But gently, my Muse, hush your angry ton'd lyre, From rows so disgraceful remove,

And seated at home by your own parlour fire, Let beauty and claret your numbers inspire, To melody, laughter, and love.

BOOK I. ODE XXXVIII.

Persicos odi, puer, apparatus.

HERE, waiter, I'll dine in this box,

I've look'd at your long bill of fare,

A Pythagorean it shocks,

To view all the rarities there.

I'm not overburthen'd with cash,
Roast beef is the dinner for me;

Then why should I eat calipash,
Or why should I eat calipee?

Your trifles no trifle, I ween,

To customers prudent as I am,
Your peas in December are green,
But I'm not so green as to buy 'em.

With venison, I seldom am fed,

Go bring me the sirloin, you ninny,

Who dines at a guinea a head,

Will ne'er by his head get a guinea.

GOD save great Johnny Bull,

Long live our noble Bull,

God save John Bull.

Make him uproarious,

With lungs like Boreas,

Till he's victorious,

God save John Bull.

O, Johnny Bull, be true,
Oppose the prices new,

And make them fall!
Curse Kemble's politics,
Frustrate his knavish tricks,

Confound them all!

No private boxes let
Intriguing ladies get,

Thy night, John Bull!

From little pigeon holes,
Defend us jolly souls,

And we will sing, by Goles,

God save John Bull.

ORIGINAL POETRY.-FOR THE PORT FOLIO.

[We insert with great cheerfulness the following Anacreontic, and shall at all times be gratified by any further communication from the elegant scholar to whom we are indebted for it.]

MR. OLDSCHOOL,

The following is one of the first attempts of a tiro. He ventures it with diffidence; and should it be found unworthy of your approbation, he will not be disappointed.

Φωνῆς μὲν ἀκρόκων,

Ἡ την χαρᾷ μὲ πληροί
Εἰ τοῦτ ̓ Ερως λέγητε.
Λέγει ὅταν Χλόη μοι,
Πάλλει ἄφας τὸ κ ς μου,
Τρέμω, δ' ερυθριάων
Θέλω της ἀντιφωνεῖν,
Λείπει, σιγὰ δὲ γλῶσσα
Εἰ τοῦτ' Ερως, λέγητε.
Οταν Χλόη δ ̓ ἀπεσὶν,
Ηδισα μοὶ τὰ πρὶν δὲ
Παύει μὲ νῦν ἀρέσκειν
Μάτην τὰ ἦρος ἄνθῆ,

Υλῶν δὲ καὶ μέλος πᾶν.

Εἰ τοῦτ ̓ Ερως, λέγητε.

Ξ.

FOR THE PORT FOLIO.

HAPPY PAIR.

BY ROBT. BOLLING, LATE OF BUCKINGHAM CO. VIRGINIA, 1764,

The author's parents suggested the idea of the following canzonet, in which the husband speaks to the wife.

OLD soul, some thirty years ago,

(To think on't makes my bosom glow;)
You taught me, (may the Almighty bless
Thee doubly) what was happiness,

And since, calm Reason for our guide,
We've liv'd a life most satisfied,
Without a simple thought to roam,

On other joys than those at home.
Thou then, my dear, wert handsome: now
Old age has furrow'd o'er thy brow,
Right reverend white thy silver hair,
Some lack of teeth-what then my dear?

The beauties, which you erst possess'd,
Reside in Nancy's face and breast:
Her blooming cheek, her brilliant eyes-
What yours did once, excite surprise;
Yes, all your virtuous daughters share
The graces, which you used to wear.
The sons, which, under God, we've rais'd,
Are worthy sons, His name be prais'd:
Desire to please us all express;
Sure this, my dear, is happiness.
One only grief corrodes my heart:
Who knows, alas! how soon we part?
But part we must, to grieve is vain,
Perhaps we part to meet again.

That thought, O Death, eludes thy dart,
And pours true comfort on my heart.
I am not without trust, whate'er

Confusing notions interfere,

That, after death, creation's Lord,

A new existence will afford,

With greater powers of thought and sense,

T' enjoy his free munificence;

So let that rest, both now and then,
His Heavenly will be done. Amen.

FOR THE PORT FOLIO.

TO MALVINA.

WRITTEN AT THE FALLS OF THE PASSAIC.

ALONE on the banks of Passaic I roam'd,

Oh clear flow'd its waters through vallies so green; O'er bold jutting rocks its wild cataract foam'd,

All Nature combin'd to embellish the scene.

O'er hills and through dales, and each wild tangl'd wood, As onward I wander'd, entranc'd with each view;

Babb❜ling Echo replied to the loud roaring flood,

And bright were the flowers bespangl'd with dew. So wrapt was my soul in this dream of delight, My heart in its magic delusion so caught, All worldly reflections were driven to flight,

E'en thou, dear Malviña, one moment forgot.

Oh yes! for a moment, thy memory slept,

And Nature triumphant enjoy'd her full sway; But the next, to my heart the remembrance crept, That thou who gave joy to each scene wert away.

Then faded the landscape, and sorrow possest

That heart which before was so joyous and light:So transient the pleasure that dwells in my breast, Depriv'd of thy converse my fondest delight. July 29th, 1811.

OSCAR.