Blest with the sacred presence, who shall dare
To paint thy wond'rous scenes, where angels praise?
Or aught of human ken with thee compare?
Advent'rous task! but Fancy still will raise
Her piercing eyes, and on those wonders gaze.
She that has rov'd the mountain forest o'er,
And oft by murm❜ring streamlets musing strays:
She that the wings of vollied lightning bore,
And lists unraptur'd to the tempest's roar;

Say, can Imagination raptur'd view
Each lovely scene and not to Heaven aspire?
Each picture e'er admiring poet drew,
Without the glad enthusiast's glowing fire?
And, oh the bliss! when joys that never tire;
Unclouded skies, and fields forever fair,
Devotion true and holy love inspire!

Where man is happy and unknown to care;

And blissful regions he and minist'ring angels share.

Here though each scene is fair and soft the gale;
And kindly suns their genial gifts impart;
Though sweetest scents the budding flowers exhale,
And social good with gladness warms the heart:
Yet vice and misery have their gloomy part,
And the wild hurricane those charms destroy:
The raging earthquakes vanquish human art,
And Nature's various sweets have their alloy;

While Pestilence and War combine to murder human joy.

Enchanting Maid, farewell! O may thou still,

Breathe on the Minstrel harp and wake the strings:

Bend the retiring* Poet to thy will,

And hover o'er him with thy guardian wings.

Harp of the north! thee from his grasp he flings;

Nor longer courts thy Heaven directed spell;

No longer now his tuneful number rings

With witching melody along the dell,

O dear enchantress! leave him not-farewell.

* In allusion to Walter Scott's beautiful conclusion to the Lady of the Lake.

FOR THE PORT FOLIO.

"THINKS I TO MYSELF."

Good night! but yet another look,
Another smile to light my way;
Another leave in fondness took,
To warm my heart another day.

Good night! Tomorrow, love, I go-
A parting kiss-a fervid one,

Ah! do not wet those blushes so!
I must indeed, I must be gone.

Sweet girl, good night! Another kiss,
A thrilling press of hands alli'd!
O God! a pledge of love like this,
Is more than all the world beside.

"Thinks I to myself"-L.

FOR THE PORT FOLIO.

TO MALVINA, WITH A LOCKET OF HAIR.

Go ringlet, seek my gentle love,
And to her heart be prest;
A pledge of fond affection prove,
Enthron'd upon her breast.

There heaven-born Virtue ever dwells

With Faith and Truth entwin'd;

Still in that heart, that Pity swells,

Is constant Love enshrin'd,

And bear with thee my fervent pray'r,
Which ne'er, ah ne'er hath ceast,
May she be Heaven's peculiar care,
And all her hopes be blest.

OSCAR.

FOR THE PORT FOLIO.

RETROSPECTION.

Forbear awhile, my soul, the recollection

Of griefs with which thou art too weak to cope;
Come Mem❜ry, take thy wonted retrospection
Of days, when I could fondly cherish hope.

Of days, when Fancy, through the future soaring,
Would to my view some airy scene portray;
Her devious flight the flow'ry path exploring,

Where Glory beam'd, or Pleasure lov'd to stray.

How gay was ev'ry form, Time's magic mirror
Presented then to Fancy's brightening eye,
No clouds o'erhung, no tempests, arm'd with terror,
Deform'd the scene, or darken'd in the sky.

Bright scenes of youth! where while I dwell delighted,
I lose the dark remembrance of my woes;

How sweet the thought of you, when far benighted
Is ev'ry future prospect of repose.

While on life's troubled sea, at random driven,
By every boisterous gale of fortune tost,
How sweet appears the calm, the peaceful haven,
I left behind, on youth's delightful coast.

Yet what I fondly cherish as a treasure

Is but the vain illusion of a dream

I wake, and quick dissolves each scene of pleasure,
As morning mists before the solar beam.

Long have I felt thy scourge, oh chastening Sorrow!
Thou hast nigh shaken Reason from her seat;
Fond Hope no more dwells cheerful on tomorrow,
Into the bitter draught infusing sweet.

Oh Hope! thro' life's dark troubled scene of mourning,
How oft thy light has led my step astray!
And now, that I have wander'd past returning,
The ignis fatuus cheers no more the way.

The same will be the sad effect forever,
When Hope directs to aught beneath the skies;
Ah let me then each mean affection sever,
And tear my heart from all terrestrial ties.

T. I. M.

TO READERS AND CORRESPONDENTS.

From the author of a beautiful piece called the Mocking Bird, in our last number, we shall be happy to hear often.

The Maniac is obviously the production of one who has himself often felt the "fine frenzy" of a poet, and it will give us pleasure to communicate to the public, all the utterable things of his fancy.

The Evening Contemplation, by N. Herminius, and many other poetical communications are received, and shall be treated with due attention.

We some years since, read in The Port Folio, with singular interest, a poem entitled A Picture of Boston, by Caradoc. Although loudly reprobated at the time for the caustic severity which distinguished it, yet we are persuaded, such is our sincere respect for the capital of Newengland, that the gloomy masses of shade with which the picture was darkened, were only devices of the artist to give a bolder relief to his favourite figures. But incredulous as we are of the fidelity of the likeness, we cannot deny our homage to the genius of the painter, since in every touch we recognised the hand of a master. If, therefore, Caradoc the traveller, be still within the reach of our voice, and not altogether indifferent to our opinions, we invite him most cordially to resume his pencil. Without presuming to indicate subjects for his talents, we may suggest that our country offers many a smiling landscape, and many a well-proportioned figure, which will give variety at least to his severer delineations, and we feel convinced that like the mighty masters under whom he

has studied, and who portray now the mournful horrors of a crucifixion, and now the airy enchantment of the graces, his versatile pencil is familiar with all the varied forms of ideal beauty and deformity.

G. is a valuable correspondent, whose communications will always be acceptable.

The Latin translation of Cato's soliloquy was received too late for insertion in our present number; but our correspondent may confidently address to us any productions of a similar cast in his possession. He would add to our own and the public satisfaction also by imparting occasionally some of the rich harvest of his own mind; since, if we are not mistaken, he is one whom the world acknowledges to be "a scholar, and a ripe, exceeding good one."

We are encouraged in the prosecution of our history of the Fine Arts by the decided approbation of our readers. Strange as it may seem, there is not in our own or in any other language, as far as our researches extend, any regular, consistent history of the schools of painting, and the lives of the artists; and the well written monthly article in this journal, is, we believe, the first digested account from authentic materials that is before the public. The artist may find in it a faithful sketch of the progress of his art, and even the general reader be interested by the biographies of men of eminent genius.

The tour through some parts of Asia Minor, will be published as soon as our limits permit. We would recommend to this tourist, as he advances, a scrupulous attention to dates and to all the minutia which give so much authenticity to a journal, always remembering the forcible though coarse expression of Gray, that two lines on the spot, are worth a cartload of recollection.

Hamet is greeted with a cordial welcome, after so long an absence; and we shall expect in future, to profit much by his liberal leisure.