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torical account, confers uncommon interest upon the fable.The following extract is a fair example of the phraseology of an Indian warrior:

Miami. (approachès Pochahontas, and his attendants lay skins at ber feet.) Princess, behold the spoils I bring thee. Our hunters are laden with the deer and the soft furred beaver. But Miami scorned such prey. I watched for the mighty buffaloe and the shaggy bear, my club felled them to the ground, and I tore the skins from their backs. The fierce carcajou had wound himself round the tree, ready to dart upon the hunter; but the hunter's eyes were not closed, and the carcajou quivered on the point of my spear. 1 heard the wolf howl as he looked at the moon, and the beams that fell upon his up turned face, showed my tomahawk the spot it was to enter. I marked where the panther had couched, and before he could spring, my arrow went into his heart. Behold the spoil the Susquehannock brings thee!

The ensuing love scene between Rolf and Pochahontas is well wrought, replete with tenderness, and superiour to the composi tion of most of the modern European play-compilers.

Enter ROLFE and POCAHONTAS.
Prs. Nay let me on-

Rol.

No further, gentle love;

The rugged way has wearied you already.

Prs. Feels the wood pigeon weariness, who flies,

Mated with her beloved? Ah! lover, no.

Rol. Sweet! in this grove we will exchange adieus;

My steps should point straight onward; were thou with me,
Thy voice would bid me quit the forward path

At every pace, or fix my side-long look,

Spell-bound, upon thy beauties.

Prs.

Ah! you love not

The wild-wood prattle of the Indian maid,
As once you did.

Rol.

By heaven! my thirsty ear,
Could ever drink its liquid melody.

Oh! I could talk with thee, till hasty night,
Ere yet the centinel day had done his watch;
Veil'd like a spy, should steal on printless feet,
To listen to our parley! Dearest love!
My captain has arrived, and I do know,
When honour and when duty call upon me,
Thou wouldst not have me chid for tardiness.

But, ere the matin of to-morrow's lark,
Do echo from the roof of nature's temple,
Sweetest, expect me.

Prs.

Wilt thou surely come?

Rol. To win thee from thy father will I come;"
And my commander's voice shall join with mine,

Too woo Powhatan to resign his treasure.

Prs. Go then, but ah! forget not-
Rol.

All else, to think on thee!

I'll forget

Prs.

Thou art my life!

I lived not till I saw thee, love; and now,

I live not in thine absence. Long, O! long

I was the savage child of savage Nature;

And when her flowers sprang up, while each green bough
Sang with the passing west wind's rustling breath;
When her warm visitor, flush'd Summer, came,
Or Autumn strew'd her yellow leaves around,
Or the shrill north wind pip'd his mournful music,
I saw the changing brow of my wild mother
With neither love nor dread.

But now, O! now,

I could entreat her for eternal smiles;

So thou might'st range through groves of lovelier flowers,
Where never Winter with his icy lip,

Should dare to press thy cheek.

Rol.
My fweet enthusiast !
Prs. O'tis from thee that I have drawn my being:
Thou'st ta'en me from the path of savage errour,
Blood-stain'd and rude, where rove my countrymen,
And taught me heavenly truths, and fill'd my
heart
With sentiments sublime, and sweet and social.
Oft has my winged spirit, following thine,
Cours'd the bright day-beam, and the star of night,
And every rolling planet of the sky,

Around their circling orbits. O my love,

Guided by thee, has not my daring soul

O'ertopt the far-off mountains of the east,

Where, as our fathers fable, shadowy hunters
Pursue the deer, or clasp the melting maid,

Mid ever blooming spring? Thence, soaring high
From the deep vale of legendary fiction

Hast thou not heaven-ward turn'd my dazzled sight,

Where sing the spirits of the blessed good

Around the bright throne of the Holy One?

This thou hast done; and ah! what couldst thou more,

Belov'd preceptor, but direct that ray,

Which beams from heaven to animate existence,

And bid my swelling bosom beat with love!

The Indian Princess certainly deserves encouragement, and were it not that it is so blended with the absurdities of the melodrama we should have no hesitation in recommending it to the attention of the managers of the Boston Theatre, for the next

season.

RECENT PUBLICATIONS.

15 The Patriotick Proceedings of the Legislature of Massachusetts, during their Session from Jan. 26, to March 4, 1809. Boston, J. Belcher, and T. Wells.

16 The Embargo Laws, with the Message from the President, upon which they were founded; to which is added an Appendix, containing various important state papers. Boston, J. Cushing and J. Belcher.

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THE following lines to GEORGE COLMAN the Younger we hope will be found to possess sufficient interest amongst the lovers of the drama, to attract their attention. They have merit, and occasionally touch upon subjects of local application. We are so much pleased with the genius and wit of the writer to whom they are addressed, that we are happy in seizing every opportunity to extend his reputation.

HORACE, BOOK 11. ODE 16.

Otium Divos rogat in patenti, &c.

TO GEORGE COLMAN THE YOUNGER, ESQ.

Vol. I.

THE youth, from his indentures freed,

Who mounts astride the flying steed,
The Muses' hunt to follow,

With terror eyes the yawning pit,
And for a modicum of wit
Petitions great Apollo.

For wit the quarto-building wight
Invokes the Gods; the jilt in spite
Eludes the man of letters-

Wit through the wire-wove margin glides,
And all the gilded pomp derides

Of red Morocco fetters.

Vain is the smart port-folio set,
The costly inkstand, black as jet,
The desk of polish'd level;

The well shorn pens to use at will;
'Tis no great task to cut a quill-
To cut a joke's the devil!

TT

Happy, for rural business fit,
Who merely tells his mother wit,
In rural life he settles:
Unskill'd in repartee to shine,

He ne'er exclaims-" descend, ye nine,"
But when he plays at skettles.

They who neglect their proper home
To dig for ore in Greece or Rome,
Are poor Quixotick Vandals;
Europe was overrun by Goths,

But why should we, like foolish moths,
Buzz round the Roman candles?

Care swarms in rivers, roads, and bogs,
Unfricaseed, like Pharoah's frogs;
We cannot all be merry.

It roams thro' London streets at large,
And now bestrides a Lord Mayor's barge,
And now a Vauxhall wherry.

The man who no vertigo feels,

When borne aloft on Fortune's wheels,

But at their motion titters;
Emerging from a sea of strife,
Enjoys the present sweets of life,
Nor heeds its future bitters.

Poor Tobin* died, alas! too soon,
Ere with chaste ray his Honey Moon

Had shone to glad the nation :

This writer, in addition to the Honey Moon, has produced The Pharo Table, The Curfew, and The School for Authors; and some others, which it seems during his life were rejected at the theatres. Some persons have expressed ftrong doubts of the existence of fuch a man as Mr. Tobin; they consider it very extraordinary, that a series of plays, as excellent as those which have been attributed to him, should have remained neglected during his life, and he entirely unknown to the world. That these plays should have appeared one by one, each as the last production of the author, is a circumstance equally singular. Yet Mr. Holcroft has given us an account of his life, so circumstantial and characteristick, that we cannot avoid giving credit to the supposition that Tobin was a real, and not a fictitious

name.

This eminent poet was born at Salisbury in England, Jan. 28, 1770. He was sent to school in Southampton, when his parents left England to reside in Nevis. In 1785 he was articled to an eminent solicitor of Lincoln's Inn. This gentleman died, and Tobin then became partner with three other clerks in the office; but some disagreement occurring, he engaged with a

Others, I will not mention who,

For many a year may, (entre nous)
Outlive-their own damnation.

Who creep in prose, or soar in rhyme,
Alike must bow the knee to time,
From Massinger to Murphy.
And all who flit on Lethe's brink,

Too weak to swim, alas! must sink-
Tom Dibdin or Tom Durfey.

Fortune to thee two Muses gave,
One debonnaire, the other grave;
You hospitably screen 'em :

For still, O man of virtue rare,
Altho' the love of both you share,
You never sleep between 'em.

a friend in a new firm His health declined, and in 1803 he went to reside in Cornwall, by the advice of his physicians. His disorder terminated in a consumption; and in 1804, after having taken passage in a vessel for the West-Indies, he died on the very day she sailed. The ship returned to Cork in consequence of contrary winds; and Tobin was followed to the grave by the friend, who had undertaken to accompany him to the West-Indies.

The characteristick of Tobin seems to be delicacy of taste. There is never any greatness or depth of thought about him, but his language is always pure and harmonious, and his thinking ingenious and novel.

"Averse to walking, unless when he had a strong motive, his hours were lost in thought, or in the creations of an active mind. Abstracted and constitutionally indolent, he was alike apt to forget forms and neglect pecuniary concerns; yet, having a high sense of moral duty, he never broke even trifling engagements. He frequently composed while walking the streets, and especially songs, which he usually committed to writing when he came home. Animated by society and enjoying rational conversation, yet, as solitude never displeased him, he did not anxiously seek company; though always happy to see a few valued friends, their absence was never perceptible. Unruffled by the accidents of life, possessed of fortitude not easily shaken, and with a mind never unemployed, he was subject to no fits of weariness. He was altogether the happiest man I ever knew. Though the progress of the disease alarmed him, he contemplated death without fear or superstition. Hope and fancy pictured to him his future success on the stage, while his bodily powers were wasting and his energies daily on the decline. He died without a groan. While at Falmouth, he revised some of his works, and wrote notes on Shakespeare, intending to contribute to a new edition of our immortal bard. Two of his unfinished plays it was his intention to complete in the West-Indies. A constant reader of Beaumont and Fletcher and the writers of that age, he was no less an admirer-of Farquar and some of his cotemporaries. He also read some Spanish comedies, but found little to admire, except the ingenuity of their plots. Genuine comedy he supposed might find support from the publick, and a better taste be revived, notwithstanding the mercenary motives by which it continues to be depraved.",

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