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Knows nought of fear, nor coy disdain,
But has a heart for others' pain.

I hear, I hear their murm'ring noise,
Assure me of our future joys:
List, list, my girl! the list’ning breeze,
Wafts thy words o'er waving trees;
How sweet they steal upon my ear,
Like promises of bliss sincere!

Thus 'tis that Hope's delusive gleams,
Will cheat youth's gay romantic dreams;
Yet when we claim her proffer'd aid,
To win the long-sought promised maid;
Alas! we find she but beguiles,

Like woman's faithless, fleeting smiles!
April, 1806.

SEDLEY.

FOR THE PORTFOLIO.

“ UDITO HO CITEREA."

IMITATED.

“Love from his anixous mother flies :"

Thus spoke the Queen of smiles and joy, “ A rapturous kiss shall be the prize

“Of him who brings the wandering boy."

I know his haunts, his wanton wiles,

His voice I hear when Celia speaks;
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;
When on her liquid eye I gaze,

I see his baby image there.
Give me the kiss, thy boy I've brought;.

Give me the soul-enrapturing prize,
From Celia, I the urchin caught,

And in my throbbing heart he lies.

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,
No more, for her its day resplendent shine,
But grief eternal rule, like wrath divine,
Blotting from earth's drear scene each mental ray,
That chased the phantom of Despair away.

When Fortune saw me all her gifts resign,
No murmur waken'd, for thy love was mine;
Poor is the boon that waits on Fortune's store,
Since the full-pamper'd heart still pines for mores

DISTRESS on thee, my son, her mildews shed,
To kill the laurel blooming round thy head;
Chill'd by her wrongs, but not to these resign'd,
For warm as Summer glow'd thy active mind;
No syren Pleasure, potent to betray,
Ere lur'd thy lone, and studious hour away;
But Science on thy young attractions smil'd
For Genius gave thee birth, and call'd thee child;
The painter's art, the minstrel's touch sublime,
And many a charm of polish'd life were thine.
And thine the soul sublime; too ardent wrought;
The impetuous feeling, and the burst of thought.

Poor BOY! I thought thou o'er my urn would'st weep,
And grieving yield me to the tomb's cold sleep,

• CHARLES WARD APTHORP Morton, who expired the 28th of Fe. buary, 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 bonourable pursuits of science. His heart was ardent and sincere, abounding with passions, and affections, his integrity unblemished, and his death produc tive of inconsolable grief to his unfortunate parents.

Not in thy dawn of years, when Hope was gay,
Like Heaven's bright Arch of Promise melt away,
Seen like a sunbeam, in the Spring's chill hour,
And transient as the garden's earliest flow'r;
But dearer far than rays that morn illume,
And lov'lier thou than Nature's vernal bloom;
These, when the storm has past, again return,
But what shall wake thy deep, death-slumb’ring urn?
What but the voice of Heaven! that strain divine,
Which bids the heaving earth its trust resign:

Then thy bold Genius, and thy feelings wild, .
No more to wrongs, and woes, shall bear my child!
But that warm heart to generous pity prone,
Where thy blest rays, celestial kindness, shone,
With the pure essence of that brain of fire,
Shall to a Seraph's fervid flame aspire:
And Angels with Archangels, pleas'd to find,
The rich expression of thy kindred mind;
Charming from memory's thought, its earthly pain,
Shall give thee to thy Mother's soul again.

FOR THE PORT FOLIO.
On singing to the piano with a friend, the pathetic ballad of Mo-

zart'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,
The fatal words died on my tongue,
And as you touch'd the trembling keys along,

Through lucid gems I saw you sadly smiling.
“ Forget me not," ah! song of wo!

For never more our joys uniting,
With Sorrow's sigh no more to glow;
No more shall Pity's tear together flow,

Our love, our hopes, our joys forever blighting.
“Forget me not," oh! ever dear,

Let thrilling mem'ry o'er my fancy stealing,
As next you sing “ Forget me not," a tear
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.”

FOR THE PORT FOLIO.

SOPRA IL RITRATTO D'ANACREONTE.

DEL CAV, G. COLPANI.
Quanto, se guardi il crin, vecchio è costui!
Se i versi, chi è più giovane di lui?

IMITATED.
ON A PICTURE OF ANACREON.
In every feature of his face,

Appears the hoary sire:
But in his verse, such glow, such grace,

As suit Apollo's lyre.

FOR THE PORT FOLIO.
AD UN UOMO DEFORME.

DI RONCALLI.
Se ami te stesso, Aronte,

Fuggi lo stagno e il fonte:
Che, come il bel Narciso
Giá vi perì d’Amor,
Tu con quel brutto viso
Vi puoi morir d'orror.

ON A HIDEOUS UGLY FELLOW.
Dare not, Narcissus like, my friend,
O'er the limpid mirror bend;
Should you therein your visage spy,
Of horrors dire you'll surely die.

FOR THE PORT FOLIO.
LA BELLA SCELTA.

DI PANANTI.
Mio padre vuol ch'io sposi un letterato;

Mia madre, un ricco che figura faccia;
Mio nonno un uom d'illustre sangue nato:
Ed io vo' per marito un che mi piaccia.

THE JUDICIOUS CHOICE.
My father desir'd, I would marry a sage,

My mother, a suitor with riches in store,
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 flatter. ing critique on the novel just published under the title of Laura, I cannot 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 de. scribes 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 verbaprolong 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 Ameri. can. It is as far superior to the crowd of novels daily issuing from the pres. ses of Europe, teeming with the wildest absurdity, in the guise of romance, as the eagle-flights 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 (f horror attendant on such a scene of universal deso. lation are well conceived and forcibly presented to the mind. If the reader will suffer his imagination to dwell on the description, bis 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 disperseda ra. riety of pertinent reflections, so artfully disposed as not to detract in the least

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