The American Mufe.

ORIGINAL POETRY,

To E THELIND E.

H! ceafe the dirge like lay," my Ethelinde;
Wipe off the tear that quivers in thine eye,
Nor let the bofom of my bet lov'd friend
Heave with the deep but unavailing figh.
On the broad pinions of unwearied Time

Our months and days are fwiftly borne away,
And each fucceeding hour, in conftant chime,
Configns fome dear enjoyment to decay.

Age fteals the rofe from the dejected cheek,
And plants his enfigns on th' unwilling brow;
Cheerfulness fighs--and Wit forgets to speak,
Loft in eternal torpor Oh what woe!

But Grief, (ah me! how well the truth I know,)
Grief, with officious hand, propels us on,
Urges our speed, left Time fhould move too flow,
And ere we reach Life's noon, our fun goes down.
Ceafe then to weep, my beauteous Ethelinde,

Ceafe thine own rugged path with thorns to ftrew;
Oh check thofe griefs i know not to befriend,
Nor give aloofe to fuch immoderate woe.
What! fhall my cares on ALMA reft alone?
Shall all thy wishes to MYRTILLO Aly?
And fhall the heart that meets no kind return
Burft-coward like-and bleed its channel dry?
No Ethelinde-with generous pride I burn,
ALMA-the noble ALMA, I refign,

And though my heart awhile its lois may mourn,
It never to relenting fhall incline.

The gracious POWER whofe word hath given us life,
And mixt our cup with pleafure and with pain,
Will ftrength afford to pass the mental ftrife,
Or ftrength at least the conflict to fuflain.

Oh! would but man enjoy the bleffings given,
How many tears had never learn'd to flow,
How few deep fighs had wing'd their courfe to heaven,
How few the hearts furcharg'd with helpless woe!

For us young Evening fheds her foft perfumes,
For us blithe Morn expands her golden eyes;

For us the Sun heav'n's azure arch illumes,
And forests bloom for us, and oceans rise,

But oh! the ingrate man, with felfish mind,

He fpurns the blifs which heav'n defign'd his own;

His airy with outstrips the hafty wind,

And grafps at raptures never to be known.

In efforts vain he toils away his days,
Purfuing Fancy in her mad career;
Though till deceiv'd, he ftill her call obeys,
And finks at laft-the victim of Despair.

Such is vain man's-and fuch hath been our lot,
Such the dim mift that dark'd our earliest years;
Fixt on our happiest hours a lafting blot,

And bath'd each following day in heart-wrung tears.

Where are the golden joys we once have known?
Where the calm comforts which for us have bloom'd?
Smooth, gliding fcenes of Peace! they all are gone,
All by oblivious Sorrow-all entomb'd.

Oh!

Oh! fad regret, the feeling heart beats full,
Vain prove th' attempts wild nature to fubdue:
My lyre is ftruck with wandering hand and dull,
While lawless tears the pausing strings bedew.
New-York, Aug. 2, 1792.

MAGINATION! whither art thou fled ?

Why ceafe to blefs my folitary hours?

Why droops the wreath of variegated flow'rs?
Where now is thy enchanting influence fhed?
Why haft thou left my foul a liftlefs void,
Each tender feeling-each fine fenfe destroy'd ?-
No more thy fweetly-facinating pow'r

Gilds with fantastic dreams my midnight hour,
Or leads tranfported thro' the wakeful night
To mufe beneath the pale moon's trembling light-
In fweet delufion loft, I once could rove
Thro' the bright meadow and deep-fhaded grove;
Or in the windings of the dufky vale,
Along the rufhy-border'd stream,
Purfue the meteor's livid gleam;
While Inspiration's power

Breath'd foft from ev'ry flow'r,
And gently whisper'd in the gale.
Nor lefs refponfive to the voice of art,
Or fenfelefs to its touches, mov'd my heart,
When the melting power of fong
Play'd upon the tuneful tongue;
When the skilful hand beftow'd
Life upon the warbling lyre;
When the artifl's magic fire
On the living canvass glow'd;
Sculpture bade the marble breathe;
Mufes twin'd the myrtle wreath,
Joy infpir'd the voice to fing;
Beauty charm'd with lively glance,
Pleafure led the jocund dance,

Rapture touch'd the trembling ftring

No more can nature's fweets allure my tafte;

Nature prefents an univerfal waste :

Confus'd appears the variegated fcene,

Each grove a gloomy fhade, each field a lifeless green,

In vain the painter's richest colours glow;"

In vain the sweetest strains of music flow;
Science in vain her ample book difplays;
The arts their foothing aid refufe,
And the dejected mufe

Drops from her languid hand the wither'd bays.

CAROLINE.

Thro

Thro' all my foul the dull contagion creeps,
Each focial joy, each sweet emotion fleeps ;
My heart, no more with Friendship's ardor fir'd,
No more with Emulation's glow inipir'd,
Slow fends the vital current thro' my frame,
The voice of Joy unmov'd can hear,
From Pity's call withholds the tear,

Nor throbs with tranfport ev'n at EMMA's name.
Thy pow'r, Misfortune, fpreads this gloom around;
Chill'd by thy touch the flow'rs of Fancy fade;
Imagination in the fetters bound,

Feels its best flights-its nobleft efforts ftay'd.
Defponding Genius mourns his drooping fires,
Shrinks from thy fight and with a figh expires.

THE DRONE.]

SELECTED POETRY.

MONODY to the MEMORY of CHATTERTON.
By Mrs. M. ROBINSON.

I

F Grief can deprecate the wrath of Heaven;
Or human frailty hope to be forgiven !
Ere now thy fainted fpirit bends its way
To the bland regions of celeftial day;
Ere now, thy foul, immers'd in pureft air
Smiles at the triumphs of fupreme Despair;
Or bath'd in feas of endless blifs, difdains
The vengeful memory of mortal pains;
Yet fhall the MUSE a fond memorial give
To fhield thy name, and bid thy GENIUS live.

Too proud for pity, and too poor for praise,
No voice to cherish, and no hand to raise;
Torn, ftung, and fated, with this "mortal coil,"
This weary, anxious fcene of fruitless toil;
Not all the graces that to youth belong,
Nor all the energy of facred fong;

Nor all that FANCY, all that GENIUS gave,
Could fnatch thy wounded spirit from the grave.
Hard was thy lot, from every comfort torn;
In POVERTY's cold arms condemn'd to mourn;
To live by mental toil, e'en when the brain
Could scarce its trembling faculties sustain ;
To mark the dreary minutes flowly creep:
Each day to labour, and each night to weep;
'Till the laft murmur of thy frantic foul,
I proud concealment from its mansion stole,
While ENVY fpringing from her lurid cave,
Snatch'd the young LAURELS from thy rugged grave.
VOL. III. No. 8.

H

D.

So

So the pale primrofe, fweeteft bud of May,
Scarce wakes to beauty, ere it feels decay;
While baleful weeds their hidden poifons pour,
Choke the green fod, and wither every flow'r.
Immur'd in fhades, from busy scenes remov'd;
No found to folace,-but the verse he lov'd;
No foothing numbers harmoniz'd his ear;
No feeling bolom gave his griefs a tear;
Obfcurely borno gen'rous friend he found.
To lead his trembling fteps o'er claffic ground.
No patron fill'd his heart with flatt'ring hope,
No tutor'd leffon gave his genius fcope;
Yet while poetic ardor nerv'd each thought,
And REASON fanction'd what AMBITION taught;
He foar'd beyond the narrow fpells that bind
The flow perceptions of the vulgar mind;
The fire once kindled by the breath of FAME,
Her reftless pinions fann'd the glitt'ring flame;
Warm'd by its rays, he thought each vifion juft;
For confcious VIRTUE feldom feels DISTRUST.
Frail are the charms delufive FANCY fhows,
And fhort the blifs her fickle fmile beflows;
Yet the bright profpect pleas'd his dazzled view,
Each HOPE feem'd ripen'd, and each PHANTOM true;
Fill'd with delight, his unfufpecting mind

Weigh'd not the grov'ling treach'ries of mankind;
For while a niggard boon his wants fupply'd,
And NATURE's claim fubdu'd the voice of PRIDE:
His timid talents own'd a borrow'd name,
And gain'd by FICTION, what was due to FAME.
With fecret labour, and with taste refin'd,
This fon of mis'ry form'd his infant mind!
When op'ning Reafon's earlieft fcenes began,
The dawn of childhood mark'd the future man!
He fcorn'd the puerile fports of vulgar boys,
His little heart afpir'd to nobler joys;
Creative Fancy wing'd his few fhort hours,
While foothing HOPE adorn'd his path with flow'rs,
Yet FAME's recording hand no trophy gave,
Save the fad TEAR-to decorate his grave.
Yet in the dark, myfterious fcene of woe,
Conviction's flame fhall fhed a radiant glow;
His infant MUSE fhall bind with nerves of fire
The facrilegious hand that ftabs its fire.
Methinks, I hear his wand'ring fhade complain,
While mournful ECHO lingers on the ftrain;
Thro' the lone aifle his reftlefs fpirit calls,
His phantom glides along the minfter's walls;
Where many an hour his devious footsteps trod,
Ere Fate refign'd him to HIS PITYING GOD.
* Bristol Cathedral.

Yet,