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Like a cold frost that nips the tender bud,
Death, with relentless hand thy thread hath cut,
And bade AMiction mourn thy early loss.
His rapid march thy beauty could not stay
Nor thy infantile smile his purpose move.

No more thine eyes with liquid lustre shine,
Thy little hands their faery skill have lost,
And mute is now the tongue that charmed old age,
And won with fond delight, the ears of all.
With heart untainted by Corruption's ways
Thy spirit upward soars to seats of bliss
Where no rude cares molest: where endless joys
Bright and unmixed shall greet thy happy flight
To realms, where all the weary are at rest

And wicked men no longer persecute!
Baltimore, March 5, 1809.



Before either the chirping, or the classical reader peruses the following, let him run to his bookcase and turn to that far famed ode of Gray entitled The Fatal Sisters. We think this Parody for a mere magazine effusion is something more than tolerable. It is very melodious and poetical. The allusions to the London fire offices will not be unintelligible here, for Philadelphia has her Phoenir. Our readers may rest assured that it is much pleasanter, as well as wiser to smile at such merriment as the following than to frown at the dulness of our neighbours, the dulness of the times, or the dulness of the day. Editor.

Now in robe of bombazeen

Sable Night enshrouds the air,
Coaches, “ few and far between,”

Rattle through the darkened square.

Where the million lately trod

Now the watchman seeks to tame Votaries of the reeling god,

Daughters of the Paphian dame.

Hark! an echoing scream I hear,

Harbinger of blows and battleGuardians of the night draw near,

Summon’d by the watchman's rattle.

In a hack, that carries four,

Slow I move the streets along, Tree,* that once a monarch bore,

Forms the axle stout and strong,

Pelican, embowell'd maid,

Eagle, Rock and Atlas see, Followers of the insurance trade,

Hark! they sing the mournful glee. Ere the shades of night retire

Wheels shall rattle, engines shake, Streets and lanes reecho "fire,

Wakers bawl and sleepers wake.

Vulcan, fir'd with deadly hate,

Limps to Lemnos back again :
Where we nail our brazen plate,

Roars th’ Ignipotent in vain.
Now the engines ranged complete,

Bid the pagan god retire;
Phoenir, pride of Cockspur street,

With thy pinions shroud the fire.

We the pipes to Fortune give,

Ours to quell each anxious throb; Firemen roar out“ By your leave,"

Clear the streets, and duck the mob. Tides, which late the plugs confin'd

Underground, unknown to fame, Now, in many a kennel join'd,

Tumble to the banks of Thame.

* Royal oak.

Low in sleep see Rolla lie,

Dreaming of Peruvian dames;
Wake! to Covent Garden hie,

See thy theatre in flames.

Long its loss shall London rue,

Sing its dirge in Drury Lane,
Ne'er again its likeness view,

Till they build it up again.

Ver the choak'd piazza wide

Banners sleep with Moon and Sun;
Firemen, point the irriguous tide,

Firemen, cease, the mischief's done.

Sisters! each inspect her book,

Some will wail and some will frisk,
Wo to those who premiums took,

Happy, who declined the risk.

Mortals who remain in doubt,

Wisdom learn from what ye view,
And if your policies be out

Quick your policies renew.

Hence! to guard your household store,

Goods and chattels keep secure,
Each produce the unwilling ore,

Hurry, hurry, to insure.



The other day while examining the contents of an old pocket book I came across the following communication. It appears to be made up of selections from various authors; the greater part of the sentences however, seem to be taken from the Spectator. If, under these circumstances, you think the paper entitled to a place, in the sententious department of your Port Folio, you will oblige, by inserting it, your obedient servant


Just praise is a debt, but flattery is a present.

The hours of a wise man are lengthened by his ideas; those of a fool by his passions.

Never praise yourself with compliments which may be applied to others with more advantage.

When you fall into a man's conversation, the first thing you should consi. der is, whether he has a greater inclination to hear you, than that you should hear him.

No man heartily hates him at whom he can laugh. :
Light sorrows speak-great grief is dumb.
Never use unnecessary proofs in an indisputable point.
Better one thorn pulled out, than all remain.

He who is a troublesome companion to himself, will never be an agreeable one to others.

A man should never be too much addicted to any one thing.
Express your sentiments with brevity.*

A man's first care should be to avoid the reproach of his own heart--his next to escape the censure of the world.

If a great deal of knowledge is not capable of making a man wise, it has a natural tendency to make him vain and arrogant.

Every person should obtain, if possible, a disposition to be pleased.

An ingenious mechanic, who employs his time in constructing puppet shows, is like Swift making riddles.

If I am to suffer I would rather it should be from the paw of a lion, than the hoof of an ass.

Hypocrites are of two kinds—the modish or fashionable, and the vulgar or common. The first endeavours to appear more vitious than he really is; the other wishes to seem more virtuous.

An author should take all methods to humble himself in the opinion he has of his own performances.

It is a certain sign of an ill heart, to be inclined to defamation.

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• Indeed, Mr. Oldschool, I am so much in favour of this maxim, that I think with the celebrated Butler that

“ Brevity is very good
“ When w'are, or are not understood.”

- We seldom find
Much sense with an exalted fortune joined.
As the world leads we follow.
There is nothing that we receive with so much reluctance as advice.

It is a difficult matter to praise most men without putting them out of countenance.


Some of Mr. Wordsworth's earlier effusions of poetical genius were certainly not unworthy of the muse. But, of late, he has extended so far his theory of simplicity in writing, that it degenerates into burlesque and puerility. Some wag thus scoffs at the poet.



Simplicity is a characteristic of the highest species of poetry. Now no one has carried the simple so far as Mr. Wordsworth, and as I hold it good sense to imitate perfection, I have taken him for my model. The piece in which these knes occur has given most uneasiness to my Ambition :

Violets, do what they will

Withered on the ground must lie:
Daisies will be daisies still;

Daisies they must live and die:
Fill your lap and fill your bosom,
Only spare the strawberry blossom.

Vol. II, p. 116.

I fear much lest some little meaning which may have crept into my verses, through the want of habit, should prove destructive of that exquisite simplicity at which I aim. But what scholar is not inferior to the master? what copy falls not short of the original?

Fair women win the hearts of men,

Men, the hearts of women too;
It has been so, the Lord knows when-

What then can the poor things do?

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