slighted widow became now greater than ever. She appealed to the audience to bear witness to the atrocious conduct of the gay deceiver, who had himself arranged the meeting, in order to settle every thing to their mutual satisfaction. A letter, which she produced at the same time seemed to confirm her depositions, and although the student denied that he had any knowledge of the writing, it availed him nothing, and the indignation against him became pretty general. Several travelling mechanics, and other people, thought it very wrong to abuse thus the good nature and credulity of a lone widow; and a stout butcher distinguished himself particularly by the warmth with which he took up the affair; he offered himself as formal champion to the offended beauty, and Jeremiah thought it advisable to withdraw from the unequal contest. He was fortunate enough to reach the thick part of the forest in safety, and without being pursued; but his feelings were of the most unpleasant description. He had perceived many of the court-attendants among the crowd; and Mr. De Pilsen, in particular, had not escaped his hasty glances: he was now fully convinced, that the whole scene had originated in a contrivance, and that the hostess must have been misled in the same manner as he had been taken in himself by the message of the lacquey at the gate of the town. He feared much that his pretended connexion with the hostess would come to the ears of the Princess, and his greatest wish was, that he might meet her during the chase, and so justify himself from so odious a charge.
[To be concluded in our next.]
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Poetry.
CONSTANCY.
WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF A LADY.
Ideal cheat, unreal form;
Being of fairy fiction born,
From fancy’s realm creative torn,
No human habitation thine
In courtly hall, or hermit’s cell;
Celestial vision, nymph divine,
Destined in bowers far off to-dwell!
And, Constancy, if thou the theme
Decreed to wake the delphic string,
Ah! where, save in some glittering dream,
Shall prune the muse her weary wing?
For though, by dazzling hope beguiled,
We woo thee, angel bright and fair!
Ah! when on this lone desert wild,
Did aught so fond, so true appear!
Thy seraph form of grace to find?
Quickly thou fliest—not arrow’s flight
More swift upon the viewless wind!
Or is’t in Love’s angelic face,
We fain would own thy starry shrine?
As well the keel’s light furrows trace,
O’er which the sparkling billows shine!
And Friendship, treacherous, dazzling maid,
Too oft thy smiling semblance wears,
Then laughs to scorn the wretch betrayed,
And revels in our sighs and tears!
No, Constancy, much-vaunted guest,
Fair being of the poet’s brain;
Not here, celestial maid, thy rest,
Not here thy blest elysian reign:
Ah no!—Go, and with eagle flight,
Through bowers of bliss unfading rove;
Go, and repose in cloudless light,
Too fair, too pure for mortal love!
Liverpool. G.
UPON READING AN EPITAPH BY BOILEAU UPON HIS MOTHER.
A wife who liv’d respected in his eyes:
Unus’d to strife, alike unknown to fame,
We ask’d no honours and deserved no blame:
The tranquil path of peaceful life we trod,
And sought no praise but from approving God:
Thus on the current of an easy tide
We liv’d contented, and contented died;
And, calmly floating down life’s noiseless wave,
Now slumber silent in one common grave.
Our dear Boileau, will meet a fate as mild;
Perhaps far different his lot may be,
Cast on the terrors of a stormy sea;
Should he for learning leave domestic peace
(As with our knowledge oft our cares increase;)
Perhaps his heart may feel the fatal stings
Which the sharp tooth of cruel envy brings.
Warned by these lines may’st thou his fame forego,
And say his mother kindly taught thee so;
For fools alone would wantonly presume
To slight a lesson taught them from the tomb.
Liverpool. Z.
STANZAS.—THE HEIRESS’S COMPLAINT.
[From the New Monthly Magazine.]
That I am young, and rich, and fair,
And wonder how my soul can feel
The pangs of sorrow and of care?
The sparkling jewels that are mine,
And name the suitors o’er and o’er
Who breathe their incense at my shrine?
Whose loveless vows are bought and sold;
Know that the heart I sigh to gain,
Despises, spurns my worthless gold.
The son of genius and of mind;
He climbs the steepy path of fame,
Content to leave the crowd behind.
I hear the same false flatteries o’er,
He patient wastes the midnight light
In studious toil, in learned lore.
And then he stands retired, apart,
And views the dance, and hears the song,
With listless look and joyless heart.
His mind to fame, to science clings,
Throned in a world of visions high,
Of deep and vast imaginings.
The praise of coxcombs may employ;
But he regards that dross as base,
He holds that beauty as a toy.
These flashing gems, these robes of state,
And nightly must submit to share
The paltry vanities I hate.
My passion with unfeeling jest,
While smiles of more than Spartan pride
Can hide the tortures of my breast.
Can banish anguish from its shrine,
And say if ever tale was told
So sad, so sorrowful as mine.
LINES WRITTEN ON A TOMBSTONE.
For they are felt by all.—Montgomery.
That rears its moss-grown head alone,
Beneath the elder’s shade;
And as we muse, with pensive mind,
Let fancy rove, no more confin’d,
And question of the dead.
Or Wealth her tide of favours roll
On his exalted head?
Ah, no! that truth is quickly known,
No proud and letter’d marble stone,
Points out his humble head.
And that pure happiness impart
That makes on earth a heaven?
To her a captive ear he lent;
But oft his rash and blind assent
To conquering Vice was giver.
Had brightened every fleeting hour
Of his enraptur’d day?
If that dense cloud of pain and woe,
That rests on every head below,
Dispers’d before her ray?
“Though oft before his dazzled eyes
My fairy visions came;
He found that joy is but a dream,
And saw but in my guileful beam,
An ignis fatuus flame.”
Cries frowning Woe, in accents hoarse,
And waves her iron wand;
“Cease farther question, id er vain,
Throughout his life he own’d my reign,
And writh’d beneath my hand.
In torpid peace, or restless strife,
He felt my galling chain;
Did worldly dreams before him rise,
I frown’d upon the glittering prize
And prov’d the vision vain.
As opes the fair and fragrant rose
In summer’s balmy morn,
I wither’d soon that lovely flower,
The fading beauty of an hour,
And only left its thorn.
Not slave that tolls within the mine,
Not monarch on his throne;
Not hermit’s life, nor stoic’s heart,
Avert my sharp envenom’d dart,
I yield to death alone.”
Everton. BION
TO THE EDITOR.
Sir,—Perceiving that you have amused many of your readers with a specimen you have given of the sublime, I am induced to contribute from the portfolio of memory another example, which I consider no mean one, of the bathos, or false sublime, as follows:
The bully Boreas on his bagpipe plays;
When old Acquarius ducks this earthly ball,
And empties on our heads his urinal!
When rumbling clouds on grumbling clouds do dash,
And ’midst the flashing lightnings, lightnings flash,
Hogs, dogs, and men perceive the troubled sky,
Hogs, dogs, and men, away for shelter fly;
Whilst all around the black, dark, gloomy scene
Looks red, looks black, looks white, looks gray, looks green!
So green, so gray, so red, so black, so white
Look’d Don Grimalcho when he saw—The Sprite.
A letter from Molinella, in the legation of Bologna, of the 6th, says, that within the few last days a great number of meteoric stones have fallen in the neighbourhood of the village of Arenazo.
