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[We have been favored with the manuscript of the following very beau:
tiful pieces of Mrs. Barbauld and Miss Aikin, with the permission to publish them.]
ON THE KING'S ILLNESSBY MRS. BARBAULD.
Rest, rest, afflicted spirit, quickly pass
Art thou become like us?' Oh, not for thee!
On this eventful world, when aged grown,
THE BALLOON-BY MISS AIKIN.
The airy ship at anchor rides;
Impatient of delay;
She floats upon her way.
And speeding up the sky;
She cheats my dazzled eye.
Urged on thy fleet career.
Along the silent sphere.
No cloud at breezy dawn,
Or shadow o'er the lawn.
Yet thee, even thee, the destined hour
Rapid in prone descent.
Thy breath ethereal spento
Thus daring fancy's plumes sublime,
Thus hope, her soul elate
And genius yields to fate.
For the Repository.
TO A CHILD,
Still are wild fancy's flattering dreams believed?
'Tis sweet to view, in childhood's earliest dawn, The first faint streaks that gild the rising morn. Thou wav'st thy wand-no more the veil appears, That hides from present gaze the future years; We snatch bright virtues from the days to come, And weave the laurels, that may never bloom.
Dear boy! I love to watch thine infant face, Ere time imprint the lines thy passions trace: By turns, I mark the gentle virtues speak, Play round thy mouth, and dimple on thy cheek; And read the spirit in thy sparkling eye, That scorns to flatter, and that fears to lie. Whate'er the fates that wait on thy career, We cannot know them, and we ought not fear: We cannot read them with prophetic eye; We cannot guess them from the days gone by. Fair are the hopes thine opening dawn inspires, And add new brilliancy to fancy's fires: Yet rude the storms that threat life's clearest sky, And hope smiles sweetest ere her visions die.
But oh! to thee be those kind feelings given,
From Smyth's English Lyrics.
The hunter on the mountain's brow,
The rosy youth from study free, Ne'er breathed, o Cheerfulness, a vow
More fond, than I have breathed to thee. Yet sometimes, if in lonely hour I quit thy loved, enchanting bower
By glooms of wayward fancy driven; And from thee turn my languid eyes, Nor longer deem thy pleasure wise;
Oh! be my suffering heart forgiven.
Not always can the varying mind
Bear to thy shrine an homage true; Some chains mysterious seem to bind,
Some sullen sorcery to subdue; Nor always can the scene be gay, Nor blest the morrow as to day;
And musing thoughts will sadness bring; Can time so near me hourly fly, Nor I his passing form descry,
Nor ever hear his rustling wing?
E'en now I feel with vain regret
Already seems my sun to set,
Beyond, with startled glance I see
The ocean of eternity,
Nec vero hæ sine sorte datæ, sine judice, sedes-Virg.
Situation of England in 1811, by M. Mie. de Montgaillard.
Translated from the French by a citizen of the United States.
« We ought to be apprehensive, that the mad pretensions, the ty. ranny, and the cupidity of our ministers will one day open the
of all Europe. -Let us enjoy with moderation our commercial prosperia ty, and not excite wars - If a great man should be seated on the throne of France, England would fall, and would be of no more importance than the island of Sardinia, for bankruptcy is at our doors."
Bolingbroke 1732. New York, printed by C. S. Van Winkle, No. 122, Water
Street, 1812. Such is the title-page of a work, which is introduced to the American reader, as the production of a French nobleman of talents, and great political information, and which the translator believes to contain 6 truths of a nature to excite the deepest concern in the mind of every American who feels an interest in the independence, the welfare, and the prosperity of his country.”
That such ought to be the effect of this work upon the mind of every reflecting man, of every man who regards the indepen. dence of Great Britain, and her ability to resist theenormous power, and in creasing usurpations of France, as important to the whole civilized world, cannot be denied, if we assume with the translator, that this French writer has displayed to us momentous truths, has given us a just view of her finan