Knows nought of fear, nor coy disdain, I hear, I hear their murm'ring noise, List, list, my girl! the list'ning breeze, Thus 'tis that Hope's delusive gleams, Like woman's faithless, fleeting smiles! "LovE from his anixous mother flies:" Thus spoke the Queen of smiles and joy, I know his haunts, his wanton wiles, I see him laugh when Celia smiles, His blush reflects from Celia's cheeks. The wanton rogue himself betrays, I see him mesh'd in Celia's hair; I see his baby image there. Give me the kiss, thy boy I've brought;. From Celia, I the urchin caught, And in my throbbing heart he lies. C. FOR THE PORT FOLIO. LAMENTATION OF AN UNFORTUNATE MOTHER OVER THE TOMB OF HER ONLY SON.* O LOST! "for ever lost!" thy Mother's eyes No more shall see thy Morn of Hope arise, Blotting from earth's drear scene each mental ray, POOR BOY! I thought thou o'er my urn would'st weep, CHARLES WARD APTHORP MORTON, who expired the 28th of Febuary, 1809, aged 22, of a Dropsy of the Brain, a disease uncommon in adults; but always accompanied by premature, and extraordinary capacity. In him its fatal termination was accelerated by sedentary habits, and intense study, having at his early age, already made improvements in medical Electricity, for which he received a certificate from the President, and Professors of Harvard University; and was at the time of his death arde.tly engaged in a course of Observations, and Experiments, which indicated a mind of uncommon force, and great originality. He was eminently gifted with a taste for the Fine Arts, particularly painting and music, although for the two or three last years of his life, he had relinquished their cultivation, from an apprehension of their power of attracting his mind from the more honourable pursuits of science. His heart was ardent and sincere, abounding with passions, and affections, his integrity unblemished, and his death produɑ tive of inconsolable grief to his unfortunate parents. Not in thy dawn of years, when Hope was gay, And Angels with Archangels, pleas'd to find, Charming from memory's thought, its earthly pain, FOR THE PORT FOLIO. On singing to the piano with a friend, the pathetic ballad of Mozart's "Vergiss me nicht,”* a few days previous to quitting my native country. "FORGET me not," nor yet the song, Its plaintive notes our tears beguiling, And as you touch'd the trembling keys along, Forget me not," ah! song of wo! No more shall Pity's tear together flow, "Forget me not," oh! ever dear, Let thrilling mem'ry o'er my fancy stealing, Shall gently fall, my beating heart to cheer; I'll never thee forget while I have life and feeling. JULIA FRANCESCA. * The German of " Forget me not." Mio padre vuol ch'io sposi un letterato; THE JUDICIOUS CHOICE. My father desir'd, I would marry a sage, Q. My grand dad, a man of great parentage; But I'll none of the three. I'll wed him I adore. Q. LITERARY INTELLIGENCE-FOR THE PORT FOLIO. LAURA, A NEW NOVEL. MR. OLDSCHOOL, Although your first number contained a very spirited, correct, and flattering critique on the novel just published under the title of Laura, I canno forbear to express the delight afforded me by its perusal. It is a sim. ple tale, told with inimitable pathos; and cannot fail to elicit a tear from all whose hearts beat responsive to the sentiments of humanity. The author declares it to be founded on fact, and the scenes she describes so closely resemble those which too frequently occur in real life, that her assertion is entitled to the most perfect credit. And this is one of the charms of the work. We are not called upon to yield our sympathy to imaginary distresses, but an attack is made directly upon the heart through the very passes which Nature herself has pointed out as the most exposed to an assailant. There is no one situation in which Laura is placed into which we cannot perfectly enter. We feel every pang that rends her bosom, we sympathize in all her joys. Horace lays it down as a maxim-that "Non Deus intersit, nisi dignus vindice nodus." Our author follows a better rule, and avoids entangling her story, in such a tissue of circumstances as would require supernatural aid to unravel. Her style is simple, well adapted to narration, and on particular occasions highly energetic. It is pure and polished English, and cannot displease the ear of the most classical scholar. No bombastic epithets,, no " sesquipedalia verba" prolong a tedious page. No affectation of conciseness gives rise to obscurity. Had there been less of it the heart could not have indulged sufficiently in the luxury of feeling it excites. Had there been more, the inability of our nature to support, too long, any unusual excitement, would have lessened its effect. We glory in considering it the production of an American. It is as far superior to the crowd of novels daily issuing from the presses of Europe, teeming with the wildest absurdity, in the guise of romance, as the eagle-fights of the immortal Milton to the petty productions of a Bayes skimming like the swallow along the surface of the ground. The description of the dreadful ravages of the yellow fever is admirably drawn. All the images of horror attendant on such a scene of universal desolation are well conceived and forcibly presented to the mind. If the reader will suffer his imagination to dwell on the description, his sensations will do justice to its force. The situation of poor Laura after her supposed desertion by Belfield; and at his bed-side in the closing scene, is drawn in the most vivid colours, and must wring the drop of pity from the hardest heart. The moral of the story is excellent. And throughout are dispersed a variety of pertinent reflections, so artfully disposed as not to detract in the least |