The New-York Weekly Magazine, or Miscellaneous Repository Part 98

_For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

LINES ON THE LATE SCOTCH POET.

"Full many a gem of purest ray serene, "The dark, unfathom'd caves of ocean bear; "Full many a flow'r is born to blush unseen, "And waste its sweetness on the desart air."

GRAY.

The brightest rays of genius fail To guard its sons from earthly grief, Wisdom alas! can naught avail, Or to the suff'rer yield relief.

The sons of Genius hapless race, To often are the sons of woe; The dreary path of want they trace, Or to the grave unheeded go.

Such, BURNS, was thy unhappy fate, Such the reward of worth like thine; The muse deplores thine humble state, Which thy bright talents could confine.

Offspring of nature--self-taught Bard, Thy memory respect commands: And though on earth thy lot was hard, Thy shade th' applauding lay demands.

To thee, the muses lov'd to bring, The sweets of Poetry refin'd; 'Twas thine in humble strains to sing, The mild effusions of thy mind.

Seduc'd by nature's pleasing sway, Her influence fas.h.i.+on'd ev'ry line-- Her beauties shone throughout thy lay, Her beauties made the lay divine.

But many a gem, both rich and bright, Th'unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: And dark seclusion hides from sight Full many a flow'ret, sweet and fair.

ALEXIS.

New-York, Dec. 6, 1796.

_To a Gentleman who attempted drawing the Picture of a beautiful Young Lady:_

Vain the attempt of Phbus' darling boy, To guide the flaming chariot of the sky; Vain the attempt of Daedalus' favourite care, With artificial wing to cleave the air; But vainer still thy fond attempt to trace, The matchless beauties of that heavenly face: Where every grace, and every charm combin'd, Confess an angel's form, an angel's mind; How couldst thou then a likeness hope to strike?

The task requires a Reubens or Vand.y.k.e!

MORAL VERSES, ADDRESSED TO YOUTH.

Whilst early youth spreads smiling skies, While yet the golden prospects rise, Which glowing fancy forms: And yet your bark is seen to glide Down pleasure's smoothly pa.s.sing tide, Nor fears impending storms.

Attend a while the moral lay, Be wise, if possible, TO-DAY; No FUTURE period trust.

TO-MORROW is beyond your pow'r; Perhaps the fondly-promis'd hour May lay you in the dust.

If now with health your pulse beats high, And joy sits sparkling in your eye, Yet be the flame represt; Your sails, while fav'ring zephyrs kiss, With moderation taste the bliss, That warms your swelling breast.

Nor deem fair virtue's rules severe, Ill habits make them so appear, Learn timely sloth to shun.

Be then the s.h.i.+ning track pursu'd, Nor follow the rash mult.i.tude, That rush to be undone.

Where mad excess leads forth her hand, Think Circe waves her direful wand; Her poison'd cup beware; Still shun the insolently vain, And where you see the crew profane, Avoid the fatal snare.

Be all your thoughts by conscience try'd; Let purity your actions guide; Fly ribaldry obscene.

When ardent pa.s.sion claims her sway, And to enjoyments points the way, Let Reason mark the mean.

Dare to be good without a boast; The substance oft in forms is lost; Let truth direct your plan.

The vaunt of Pride, while you disdain, In your deportment yet maintain THE DIGNITY OF MAN.

AN EPIGRAM.

[By Dr. Byrom.]

What is more tender than a Mother's love To the sweet Infant fondling in her arms?

What arguments need her compa.s.sion move, To hear its cries, and help it in its harms?

Now, if the tenderest Mother was possest Of all the love, within her single breast, Of all the Mothers, since the world began, 'Tis nothing to the Love of G.o.d to Man.

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, December 28, 1796.+ [+No. 78.+

+Lamentations Of Panthea Over The Body Of Abradates.+*

Be the garland of hope withered by the sigh of disappointment; be the lute of gladness no more responsive to the fingers of melody. What hast thou to do with dreams of rapture, with scenes of visionary transport, with the whispers of fancy that mock the ear of attention? Thou hast nothing to do with them. O ill-fated Panthea! thy peace, thy loves, thy joys are at an end: the howl of calamity has chased thy slumbers of happiness, and doomed sorrow and solitude to be thy hapless handmaids.

How terrific is the brow of anguish to the eye of complaisance! to the children of festivity how convulsive is the cup of astonishment! My heart is as the heart of a babe that weeps bitterly; I have all the weakness of childhood, and all the sorrows of age. As the patient whose malady scoffs at physic, I am hopeless without a cure, I am disconsolate as the ghost of midnight among the tombs of my forefathers. Why, O thou nurse of my infancy, didst thou reserve me to such a date? why was I ever lulled upon the lap of tenderness? Would that ere the dawning irradiations of reason I had died, in the morning of existence thy Panthea had died; thou hadst wept over her urn with less mortal anguish.

But cease, O thou nurse of my infancy, for the fault was not thine: thy imagination was enraptured with the fictions of fondness, and painted fairer prospects for thy much-loved Panthea: thy love reared around her the pavilions of ease, plucked the thorns of adversity from the garden of pleasure, and perfumed her paths with the incense of roses. It was not thine to descend to the recesses of thought, and chase honour from its abode as the a.s.sa.s.sin of peace. It was thy charm, O inhuman honour!

that made captive my discretion, and seduced me from the waters of consolation to the precipices of despair. Why did I soar after thee on the wings of ambition, and spurn at contentment for deriding thy deceit?

My fancy thought thee fairer than a studded diadem; more splendid than the gold in the waves of Pactolus. Thou art fair, I said, and beautiful beyond the visions of rapture; and the youth who holds my heart I will endeavour to possess thee. I will enlarge upon thy glories that his soul may catch thy fire; I will urge him to the plains of conquest; but, lo!

he bleeds beneath the spear.--Ye virgin daughters of Bactria, you have seen the youth of my love: my love was foremost among the candidates for honour, he was a hero without pre-eminence. His heart never fainted at the clang of war; when the oriflamb of battle was erected in his view, he stood strong as the gate of Susa, and immoveable as its battlements.

In the conflict he was dreadful as a host sheathed in terrors; rough and terrible as a wave conflicting with the spirit of the blast. No force dared oppose the burning flames of his wrath; he curbed the fury of the sons of thunder in their midnight career, and waved the faulchion of conquest over the heads of potentates. But when the Poeans of victory have dismissed him from the plain, ye virgin daughters of Bactria, you have seen him hasten to my arms, all placid as the smile of virginity in the morning of youth; meek and gentle as a bride conducting to the bowers of her bridegroom. When shall he exult at the voice of fame above the s.h.i.+eld of his might, and bear the wreath of glory from his warring compeers? Alas! can the tear of evening resuscitate the broken primrose of the vale, or shall the poplar once fallen grace the banks of Zenderhoud; his s.h.i.+eld of might is defenceless, his wreath of glory is decayed, and the trumpet of fame has no music for his ear. Fool that I was, why did I urge him to the fight? why did I arm his fort.i.tude against unequal slaughter! The burden of calamity presses heavy on my soul---my spirit faints within me---I die, I die!---Is there no kind consoler of another's anguish, in the tenderness of sympathy, to speak peace to my grief?---Thou weepest in the bitterness of affliction, O thou, whose hand dried the tear in the eye of infancy; but that infancy in vain matured by youth, waits the offices of age---soon thy charity shall accomplish what thy tenderness has begun, when the breast that now heaves shall throb no more, and the breath that now murmers shall be silent forever!