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" LETTERS OP AN ITALIAN NUN AND ENGLISH GENTLEMAN. BY J. J. ROUSSEAU.

FOUNDED ON FACTS.

“ Away, away, your flattering arts
May now betray some simpler hearts;
And you will smile at their believing,
And they shall weep at your deceiving.”

ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING, ADDRESSED TO

MISS

DEAR simple girl, those flattering arts,
From which thoud'st guard frail female hearts
Exist but in imagination, –
Mere phantoms of thine own creation ;
For he who views that witching grace,
That perfect form, that lovely face,
With eyes admiring, oh! believe me,
He never wishes to deceive thee:
Once in thy polished mirror glance,
Thou'lt there descry that elegance
Which from our sex demands such praises,
But envy in the other raises :
Then he who tells thee of thy beauty,
Believe me, only does his duty:
Ah! fly not from the candid youth;
It is not flattery, — 'tis truth.

ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY, COUSIN TO THE AUTHOR, AND

VERY DEAR TO HIM.

Hushed are the winds, and still the evening gloom,

Not e'en a zephyr wanders through the grove, While I return to view my Margaret's tomb,

And scatter flowers on the dust I love.

Within this narrow cell reclines her clay,

That clay where once such animation beamed; The King of Terrors seized her as his prey,

Not worth, nor beauty, have her life redeemed.

Oh! could that King of Terrors pity feel,

Or Heaven reverse the dread decrees of fate! Not here the mourner would his grief reveal,

Not here the muse her virtues would relate.

But wherefore weep? — her matchless spirit soars

Beyond where splendid shines the orb of day; And weeping angels lead her to those bowers

Where endless pleasures virtue's deeds repay.

And shall presumptuous mortals Heaven arraign,

And, madly, god-like Providence accuse ? Ah! no, far fly from me attempts so vain,

I'll ne'er submission to my God refuse.

Yet is remembrance of those virtues dear,

Yet fresh the memory of that beauteous face; Still they call forth my warm affection's tear,

Still in my heart retain their wonted place.

TO MISS PIGOT.

Eliza, what fools are the Mussulman sect,

Who to woman deny the soul's future existence; Could they see thee, Eliza, they'd own their defect,

And this doctrine would meet with a general resistance.

Had their prophet possessed half an atom of sense,

He ne'er would have women from paradise driven, Instead of his houris, a flimsy pretence,

With women alone he had peopled his heaven.

Yet still to increase your calamities more,

Not content with depriving your bodies of spirit, He allots one poor husband to share among four! With souls you'd dispense; but this last, who could

bear it?

His religion to please neither party is made :

On husbands 'tis hard, to the wives the most uncivil; Still I can't contradict, what so oft has been said, “Though women are angels, yet wedlock 's the devil.”

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Since the refinement of this polished age
Has swept immoral raillery from the stage;
Since taste has now expunged licentious wit,
Which stamped disgrace on all an author writ;
Since now to please with purer scenes we seek,
Nor dare to call the blush from Beauty's cheek;
Oh! let the modest Muse some pity claim,
And meet indulgence, though she find not fame.
Still, not for her alone we wish respect,
Others appear more conscious of defect:
To-night no veteran Roscii you behold,
In all the arts of scenic action old;
No Cooke, no KEMBLE, can salute you here,
No Siddons draw the sympathetic tear;
To-night you throng to witness the debut
Of embryo actors, to the Drama new:
Here, then, our almost unfledged wings we try ;
Clip not our pinions ere the birds can fly:
Failing in this our first attempt to soar,
Drooping, alas! we fall to rise no more.
Not one poor trembler only fear betrays,
Who hopes, yet almost dreads, to meet your praise ;
But all our dramatis persone wait
In fond suspense this crisis of our fate.

No venal views our progress can retard,
Your generous plaudits are our sole reward ;
For these, each Hero all his power displays,
Each timid Heroine shrinks before your gaze.
Surely the last will some protection find;
None to the softer sex can prove unkind :
While Youth and Beauty form the female shield,
The sternest Censor to the fair must yield.
Yet, should our feeble efforts nought avail,
Should, after all, our best endeavors fail,
Still let some mercy in your bosoms live,
And, if you can't applaud, at least forgive.

TO EMMA.

Since now the hour is come at last,

When you must quit your anxious lover; Since now our dream of bliss is past,

One pang, my girl, and all is over.

Alas! that pang will be severe,

Which bids us part to meet no more,
Which tears me far from one so dear,

Departing for a distant shore.

Well: we have passed some happy hours,

And joy will mingle with our tears;
When thinking on these ancient towers,

The shelter of our infant years;

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