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Yet soon these hoary locks of age Shall low as theirs in dust be laid.

There's the sum of my desire. What the world can more present, Will not add to my content; Drink, and set the heart at rest; Peace of mind is always best.

Mirth, when mingled with our wine, Makes the heart alert and free; Should it snow or rain or shine,

Still the same thing 'tis with me, There's no fence against our fall, Changes daily on us wait, Drink, and set the heart at rest,

Of a bad market make the best.

For The Port Folio.

ORIGINAL POETRY.

SONG.

Sweet as the balmy rose just blown, Were Kitty's cheeks of blushing hue, Her eyes like noon-day sunbeams shone, Her lips were moist as ev'ning dew,

Oh lovely was my Kitty!

Her breath as morning Zephyrs sweet,
And tun'd to love, her constant heart,
'Twas rapture with my Kate to meet,
But ah! 'twas misery to part.

How blest was I with Kitty!

My Kitty died! her parting breath
Confess'd her heart was true to me,
Oh! soon my Kate we'll meet in death,
Oh soon sweet maid I'll come to thee!

He sunk and call'd on Kitty!

S.

Thou faithless sword, that harmless fell
Upon the haughty Spaniard's crest,
Swift to my swelling heart go tell

How deep thou'st pierc'd thy master's breast.

But shall proud Spain's destroying son
With transport smile on Zampor's fate;
No-e'er the deed of Death be done,
The Tyrant's blood shall glut my hate.
Yon forked flash with friendly glare
Points where his crimson'd banners fly,
Look down, ye forms of fleeting air,
I yet shall triumph, e'er I die.

He spoke and, like a meteor's blaze,
Rush'd on the unguarded Spaniard's Lord;
Around his head the lightning plays,
Reflected from his brandish'd sword.

Great Capac, nerve the arm of age,
And guide it swift to Garcia's breast;
His pangs shall all my pangs assuage,

His death shall give my country rest.
"Ye powers, who thirst for human blood,
Receive this victim at your shrine"
-Aghast the circling warriours stood,
Nor could prevent the Chief's design.

"'Tis Garcia's crimson stream that flows 'Tis Zampor hurls him to his fate; The authour of my country's woes

Now sinks the victim of my hate." From Garcia's breast the steel he drew, And sheath'd it deep, within his own; "I come, ye gods of lost Peru!"

He said

-and dy'd, without a groan.

For The Port Folio.

THE FALL OF ZAMPOR.

A Peruvian Ode.

Now Ruin lifts her haggard head,

And madly staring Horrour screams, O'er yonder field, bestrew'd with dead, See, how the lurid Lightning gleams! Lo! mid the Terrours of the Storm, From yonder black-brow'd cloud of night, The mighty Capac's dreadful form

Bursts forth upon my aching sight. But ah what phantoms flitting round, Give double horrour to the gloom, Each pointing to the ghastly wound That sent him shroudless to the tomb.

On me they bend the scowling eye,
For me their airy arms they wave;
Oh stay, nor yet from Zampor fly,

We'll be companions in the grave.

Dear victims of a Tyrant's rage,
They're gone-each shadowy form is fled;

For The Port Folio.

MR OLD SCHOOL,

Why "mutato nomine et loco" I ad

dress you under my present signature, is my own secret. But I have particular reasons for wishing the арpearance of the enclosed precisely as I send it. With esteem, I remain your friend.

ODE TO RUIN..

Scis bene, cui dicam positis pro nomine signis.
OVID De Tristibus.

"Ruthless ruin! awful power!
Who guid'st sublime thy iron car!
Who lov'st the solemn midnight hour,
When storms obscure each friendly star,

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What tho' Laura false should prove?
Shall my haughty spirit bow?
Or shall vainly plighted love,

Dim with mists my lofty brow!

No! by all the powers sublime!
Which, Ruin, crowd around thy throne,
Never shall my youth's gay prime,

Such enervate weakness own.

Come then power sublime and dread!
Rob'd in clouds, in darkness, come,
Far around thy influence shed

Sable horrour's awful gloom."
Soon the sullen mists arise,

Midnight roll'd in clouds appears,
And the matron trembling flies,

To sooth her tender infant's fears.
Now the north wind swift ascending,
Sweeps the leafy forest wide ;
And the storm in floods descending,
Swells with rage the mountain tide.

Vivid lightnings flash incessant,

Sheeted spectres burst the grave,
And with horrour struck, the Peasant
Flies for shelter to his cave.

Hark again the thunders roll,
Storms and Tempests howl around;
Sweetest musick to my soul,

How I love thy dreadful sound!
"Come then car-borne Ruin come,
Scenes like this my soul delight,
Come, while mid the storm I roam,
Guided by th' electrick light.”.

ZERBINO.

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know the difficulty, or rather the impossibility of imitating with perfect success the tender delicacies of the Italian poets, I make no apology for its defects. Such as it is accept it from your, &c.

ASTOLPHO.

TO VIOLETTA.

The blooming rose let others praise,
Charm'd with the splendour of its rays.
The lovely Violet, I sing
Deck'd with every grace of Spring.
Sprinkled with the morning dew,
Modest flower of pallid hue
When upon thy verdant bed,
Thou dost raise thy languid head,
Oh thy paleness sure reveals
A heart which love of passion feels.
As th' enamoured maid appears
Sweetly smiling thro' her tears,
Dearest flow'ret thou dost seem,
Beauteous as the poet's dream.
Let the Bacchanalian gay,
Crown him with the rose of May:
Dear to ev'ry lover's heart,
When his sorrows he'd impart,
See he flies, with transport, see,
Lovely Violet to thee.

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Then weep not dear girl if I leave thee be

hind,

My love shall forever endure';

Though beauty may fade, yet the charms of thy mind,

From falsehood my heart will secure
My sweetest Mary.

S.

The price of The Port Folio is Six Dollars per annum, to be paid in advance.

Printed and Published, for the Editor, by SMITH & MAXWELL,

NO. 28, NORTH SECOND-STREET.

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Various, that the mind of desultory man, studious of change and pleased with novelty, may be indulged-Cowp.

Vol. V..

Philadelphia, Saturday, March 5, 1808.

For The Port Folio. TRAVELS.

ORIGINAL PAPERS.

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No. 10.

pearance, on all sides, the notes of the organ, the cloud of incense, and numbers on their knees in prostrate devotion, made it seem as if we had at length found a temple worthy of the Great Father of the Universe; but the glow of religion was soon allayed by the sight of various saints in their various chapels, and the appearance of the Virgin about the size of the large doll, which some lady once made you a present of, and drest in a blue silk petticoat.

From place to place, in all the churches, are confessionals, which have the appearance of a sentry-box, with a partition in the middle, and a small grate through which the penitent on his knees pours forth the secrets of his mind, whilst a priest on the other side listens attentively, and may be supposed to impose penance or to absolve, to rebuke or to encourage, as the occasion may require. Every human institution is liable to be abused, and it would be wrong to argue from the abuse, against the institution itself; but surely, if those among us, who in the earlier part of life deviate from the paths of strict

T

propriety, knew of some good man, some man of God, before whom we might pour forth the sorrows of a contrite heart, whose advice might direct, and whose exhortations might console us, an additional impediment might be thrown in the way of immorality, and the path of virtue be not forever closed to those who may once have wandered away from it.

From the church to the play, the transition will appear a very natural one, and you may judge of my feelings, when seated in one of the largest theatres of Europe, and amidst an audience of three thousand people, and in company with so large a part of my family. A celebrated singer from Paris was lately arrived, and all seemed anxious to hear, and prepared to applaud what they knew had been applauded in the capital. It was the opera of Zemire and Azor, and it was well for me that I was deeply read in the history of beauty and the beast, upon which it is founded; for the theatre was so large, and the noise, (except during the performance of some favourite air) so great, that I could scarcely distinguish a word of what was said on the stage.

If the musick and Mademoiselle Rolando's singing were delightful, the dancing was no less suited to attract our admiration, which would have been complete, had it not been for the almost complete nakedness of the performers: tight flesh-coloured silk drawers, with a slight gauze petticoat, can hardly be called clothes. I am surprised how, even in these latter times, appearances so revolting to any idea of decency can be permitted. There was a circumstance

of visual delusion during the ballet

of the same nature as that which occurred during our sail upon the river. Azor, or the beast, whom the opera makes a great magician, being desirous of amusing Zemire, waves his wand, and a chariot appears in the clouds bearing two persons, whom I took for little images, admiring the

ingenious contrivance by which they were made to turn their heads, as if they were speaking; for not supposing them to be two dancers, my experience did not correct the errour of my sight, and I was all astonishment when on the approach of the vehicle to the stage I saw them get out and dance, and found that, as children express it, they were true and true persons.

We remained at Bourdeaux too short a time to know much more of the inhabitants than may be acquired at publick places: the American consul and his lady, Mr. and Mrs. Lee, were extremely kind and hospitable to us but in their house, we were as in America, and saw the interiour of only one family besides, which was that of the venerable Pierre Texier, whom I had corresponded with formerly; he had struggled through the Revolution, so fatal to almost every merchant of Bourdeaux, and now lived in the bosom of a fine family, and in the exercise of great hospitality. By what I could learn, literature is not as fashionable in Bourdeaux as it was formerly, the demands of the Revolution having taken away the youth for a time, from attending to any call but that of arms, and the Genius of Commerce having revived during the short interval of peace with a degree of enthusiasm which entirely absorbed the publick mind.

Besides the opera-house, there is another and a smaller theatre, where comedies are performed, and where I was very much diverted to see the representation of two or three English characters; they were well

dressed, well-looking personages, with plenty of money, and very liberal; but were made to speak such bad French, as rendered me afraid of my own accent and manner of speaking, for some days after.

(To be continued.).

MISCELLANY.

For The Port Folio.

MR. OLDSCHOOL.

I lately observed, that an anecdote, which made its first appearance in the Wheeling Repository, after "running its merry round through most of the newspapers," had at length excited the critical notice of some city wit,

say

and been lifted to an honourable station in The Port Folio. When I honourable, I speak seriously; for although it is manifest, that the critick intended to gibbet the thing as a malefactor, yet the ceremonies of execution have been so conducted, as to give eclat to this anecdote, which might otherwise soon have been for gotten. When I read this little story,

of the Indian and his venison in The Port Folio, and found it accompanied with three whole pages of critical observations, I was puzzled to suggest any reason why this majestick Zoilus should have fallen with so much fury upon a harmless matter-of-fact production. Surely thought I, the eagle penetration of a Philadelphia critick, must have discovered something uncommonly absurd, or atrocious, in this indian story, or he would not have descended from the lofty scaffold of his classical dignity, to prey upon what he himself considered the garbage of a "Vermont Journal." But notwithstanding these suggestions, as I knew the innocent intention of the writer of the anecdote, and as I could not discover that the article contained anything criminal or absurd, I felt no disposition to abandon my own opinion of the anecdote, though it was denounced by the thunder of homeborn anathema, supported by the auxiliar poignancy of French wit.

thren. This discovery, I confess, mortified my vanity: for I had contemplated entering the list of controversy with the critick, in defence enjoying for once, an opportunity to of this anecdote, and by that means

hold sweet discourse and converse

with a nobleman." But it appeared to me ungentlemanlike to engage with strength would not be mainly directthe critick in a contest, in which his ed against myself. Had the critick's choler been directed against the anecdote, which apparently first awakened his critical animosity, then, I could have traced his fulminations without subjecting myself to any sneering imputations. I ho ever in this state of the case, I took up the might properly be remarked, that this cudgels in defence of the anecdote, it conduct evinced but little courage; for the critick was not seriously contending with the plagiarist, but with Cornplanter, Red Jacket, Littl Billy,

and all their clans of " natural brute beasts," in the western wilderness.

I think, Mr. Oldschool, that in a contest with this critick, I should stand upon " 'vantage ground." If my supposition, that the critick's wrath is levelled not against the anecdote, but against the Indian plagiarist himself

be correct, it will then be obvious to all scholars, that I could not be re

quired to prove this negative position, to wit, that the poor Indian who lost his venison in the wilds of America, had never read Voltaire's Tale of Zadig. On the contrary I think it is evident that I might rest upon the presumption in my favour, and call upon the critick to demonstrate, by legal evidence, the affirmative position, that this "natural brute beast" of an Indian, though not an accomplished "Oxford scholar" was at least conversant with the one thousand and one volumes of Voltaire, and also, that, beast as he was, he had at least accuracy enough, not to blunder in appro

Upon a more minute investigation of the criticism, I thought I discovered, that it was not so much the intention of the critick, to pulverise this anecdote and scatter it to the four winds, as it was to discharge a whole broad-priating to himself the shrewd discoveries of Zadig. And I might alside of literary vehemence against a so insist that until the knowledge and certain red people, whom he seems scholarship of the Indian was demonunwilling to acknowledge as his bre-strated, the charge of plagiarism

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