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of composition. After the acqui- would hardly expend on an octavo. sition of ideas, which have been The author of the Æneid was twenstrengthened by reflection and ty-seven years in perfecting that chastened by purity of taste, he beautiful mental fabrick, which,like submits them to a correct arrange- the Grecian temples, happily comment and embodies them in a per- bines simplicity with grandeur, and

a spicuous and barmonious expres- dignity with taste. Even some of the sion. From their continued atten- moderns have been convinced of tion to these three constituents, this truth. The celebrated author thoughts, arrangement, and style, of “ Les Lettres Provinciales” reresults the interest with which the cords, that he was agitated ten works of some authors are read. whole days in fixing the significaWe are hurried along by a pleas- tion of a single word. The whole ing violence, and mistake the effect life of the musing Gray afforded of the taste, the judgment, and the the world, but a small bouquet of profound exertions of the writer, intellectual flowers, and even some for the unaffected, spontaneous of these were culled from the rich flow of nature. We seize the pen fields of ancient literature. These with a desire to imitate, but soon examples are sufficient to prove, resign it in despair, convinced how that by those, who have most exnear the perfection of art and the celled in literary composition, fine effusions of nature approach each writing has been considered an other. These are the authors one art, the acquirement of which dedelights to read. These are the pended on a profound and continsublime souls, that seem to have ued exertion of intellect. Ideas caught a ray of inspiration from undoubtedly form the first object heaven to conduct their fellow, of attention, but language, though mortals through mazes of erroui, a subordinate, is still an essential to the sacred bowers of eternal part. Indeed the effect of the fortruth and happiness.

mer results,in a great degree, from The ancients, more honest than the character of the latter. It is by the moderns, acknowledged the the union of these, that the entrapdifficulty of acquiring the art of tured soul is fired by writing well. They never imagined, that tardiness of composition

“Thoughts that breathe, and words

that burn." necessarily implied poverty of ideas, nor that application damped

We cannot but admire, therefore, the mental flame. They prefer- the pains that our authors take to

send forth to the world their imred the steady blaze of intellect to a meteorous brilliancy, which ex

becile productions, which survive pires in the effort that gave it but a day, and then lie dusty and birth. For examples we might neglected on the bookbinder's shelf, mention the poet Euripides, who till they are transported, with other was employed three days in the literary trash, to the pastry cook's composition of as many verses ;

or the trunkmaker's. To these and the orator Isocrates, whose At

writers, thus infected with the catick taste found exercise for ten

coethes scribendi, we would recom

mend the observation of an ancient years on a single oration. The illustrious Cicero could not pen even a

painter, who, when he was accused familiar epistle, without bestowing Diu pingo,quum in æternum pingo.

of tardiness of execution, replied, ,

PHILAUTHOS. economy of our modern writers

a

DOMINI,

For the Monthly 'Anthology.

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Si hic flosculus, in vestrâ Anthologiâ positus, boni aliquid vel “narībus vel oculis haberet, inserite, ac alios mittam.

AD

JULIUM,

ACADEMIAM PRO MERCATURA LINQUENTUM.

Eheu! quam miseri sunt Avaritiæ
Servi, matris "atre sordis et 'asperæ ;
Sulcata assiduo pondere, tempora,
Aurati diadematis.

Vidi, eheu! miseros, Lucifero duce,
Privatim numerantes gravis annulos
Fulgentisque catena; venientis ab
Pallentesque pedis metu.

Juli, in hoc numerari grege sordido,
Musis perpetuò, visne, rejectus ab?
Dic, tantum unde venit, dic, capiti tuo,
Hoc desiderium opùm?

Merces, Virgilii, judice Julio,

Apparet melior versibus optimis

Vasto in gurgite ávarûm i, puer ebrius,

Vestrum oblivius ac tui.

For the Monthl; Anthology.

PASTORAL.

fortunatos nimium, sua si bona norint, Agricolas quibus ipsa, procul discordibus armis

LUCIUS.

Fundit humo facilem victum justissima tellus.VIRGIL.

BETWEEN those sister elms with ivy boar
Peeps out the simple cottage of the poor;
How green before the door that clover-lawn!
How sweet the hedges smell of fragrant thorn!

How pure that brook limps o'er its pebbly bed,

'Tween banks of thyme where 'willows hang the head,
And linnets build, and fly from spray to spray,
And warble wild their song the livelong day.

On yonder hills, that skirt the eastern sky,
When morn begins to peer with prudish eye,
Scarce gilds the mists, that cloud the fuming rill,
Or tips the foam, that breaks beside the mill,
Forth from this dwelling hies the early swain,
And, whistling, field-ward drives his lagging wain.
No wants are his by restless greatness felt,
No studious lids his little taper melt,
Regardless he, howe'er the world may fare,
So timely crops repay his honest care.

Oft have I view'd in still and sultry hours,
All loosely spread beneath his native bowers,
While herds around the flowery pasture took,
This vacant shepherd, sleeping on his crook.
How lightly here methought his moments flew,
Remov'd from noisy fame and publick view;

No seeming friend beside his bosom laid,

But faithful WATCH who guards the checker'd shade;
No fawning slave who waits Ambition's word,

With crimson hand to flesh the murderous sword.

His tuneful groves that gratulate the dawn,
The flocks that wander o'er the peaceful lawn,
And smiling Spring, her hair with cowslips tbound,
From rosy fingers strewing fragrance round;
While cooling Zephyr sports on gelid wings,

Skims o'er the plain and through the greenwood sings,
Shakes liquid pearl from off the nodding sheaf,
Or whispering plays on aspen's twinkling leaf.

When Day retiring fires the glowing west
With broken clouds, that round his forehead rest,
When moping owlets quit the mouldering tower,
And widow'd turtles moan in lonely bower,
When hill and tree a lengthen'd shadow throw,
And mournful Evening comes in weeds of wo,
Returning home the swain with pleasure eyes,
In wreaths fantastick climbing through the skies,
The smoke from out his little cabin creep,
Which trees imbowering veil in umbrage deep.
In 'kerchief clean and speckl'd apron gay,
His Mary speeds to meet him on the way:
While round in breathless haste his children press,
And fondly struggle for the first caress.

And through the naked woods when cold winds blow,
And chirping sparrows nestle in the snow,
While on the bush the slender 'cicles hang,
And bitter Winter bites with icy fang,
Beside the cleanly hearth, where faggots sing,
And through the room a social brightness fling,
Amid the group he sits with marvelling gaze,
Listening the fearful tales of gothick days;
How spectres groaning stalk'd their dusky round
With saucer eyes, in charnel garments wound;
How once in ruin'd castle, strange to tell,
At waste of midnight toll'd the northern bell;
Where none at evening e'er so stout durst stray,
Lest gliding ghost should cross his blasted way.
If chance with passing breeze the casement jar,
All trembling huddle round the speaker's chair.
Thus flow his hours harmonious, tranquil, clear,
While pleasures vary with the varying year.....
Here would I lose the world without a sigh,
And wish my humbler bones inturf'd to lie.

GENTLEMEN,

'PETER PASTORAL.

To the Editors, of the Monthly Anthology.

If the following be too trifling for insertion in the Anthology, it is requested, that it may be laid by without notice.

ON LISTENING TO A CRICKET.

I LOVE, thou little chirping thing,
To hear thy melancholy noise ;
Though thou to fancy's ear may sing,
Of summer past, and fading joys.

Thou canst not now drink dew from flowers,
Nor sport along the traveller's path,
But through the winter's weary hours,
Shall warm thee at my lonely heartb ;
And when my lamp's decaying beam,
But dimly shews the letter'd page,
Rich with some ancient poet's dream,
Or wisdom of a purer age,
Then will I listen to thy sound,
And musing o'er the embers pale,
With whitening ashes strewed around,
The forms of memory unveil ;
Recal the many-coloured dreams,
That fancy fondly weaves for youth,
When all the bright illusion seems
The pictured promises of truth.
Perchance, observe the faithful light
Send its faint flashes round the room,
And think some pleasures feebly bright-
May lighten thus life's varied gloom.
I love the quiet midnight hour,
When care and hope and passion sleep,
And reason with untroubled power
Can her late vigils duly keep i
I love the night ; and sooth to say,
Before the merry birds, that sing
In all the glare and noise of day,
Prefer the cricket's grating wing.
But see ! pale Autumn strews her leaves,
Her withered leaves, o'er nature's grave,
While giant Winter she perceives
Dark rushing from his icy cave ;
And in his train the sleety showers,
That beat upon the barren earth ;
Thou, cricket, through these weary hours
Shall warm thee at my lonely hearth.

For the Monthly Anthology. GENTLEMEN,

Several susceptible youths of your city having been lately employed in making woeful ballads to their mistress' eye-brow, it entered my noddle to attempt something after their manner upon the interesting object of my tenderest attachments,.... Dolly.

EPISTLE TO DOLLY.

FROM the dark gulf of comfortless despair Oh suffer me, thou Empress of my soul, With trembling hand and gizzard" titillating, And heart that beats in unison with yours, Like some twin cherry, by sweet zephyr mov'd, Jostling in concert with its ruby brother, To write to you, your sex's nonpareil.

...

* Lately discovered

Those gooseberry eyes with emerald lightnings big
Beaming sublime like barn-door in the morn,
Have burnt thy Neddy's heart just like, forsooth,
A crisp pork-chop upon a gridiron.
Oh, oh those pouting cherry lips of thine,
Where little cherubim and seraphim
Dance sportive to thy throat's wild melody
Oh Dolly Dumpling, Dolly Dumpling oh!
Deign, deign to squint one ray of love divina
Into my tender bosom, greenlandiz'd
With cold disdain and Lapland iciness.
Paint to yourself my restless form laid prone
In sheets of linen or of cotton made,
There thinking on thy angel mien I toss in pais,
Turning now on this, and then on t'other side,
My throbbing heart the while with forceful beat
Striving to break my ribs and 'scape to thee.
So have I often seen some hapless goose,
In farmer's yard by cruel coop pent in,
Reckless of life beat hard against the slats,
And strive in vain to gain the gabbling flock.

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How pleasant sitting at my cottage door
To view at eve the sun's declining ray,
Soft sliding through the mountain's blushy brow;
To hear the vacant laugh of honest steed,
The beehive's buzz, and courting pigeon's coo.
When toil is o'er, and stretch'd upon the turf,
How sweet to view our little playful lambs
Bound like grasshoppers in a field of hay;
And when our pretty little brindle cow,
Before the wicker gate with meekest look,
Shall ask our pliant hands her teats to squeeze,
How will your Neddy and his Dolly dear,
With each a milking-pail and each a stool,
Express the streams of sweet nectareous dew,
That Gods shall wish to be like I and You.

NEDDY NITRE,

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