, most probably in the superior atmo- 
 spheric regions ;* and here they are doubtless the 
 occasion of all lucid meteors, auroree boreales, (fee. &c. 
 
 dues. 18. Why may not the solar effluent rays, 
 meeting with particles of rare light above the atmo- 
 sphere, drive them back by their repellency, giving 
 them a velocity downward, like true primitive sun- 
 shine ? and if so — 
 
 dues. 19. Why may not the hght, this day 
 regenerated from the fuel burnt in my chimney, 
 ascend to the superior regions of the atmosphere, 
 appear to-night in a thousand meteors, and to-mor- 
 
 * It may be here objected, that light cannot be accumula- 
 ted in superior regions of the atmosphere : because in that 
 case it would certainly be visible, and the earth would be 
 illuminated in the absence, as well as in the presence of the 
 sun. But it must be considered, that the velocity of such 
 light is determined upwards, as appears by the ascent of 
 flame. Now if this light gives no rays downward, to act 
 on the optic nerve, it is invisible or latent, to all intents. 
 If light be not radiant, if it does not reach and penetrate 
 the eye, it certainly cannot be seen however great its accu- 
 mulation ; but if by any power acting on it above, it acquires 
 a velocity downward, it becomes visible, by penetrating the 
 eye, being refracted by the aqueous and crystaline humors, 
 collected by the vitreous humor, and reflected from the 
 retina. 
 
217 
 
 row by the repellency of the solar rays be driven 
 once more to the earth, in the form of primitive sun- 
 shine ? 
 
 dues. 20. Action and reaction being always 
 supposed equal, why may not the effluent light of 
 this earth exert an action similar to the above men- 
 tioned, on the solar rays, viz. repelling them back- 
 ward, and giving them a velocity downward to the 
 sun's surface ? and if so — 
 
 dues. 21. Why may not the earth and the other 
 planetary bodies become suns to the central star of 
 our system ? Why may they not occasion light and 
 heat in his body, in the same manner as he is sup- 
 posed to be the dispenser of both to the lesser bodies 
 which surround him ? 
 
 But here we stop ! In treading the path of curious 
 investigation, we have been led by an Ariadne^s 
 clue far beyond the regions of demonstration. We 
 have passed the bounds allotted to mortals, and 
 dared to propose some queries which none, perhaps, 
 but disembodied spirits can resolve. It is now time 
 to retire ; for while with humble hearts, and eyes 
 trembling at the foot of the throne, we endeavor to 
 explore some outhne of adorable Omniscience, we 
 must not expect to investigate the Great First 
 19 
 
218 
 
 Cause, nor " remove the vail which God has drawn 
 around his incomprehensible Majesty." 
 
 " Forbear, rash mortal ! 'tis an impious aim ; 
 
 Own God immediate acting through the frame : 
 
 'Tis he omnipotent 'o'er all presides ; 
 
 He, the First Cause, each operation guides. 
 
 Fear on his awful privacy to press ; 
 
 But honoring him, thy ignorance confess." 
 
 This Uttle essay is now completed. The author 
 has not endeavored to appear learned, by lengthy 
 quotations : it was his intention to be universally 
 understood, as that is always the first step to convic- 
 tion. He has therefore written as easily as the sub- 
 ject would admit, and sometimes has attempted 
 demonstration. He humbly hopes that he has in 
 some measure succeeded in both. M. Macquer, it is 
 true, has very ingeniously substituted light instead 
 of the phlogiston of Stahl : but the author of this 
 treatise believes his doctrine of regenerated hght to 
 be notwithstanding original. He has borrowed little 
 from authors, and flatters himself, that on a subject 
 of such difficult access, the want of perspicuity or 
 accurate arrangement, will be compensated by the 
 merit of the disquisition, if it contains any. But if 
 
219 
 
 the e3'e of candor discerns no beauties in the work, 
 to counterbalance its numerous faults, it is the au- 
 thor's fervent wish, that the waters of Lethe may 
 soon wash it from remembrance, and the vail of 
 oblivion be drawn over it forever. 
 
220 
 
 VIEW OF SOCIETY AND MANNERS IN 
 SOUTH CAROLINA. 
 
 LETTER I. 
 
 Charleston, Sept. 1785. 
 
 You have often, my dear friend, importuned me 
 to give you a description of the people, among whom 
 I have for some time resided. A cruel indisposition, 
 which threatened my life, has hitherto prevented me 
 from answering your request. But at present, as I 
 am a httle recovered, I feel myself disposed to write 
 you the desired information. South Carolina is at 
 this season a most disagreeable country. The plea- 
 sures of society are sacrificed to more important con- 
 siderations ; and every one is solicitous for the pre- 
 servation of health. Autumnal intermittents rage 
 in the country ; while Charleston, that Montpelier of 
 the state, is filled with contagious disease. Families, 
 to avoid the small pox, whooping cough, or mahg- 
 nant cynanohe, remove into the country. They 
 are there met by the epidemic autumnal ague. 
 Others fly the country, and escape an intermittent j 
 
221 
 
 but to their cost, experience that Charleston affords 
 no as57kim, from the dire visitations of an autumnal 
 fever. In other countries, summer is considered as 
 the most pleasant ; winter the most disagreeable of 
 seasons. In Carolina we see just the reverse. Here 
 people remove to town for safety, at the time when 
 others in a different clime are seeking for pleasure in 
 the country. Yet nature, ever impartial in the dis- 
 tribution of favors, has not denied them to Carolina. 
 No chmate on earth is blessed with a more clement 
 winter, and the pleasures of this season make more 
 than ample amends for the gloom of a disagreeable 
 summer. Plays, concerts, and assemblies amuse the 
 town ; visiting, entertainments, and parties of amuse- 
 ment are the pleasures of the country. Debilitated 
 by the heat of their summer, the natives seem in this 
 season to acquire new life. All nature wears the 
 face of animation. Joy becomes general The 
 contagion of pleasure spreads over the whole land. 
 And now we behold Carolina as the most agreeable 
 country perhaps in the whole universe. 
 
 That leading feature, which strikes us in the 
 national character of the Carolinians, is their hospi- 
 tality ; and in this particular they are equaled by 
 the inhabitants of few countries in the present age. 
 Their inns of entertainment are very bad : indeed, 
 19* 
 
222 
 
 they are but little frequented ; since every house is a 
 caravansary, where the wearied traveler is sure of a 
 welcome reception, refreshment, and repose. Here 
 it may be said of the generous inhabitant, that like 
 the good Axylus, 
 
 " Fast by the road, his ever open door 
 Obliged the wealthy, and relieved the poor."* 
 
 In this respect, and in this only, do the Caroli- 
 nians imitate the simplicity of ancient ages. At 
 mentioning this circumstance, an accession of pleas- 
 ing ideas crowd around me. The imagination 
 flies back to the happy days of yore, when sacred 
 was the name of stranger ; when the laws of hos- 
 pitality were traced to their divine origin, and became 
 a feature of religious duty — 
 
 " 'Tis Jove unfolds the hospitable door, 
 
 'Tis Jove that sends the stranger and the poor."* 
 
 Warm climates generally enfeeble the genius, but 
 expand the heart. The fibres are relaxed ; the rigid 
 vessels become soft ; the circulation is easy, for the 
 
 * Pope's Homer. 
 
223 
 
 resistance is small, and the impediments few. If the 
 blood be not of the most generous texture, it never 
 teems with inflammation, as in the inhabitants of 
 colder climates. But the bland fluids flow in the 
 same calm channel with those of the new-born 
 infant. This is the argument, I own, of a sys- 
 tematic ; but I do not mean to apply it wholly to 
 the inhabitants of Carolina. Their affabihty, their 
 courteous manners, and the polite attention with 
 which strangers are treated by them, appear to me 
 partly the effects of constitution, and partly of situa- 
 tion in life. It is far from my intention, however, 
 to insinuate that they are the less commendable on 
 that account. I venerate, I esteem the social and 
 friendly intercourse: for beauteous art thou, oh 
 benevolence ! there is divinity in thy very shadow. 
 Let us adore the lovely goddess wherever we meet 
 her ; nor bestow the trouble of a thought from whence 
 she came. " Hail ! ye sweet courtesies of human 
 life ; for smooth and pleasant do ye make the road 
 of it. Like grace and beauty, which beget inclina- 
 tion at first sight, it is ye who open the door, and let 
 the stranger in."* In their entertainments this peo- 
 ple are said to be rather profuse. But it should be 
 
 * Sterne. 
 
224 
 
 considered, that Heaven has bestowed on them with 
 the Hberal hand of profusion. And to that blessing's 
 donor, the most grateful acknowledgment, in the 
 power of mortals, is a cheerful enjoyment. For let 
 the cynic bark as he pleases, it will ever be good 
 Catholicism, that " to enjoy is to obey.*' 
 
 LETTER II. 
 
 Happy should I be, if, with the same ease. I could 
 set aside a charge against the Carolinians, of a more 
 serious nature. Dissolute pleasures, and luxury of 
 every kind, form another grand feature of their 
 national character. I censure not the profusion of 
 their tables, it is the profusion of Heaven ; but to 
 the pleasures of the table they are too much addicted. 
 Here, and in every species of luxurious indulgence, 
 they seem galloping hard after the dissolute Euro- 
 peans ; and small are the powers requisite to discern 
 that they are not very far behind them. I intend 
 not to trouble my friend with a dry dissertation on 
 luxury, or an examination whether, considered ab- 
 stractedly, it be criminal or not. Among individuals, 
 in some cases, it may not be criminal : but when it 
 is no crime it is always a vice ; and a vice, with 
 
225 
 
 respect to society, of the most dangerous nature. 
 The ravages of war will deface a country ; but the 
 effects of luxury are more fatal, and more deadly, 
 than the ravages of war. It corrupts the morals, 
 enfeebles the mind, and diseases the body. Destruc- 
 tion is sure m his aim, and rapid in his march. At 
 length, the unexpected catastrophe arrives ; the 
 ruined people look round them with amazement, 
 and wonder at their situation. Such are the effects 
 of luxury in a nation ; it is the bane of society ; it 
 is the bane of government ; it is treason against the 
 state ; it is big with the ruin of nations. These are 
 gloomy reflections ; but arising naturally from the 
 subject, they intrude themselves on the mind, and it 
 is impossible to avoid them. Bacchus is a deity 
 much respected in this country ; and no objection 
 can be made to the sway of so amiable, mirth-inspi- 
 ring a divinity, when limited by prudence and 
 moderation. But as that can seldom happen, the 
 objections against this custom become serious and 
 weighty : it is a species of luxury the most danger- 
 ous, because leading directly to all others ; but it is a 
 species for which Carolinians are most excusable. 
 Without the assistance of wine, in all warm cUmates 
 the mind is enervated, the spirits become languid, 
 and the imagination effete. It is known to all phy- 
 
226 
 
 sicians, tliat wine by its tonic quality obviates the de- 
 bility induced by climate; and that the effects of 
 putrid miasmata are destroyed by its antiseptic 
 power. Hence, the use of wine in warm and sickly 
 climates becomes obvious ; and hence, a rational 
 cause why the inhabitants of those climates are so 
 generally addicted to the bottle. 
 
 With the introduction of luxury in this country, 
 religion has visibly declined. These are, in every 
 state, symptoms of approaching ruin. Where 
 effeminacy prevails ; where religion, whether true or 
 false, is in rapid decay ; the state is in danger, and 
 destruction is at hand. Such has ever been the 
 dow^nfall of empires, since the commencement of 
 the world : they have all had their rise, their pro- 
 gress, and their decline. But who, without melan- 
 choly, can observe the first state in our union, has- 
 tening to early destruction ; falling like untimely 
 fruit ; and withering immature ? Though the Caro- 
 linians be not a religious people, they are not super- 
 stitious ; their enlarged understandings, and elevated 
 ideas, have protected them on that side. Theatrical 
 amusements have been introduced and encouraged 
 among them. These, though they form a species of 
 refined luxury, are of many others the least danger- 
 ous. Their political damage is not so great ; since, 
 
227 
 
 while they form the manners of a people, they 
 seldom impoverish the country. Actors are generally 
 profuse in living ; they seldom deprive a country of 
 its cash. Hence, money in their hands is not lost : 
 on the contrary, it is put in circulation. In coun- 
 tries where slavery is encouraged, the ideas of the 
 people are of a peculiar cast. The soul becomes 
 dark, narrow, and assumes a tone of savage bru- 
 tality. Such at this day are the inhabitants of Bar- 
 bary, and the West Indies. But, thank God ! no- 
 thing like this has yet disgraced an American state 
 We may look for it in Carolina, but we shall be 
 disappointed. The most elevated and liberal Caro- 
 linians abhor slavery ; they will not debase them- 
 selves by attempting to vindicate it. He who would 
 encourage it, abstracted from the idea of bare neces- 
 sity, is not a man ; he is a brute in human form. 
 For " disguise thyself as thou wilt, oh slavery ! still 
 thou art a bitter draught." It is interest, louder than 
 the voice of reason, which alone exclaims in thy 
 favor. 
 
 Among their neighbors, the Carohnians stand 
 accused of haughtiness and insolent carriage. No- 
 thing is apparently more true than this charge; 
 nothing is really more false. Surrounded by slaves, 
 and accustomed to command, they acquire a for- 
 
J 
 
 228 
 
 wardj dictatorial habit, which can never be laid 
 aside. In order to judge of their dispositions, we 
 must study them with attention. Courtesy, affa- 
 bility, and politeness form their distinguishing cha- 
 racteristics. For these, for the exercise of hospi- 
 tality, and all the social virtues, I venture to assert 
 that no country on earth has equaled Carolina. 
 
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