The New-York Weekly Magazine, or Miscellaneous Repository Part 47

The awful thunder rolls repeated peals, And by its grandeur wakes the careless soul To sense of thee, the Author all divine: Thee the dispenser of such mighty pow'r, To man's dark soul incomprehensible.

Now fierce and keen the livid lightning flies In course irregular--the blazing heav'ns Seem wrapt in flame; the timid earth, Affrighted at the scene, beneath our feet, Shakes with the strong convulsion; Now renew'd, with still increasing force, Is heard the dreadful near approaching sound, Which swiftly following the repeated fire, Calls up dread apprehension of th' effect; Perhaps this moment--on our friend awaits Instant destruction--by the mighty hand Of Heav'n remov'd, inseparate to view Thy glory rolling in bright realms above; Or, under covert of some lofty oak, Th' affrighted cattle find their last retreats; And in the gen'ral conflict swift expire.

Not so the soul refin'd, the views serene, The solemn scene around--in wonder lost, And contemplation of the great Supreme.

Thou whose strong arm supports these numerous worlds, Rolling the year in periods various: Thou who canst keep her 'midst ten thousand fears, Safe from all harm, secure from ev'ry woe, Thee She adores--and trusting all to thee, In pious resignation waits th' event.----

S----

+For the New-York Weekly Magazine.+

LINES

_On hearing a young Lady singing a favourite Song._

Mild o'er the scene calm twilight reigns, Her music wanders through the air; While echo still repeats the strains, That warbling charm "attention's ear."

The falling note, that cadence sweet, The tuneful melody prolong; My dying pulses slowly beat, Such is the magic power of song.

A louder strain now swells the air, My waken'd senses with it rise; Such sweet confusion ransoms care, And mitigates all rising sighs.

AMELIA.

PEARL-STREET, _Aug. 18, 1796_.

PADDY'S REMARK ON A TREBLE RAP AT THE DOOR.

When first simple Paddy was brought to the city, He was told to be smart, and he wish'd to be witty: _Arrah_ tell me, says Pat, what the reason can be, At one rap I'm let in, and the _Measter_ gives three.

+For the New-York Weekly Magazine.+

THE TRIBUNAL OF CONSCIENCE.

When retrospection casts a guilty eye On crimes of youth and days of lawless sport, Blessings abus'd, and time profusely squander'd; Th' Almighty's image in the human breast Polluted, and false deities ador'd; What solid satisfaction can the joys, The glittering trifles of this life afford?

--Not regal splendour, nor enormous heaps Of s.h.i.+ning ore, nor reputation earn'd By smooth hypocrisy, nor pleasures strain'd By art's device, to satiate the sense Beyond the bounds of reason, can afford Aught of serenity or peace of mind.

In vain invention furnishes new schemes To drown reflection: these abortive prove, And leave unadvocated and abash'd, At the dread bar of Conscience, him who late Defy'd her power and spurned her admonitions.

--Now prostrate falls the culprit in the dust, While thund'ring through his soul the awful voice Shatters his stubborn will, and breaks the bands Which tie his darling vices to his heart.

Nor is this call the signal of destruction-- 'Tis but the voice of love omnipotent, Once speaking in a still small voice, but now Rising with power t' accuse and to deride; Which once intreated, now commands attention, And wretched, doubly wretched is the man Who still endeavours to evade its influence.

VIATOR.

NEW-YORK _Sept. 15, 1796_.

THE s.h.i.+ELD OF SORROW.

_By W. P. Carey._

When Heav'n dissolves the sacred tie Which binds two faithful souls in one, Where shall the sad survivor fly, The arrows of despair to shun?

Oh! can the musing hours of grief A pause from keen remembrance know?

Or rooted sorrow find relief From empty forms of outward woe?

Can fortune's smile his peace recall?

Or can the sprightly song and dance, Where pleasure's festive train in all The mazy rounds of joy advance?

Ah no!--this world no cure bestows; In vain is ev'ry human art; From pure religion only flows A balm to heal the wounded heart.

_On a Lady putting a White Rocket in her Bosom._

When the sweet scented Rocket so fair, To her breast, dear Sophia applied, Overcome with soft whiteness there; It drooped, lost its beauty and died.

NEW-YORK: _+Printed by JOHN BULL, No. 115, Cherry-Street+, where every Kind of Printing work is executed with the utmost Accuracy and Dispatch.--+Subscriptions+ for this +Magazine+ (at 2s. per month) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and by E. MITCh.e.l.l, Bookseller, No. 9, Maiden-Lane._

_UTILE DULCI._

THE NEW-YORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE; or, Miscellaneous Repository.

+Vol. II.+] +Wednesday, September 28, 1796.+ [+No. 65.+

_THE LADIES' MONITOR._

Addressed to Every Fair Reader, Whether Single or Married.

A mult.i.tude of admirers is an object too generally coveted by young females, yet it is certainly a very improper method to be taken by such as wish to be happy in matrimony. Sensible and well-meaning, worthy and sincere men, are seldom attracted within the circle of those who adopt this conduct; if they should fall within it, it is very seldom that they long retain the slight chains of such a love.--In particular, it is remarkably improper and absurd for a woman, who has already a sensible lover, to languish for a number of flatterers to admire her---should she miss of her aim, she fancies herself unhappy: should she succeed, she is likely to be really so. A man who values his own honour, or the dignity proper for the female whom he addresses to a.s.sume, will by no means admit of this plurality of lovers, any more than the laws will admit of a plurality of husbands.