which they thought proper to adopt, none, it may be hoped, will be displeased at this effort to preserve such a memorial of the dawn of periodical literature in the United States. Our canvas would be incomplete, if it did not exhibit some of the lines of Asmodeo, Ithacus, Harley, Mercutio, P. D., N. B., Ferdinando, J. H. (the popular critic of Shakspeare) P. B. K., Littleton, and several others who amused the public in verse and prose."

The bookseller thought well of this scheme, and we agreed that the undertaking should be commenced without delay.

JUVENAL-SATIRE XIII.

J. Q. A.

The following version of the thirteenth Satire of Juvenal is from the pen of one of the first contributors to the Port Folio. It was the intention of the author to translate the whole of the remains of this vigorous satirist; and when we contemplate the spirit and fidelity of this specimen of his powers, there is some reason to regret that Juvenal was not naturalized in our domestic litera

ture by his pen. His design was abandoned in

consequence of the annunciation of Mr. Gifford's elaborate work. Politics not long after seduced our author from the pursuits of classical literature, and a long series of public services has recently been rewarded by the most exalted station which his country could assign.

It is not a part of our plan to indulge in what is termed cotemporary biography; but, as a part of our literary history, it may be stated that the individual here referred to is the author of the "Journal of a Tour through Silesia," in the first volume of the PORT FOLIO, which has since been republished in London, in 2 vols. 8vo., and also of several beautiful versions from the German; together with various other communications to the same Journal.

THE ARGUMENT.

Calvinus had deposited a sum of money in the hands of a friend, who upon being required to restore it, denied having ever received the trust. Calvinus appears to have been too much affected at this incident, and Juvenal addressed to him this Satire, containing topics of consolation to Calvinus for his loss, and of reproof for the extreme sensibility he had manifested upon the occasion.

FROM Virtue's paths, when hapless men depart,

The first avenger is the culprit's heart;
There sits a judge, from whose severe decree
No strength can rescue, and no speed can flee;
A judge, unbiass'd by the quibbling tribe!
A judge, whom India's treasures cannot bribe-
Calvin, what thinkest thou the world will
say,

To see thy faithless friend his trust betray?
Yet, to thy fortune, is the breach but small;
Thy purse will scarcely feel the loss at all;
Nor are examples of such baseness rare!
'Tis what in common with thee thousands bear;
A single drop of water from the deep!

A single grain from fortune's boundless heap.
Excessive sorrow let us then restrain:

A man should measure by the wound his pain!

Though keen thy sense, the smallest ill to meet,
Must thy blood boil to find thy friend a cheat?
The sacred trust committed he denies-
But, at thy age, can treachery surprise?
When threescore winters thou hast left behind,
To long experience art thou still so blind? .
Great, and prevailing is the sacred lore,
Which Wisdom, Fortune's victress, has in store;
But we consider likewise those as blest,

Who meet the woes of life with placid breast;
Bred in life's school, who bend beneath her

sway,

Nor from her yoke would draw their necks

away.

Is there a day so festive through the year But frequent frauds and perfidies appear? A single day, but sees triumphant vice With lurking dagger, or with loaded dice?

Small is the train who honour's paths pursue; The friends of virtue are a chosen few:

So few, that gathering o'er the spacious earth
A full collection of untainted worth,

Scarce could you find a number, free from guile,
To match the gates of Thebes, or mouths of Nile.
Such are the horrors of our modern times,
They bleach the blackness of all former crimes:
The age of iron has long since been past,
And four besides, each blacker than the last,
A ninth succeeds, compared with which, of old,
The age of iron was an age of gold:

An age, which nature dares not even name,
Nor yields a metal to express its shame.
The faith of gods and men, our lips attest
Loud as a great man's pimps applaud his jest.
But hoary infant! art thou still to know
With what bright charms another's treasures
glow?

Go!-fetch the rattle of thy childhood, go!
What peals of laughter rise on every side!
How all the town thy simpleness deride!
To see thee ask, and with a serious brow,
That any mortal be not perjured now;
To see thee now, of any man require
Faith in a god, and terror of hell-fire.
These tenets truly our forefathers held,
Ere from his throne old Saturn was expelled;
Before he laid his diadem aside

And in the rustic sickle took a pride.

While Ida's caves were yet the haunts of Jove
Nor virgin Juno, conscious of his love.

No revels then were ever seen to rise
Among the heavenly tenants of the skies;
No Trojan boy, no Hebe's form divine
To fill the goblets with inflaming wine;
With unwashed hands, no smutty Vulcan came
To quaff the nectar, from his anvil's flame.
Each god was then content to dine alone,
Nor was our motley mob of godheads known;
Small were the numbers of the blest abode;
Nor weighed down wretched Atlas with the load;