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Safely lodg'd at home, And all secur'd against the wind stern rising, I press'd refreshment on my travell'd guest, Who well enjoy'd the delicate repast Of viands flavour'd, new and cooling drinks. Full easily she believed herself brought By design to this so happy spot: and sure She deem'd aright—It was her God's design: Only she thought from God and not from man. Think still, sweet maid, the same! No reasoner Shall e'er disturb thy God's domain in thee! . Still from the same pure fountain thou shalt drink!
Still, in the Light Divine shalt thou see light.
• • • • t
With rising morn the wind subsides: the clouds Fly lighter and to higher air sublime, Discharg'd of all their weight. The eastern breeze Resum'd is balmy; and creation lives.
The wreck we next examine: there, nor man,.
She broods no tempest
The sailors hop'd
The female age matur'd and wise, her child's Guardian, hung for life on men! While she pray'd That they would save her daughter's life and her's, A sweeping billow bore her to the deep.
Shortly awake, Elmira join'd me soon,
Unknown diversities of landscape strike:
We are sure our readers will forgive the eccentricity of the above extracts, for their sweetness and beauty. Subjoined to The Hurricane is a poem, entitled, A Solitary Effusion, the excellence of which induces us to transcribe it entire.
"What is the cloudless sky to me? Nature's
Hark! Here are groves
Here, too, are haunts of love, as well as grand
Or antient minstrels sung, of Dryad or
Lonely their solitary haunts I view:
'That, which the heart lays waste!' I hear exclaim'd
'Twas not the warrior's gleam, that thinn'd our shades And harshly grated human discords there: He pass'd unheeded when the storm was o'er, And left no measured ravage. Not the man Of boisterous nature was our foe; that man Was nature still, and her behests obey'd. The man of art, is nature's foe and man's And God's. His desolating axe wastes all,
That speaks a God, Creator of the land;
And marks it for his own. The ground not then
Yields an impartial feast to man, to fowl,
And all the family of God; but train'd
To furnish famine, mocks at God and all.
No shades are holy, nor are rural scenes.
The man of art proscribes all nature; marks
For dread the embow'ring thicket form'd for love
And love's delights of peace; and wise in this
Career of ruin, he; for love itseVf
Is the first dread—love the first great terror
Of the man of art—commutual foe!
And yet is love the universal friend :.
And, (hear the choir of nature, man and God !)
The man of art, the universal foe,
He dreads himself—hates love he can't subdue—
His God arraigns—all nature desolates!
But hence, let Nature rise and reign in man!
And him destroy who has destroy'd the earth;
While God inspires, and love unites the world!'
To live dissociate of the man of art
And his dissociate earth, usurp'd and curst!
Shortly his ruin whelms; the dam is broke!
The founts of fire are broken up, as erst
Of the great deep, arid fire now streams along,
Innocuous round my rest! See! It comes!
And claims the springs of nature for it's own!"
We cannot conclude better, than with the following noble passage from the notes.
"A man is supposed to improve by going out into the world, by visiting London. Artificial man does; he extends with his sphere, but alas! that sphere is microscopic. It is formed of minutiee, and he surrenders his genuine vision to the artist, in order to embrace it in his ken. His bodily senses grow acute, even to barren and inhuman pruriency; while his mental become proportionally obtuse. The reverse is the man of mind. He who is placed in the sphere of nature and of God, might be a mock at Tattersall's and Brookes's, and a sneer at St. James's. He would certainly be swallowed alive by the first Pizarro, that crossed him:—But, when he walks along the river of Amazons; when he rests his eye on the unrivalled Andes; when he measures the long and watered Savannah; or contemplates from a sudden promontory, the distant, vast Pacific—and feels himself a freeman in this vast theatre, and commanding each ready produced fruit of this wilderness, and each progeny of this stream—His exaltation is not less than imperial. He is as gentle too as he is great: his emotions of tenderness keep pace with his eleTatioo of sentiment; for he says, ' These were made by a good Being, who, unsought by me, placed me here to enjoy them.' He becomes at once, a child and a Lin5. His mind is in himself; from hence he argues and from hence he acts; and he argues unerringly and acts magisterially: his mind in himself is also in his God; and therefore he loves, and therefore be soars. He knows where he is; his speculations do not outfly his practice; for he thinks he knows nothing bat what be proves. The vast pride of discovering experimental philosophy cannot, indeed, be his; for discovery is precluded by incessant knowledge."
Aht. XI.— Biographical Memoirs of Extraordinary Painters.
Aoyot if' ^ivom tixoik£«t oAvdiiar.
Aphthonius Progymnas. Pr.
London: Printed for J. Robson, Sew Bond-street. 1780. Cr. 8vo.
Some works derive a considerable portion of the interest attached to them from the character of the writer; an observation that will, in a certain degree, apply to the publication before us, which was one of the earliest literary efforts of the author of Caliph Vathek. It possesses, however, other claims on our attention, and, though obviously a juvenile production, is by no means deficient in interest, as will appear from the extracts which we shall proceed to lay before our readers.
In a short prefatory advertisement, the editor states himself to be in possession of some particulars relative to the author of these Memoirs,—'' which might interest the curiosity of a respectable class of readers, and even prepossess tbem in favour of the publication. As, however, an impartial judgment on its merits is wished for, and the editor's availing himself of such an advantage, might suggest the idea of attempting to bias the public opinion, no communication of the sort is allowed. Permission could not be obtained to mention even the particular age at which the author wrote these pieces. It was in vain the editor's partiality for them, induced him to express something more, than a hope that their merits with the public might rest little on that circumstance. For he has ever been persuaded that the success of the most admired productions of the ingenium precox, at least in our own language, has been much more owing to their intrinsic worth than to the period of life at which they were written. His principal motive, could he