SONG, ON THE DEATH OF GENERAL WOLFE. In a mouldering cave where the wretched retreat, BRITANNIA sat wasted with care; She mourn'd for her WOLFE, and exclaim'd against fate, The walls of her cell she had sculptured around And even the dust, as it lay on the ground, The sire of the GODS from his crystalline throne And moved with her tears he sent MERCURY down, And these were the tidings that came. BRITANNIA forbear, not a sigh nor a tear For thy WOLFE so deservedly loved, Your tears shall be changed into triumphs of joy, The sons of the East, the proud giants of old, That WOLFE should be called to the armies above, To the plains of QUEBEC with the orders I flew, He cry'd, Oh! forbear, let me victory hear, With a darksome thick film I encompass'd his eyes, Lest the fondness he bore to his own native shore, Should induce him again to return. This Song was written immediately after the Death of General Wolfe. At this time a prize was offered for the best Epitaph on that celebrated hero. Of these Epitaphs I have a manuscript collection of eighteen. Mr. Paine entered the list among other competitors, but his matter growing too ong for an Epitaph, and assuming another shape, he entitled it an Ode; and it was so published in the Gentleman's Magazine. It was soon after set to music, became a popular song, and was sung at the Anacreontic and other societies.-ED. THE SNOW-DROP AND CRITIC, A DIALOGUE. To the Editor of the Pennsylvanian Magazine, 1775. Sir, I have given your very modest "Snow Drop" what I think Shakspeare calls-" a local habitation and a name;" that is, I have made a poet of him, and have sent him to take possession of a page in your next magazine: here he Introduction or Preface to No. 1.-See p. 3. Miscellaneous Letters and Essays, Political Works, Vol. II. comes disputing with a critic, about the propriety of a prologue. Enter CRITIC and SNOW DROP. CRITIC. Prologues to magazines !—the man is mad, But let us hear, what new, and mighty things, SNOW-DROP. Bit by the muse in an unlucky hour, I've left myself at home, and turn'd a flower; I come to sing that summer is at hand, The summer time of wit you'll understand; And that this garden of our magazine, That even critics shall admire the show, If their good grace will give us time to grow: We've various seeds just struggling into birth; Plants, fruits, and flowers, and all the smiling race, That can the orchard, or the garden grace; Our numbers Sir, so vast and endless are, That when in full complexion we appear; Each eye, each hand, shall pluck what suits its taste, The ROSE, and LILY, shall address the fair, And whisper sweetly out, "My dears, take care;" With sterling worth the PLANT OF SENSE shall rise, And teach the curious to philosophize; The keen-eyed wit shall claim the SCENTED BRIAR, While generous juices sparkling from the VINE, CRITIC. All this is mighty fine! but prithee when, SNOW-DROP. I'll tell you, sir! we'll garnish out the scenes, Trees that will bear the frost and deck their tops With everlasting flowers, like diamond drops, We'll draw, and paint, and carve, with so much skill, CRITIC. Better, and better, yet! but now suppose, Some critic wight in mighty verse, or prose, Should draw his gray goose weapon, dipt in gall, And mow ye down PLANTS, FLOWERS, TREES, and ALL. SNOW-DROP. Why then, we'll die like FLOWERS OF SWEET PERFUME, And yield a fragrance, even in the TOMB! IMPROMPTU ON BACHELORS' HALL, At Philadelphia, being destroyed by Lightning, 1775. Fair VENUS So often was mist from the skies, LIBERTY TREE, A Song, written early in the American Revolution. Tune-"Gods of the Greeks." In a chariot of light, from the regions of day, Ten thousand celestials directed her way, And hither conducted the dame. |