Oh say, beauteous lady, where learnt you that song,
Which floats in soft murmurs, and dies on the gale?
To a seraph such warbling can only belong,
Imparted by Pity with suffering pale.

Thy mellow notes hush! oh that cadence forbear,
Or else by the rose that empurples thy cheek,
Thou wilt wake from my harp the sad lay of Despair,
And force me the vigils of Sorrow to keep.

VARIETY.

The following noble lines, the production of a great genius, at once a poet and a painter, deserve preservation in this miscellany. The author describes modern philosophy in terms that Edmund Burke would applaud, and in the note, appended to the elegant extract, the composition would by no means disgrace the orator of Beaconsfield, There is an allusion, in our author's first and second paragraph to the economical, shall we say the benevolent, schemes of Count Rumford. This, perhaps, from its illiberal cast, is unworthy of the writer, and of the beneficent nobleman whom it obliquely assails.

Philosophy, no more content to dwell
With hermit Study, whispering in his cell,
Forsakes, in speculative pride, the sage,
And walks the wildest maniac of the age.
Spell'd by her eye, where'er the spectre strays,

Insurgent shouts the maddening rabble raise,
Life raves around, through each infected brain,
Confusion reigns, and chaos comes again.
Science, that erst on eagle pinion soar'd,

Where Wisdom wonder'd, and where Faith ador'd;
To regions whence eternal truths diffus'd,
Enlighten'd man, and bless'd a world abus'd;
Now, with clipt wing, familiar flirts away,
In Fashion's cage, the parrot of the day;
The sibyl of a shrine, where fops adore,
The oracle of culinary lore.

On every side the insatiate passion spreads,
Subdues all hearts, and occupies all heads;
Rank, sex and age, possess'd beyond belief,
To Physics fly and Fuscus, for relief.

Who, like a nursing mother, at command,
With soup and science suckles all the land.
Lo! e'en the Fair, with learned fury fraught,
On Beauty's brow affect the frown of Thought:
To studious seeming discipline their face,
And wear the mask of meaning in grimace.
Clorinda with electric ardour glows,

And frights with full charg'd battery her beaus;
The common conquests of her eyes disdains,
And holds her slaves in scientific chains,

Each weeping Grace, her shrine, deserted, views,
And calls for vengeance on the indignant Muse;
While Cupid, trembling, flies the infected ground,
Scar'd at the philosophic scowl around.

The reader will readily believe, the author cannot mean to cast a reflection on the serious pursuits of science in general, or the regular cultivation of chemistry in particular, from which so much unequivocal advantage has resulted in almost every department of life. The labours of a Fourcroy, a Kirwan, and a Davy, must always attract our regard and gratitude; and he should regret to find himself for a moment suspected of designing to depreciate their value, or diminish their just influence-Ludimus innocui. He has the highest respect for the physical sciences, but he thinks they have at present more than their share in the partition of public favour; that they engross too much of the little disposable attention, the requisitions of politics and war have left us to bestow. He would only rally that exclusive preference of inanimate to animate; of matter to mind; of earth to heaven, which exists, to the utter neglect of objects more elevated, more in need of protection, and not less important in every liberal view of manners, of morals, and of national estimation. He would, in particular, venture to call in question the advantages to be derived from that rage for scientific amusement, which has for some time operated on all ranks and degrees. He would ask what is expected from this new union of fashion and philosophy, this alliance of antipathies, this treaty, offensive and defensive, between natural enemies. This seems to be the distemper of the times, which taints the whole mass of mind, and converts society into a general hospital of disordered wits and disabled faculties. It is safer not to see at all, than to see only to be deceived; as, in dense fogs, the blind are found to be the best guides. In the

darkness of ignorance, we are humble and cautious; we feel our way, step by step, and make use of old marks and established conductors, to assist our progress; but in the glimmerings of superficial knowledge, we rush on our danger, because we presume on our light; we dash against difficulties, unseen or misconceived; we mistake forms for things, and shades for substances, and are either terrified to inaction by false fears and erroneous appearances, or stimulated to rashness in the confidence of imaginary safety.

What beneficial effects can result from this superficial smattering of science, at present so prevalent? this duck and drake dip in the profound of physical erudition, which seems calculated only to devest Ignorance of her diffidence, without removing her defects; which flatters Folly and Frivolity with the semblance of Skill; and heightens Affectation by tricking her out in all the airs of Philosophy. Though the author is far from being one of those who would restrict the studies of the fair to the mere economy of the household, the productions of the tambour frame, or the precepts of Glasse's cookery: yet he confesses he has no relish for science in coteries, and professors in petticoats. He thinks the new chemical nomenclature makes an awkward addition to the vocabulary of the Loves and Graces. The very sound of oxygen and hydrogen, and caloric and carbonic, proceeding from the delicate lips of Beauty herself, operate like a chill on the heart, and a check to the ardour of admiration. It is to be feared also, that, as yet, there are no very convincing examples to prove that the fair derive much improvement, in person, manners or mind, from dabbling in the crucible with the chemist, or charging a battery with the electrician. The author acknowledges that he is jealous of those favoured rivals, whom he thinks neither sufficiently sensible of their charms, nor grateful for their attentions; he has so much regard for the gentler sex, that he would spare them the pain of traversing the dry and thorny wilds of science; and seduce their graceful steps through flowery paths to the more congenial regions of Taste, and the more amusing bowers of Fancy.

But the accomplished belle of the present day, slights the Muses and Graces for the more alluring charms of physical phenomena; she performs, with a grave face, the farce of philosophical experiment, and terrifies her unscientific papa, with electric shocks, artificial earthquakes, and mimic thunder.

THAT is a very noble speech which the genius of Shakspeare causes Edward the Fourth to utter, when returning from the theatre of his conquests.

Once more, we sit in England's royal throne,
Repurchas'd with the blood of enemies.

What valiant foemen, like to autumn's corn,
Have we mow'd down in tops of all their pride.
Now we have swept Suspicion from her seat,
And made our footstool of Security.
Now what remains but that we spend the time
With stately triumphs, mirthful comic shows,
Such as befit the pleasures of the court.

Sound, drums and trumpets! farewell, sour Annoy!
For here, I hope, begins our lasting joy.

IN the following lines, the genius of Walter Scott shines with resplendent lustre. The poet is describing the court revels of king James, and very archly hints at the coquetish character of the songstress of the party. The whole description is so strictly graphical that the poet's page would furnish a complete examplar to any artist of common ingenuity.

Now in gay Holyrood, the while,
Dame Heron rises with a smile

Upon the harp to play.

Fair was her rounded arm, as o'er

The strings her fingers flew,

And, as she touch'd and tun'd them all,
Even her bosom's rise and fall

Was plainer given to view.

For, all for heat, was laid aside,

Her wimple, and her load untied.
And first she pitched her voice to sing,
Then glanced her dark eye on the king,
And then around the silent ring,

And laughed and blushed, and oft did say,

Her pretty oath, by yea and nay;
She could not, would not, durst not play.
At length, upon the harp with glee,
Mingled with arch simplicity,
A soft, yet lively air she rung,
While thus the wily lady sung.

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Critical Observations on the Poem of Mr. Joel Barlow, the Columbiad, by M. Gregoire, formerly Bishop of Blois, Senator, Member of the National Institute, &c. &c.

MY DEAR FRIEND,

I HAVE received with gratitude, and read with interest, your magnificent work, the Columbiad. This monument of genius and typography will immortalize the author and give fame to the American press ; this alone would be sufficient to destroy the assertion of Pauw and other writers, that there is a want of talents in America, if your country did not already offer a list of great men, who will go down with eclat to posterity.

When a book is published, it enters the domains of criticism; you yourself solicit it in the letter which accompanies your present; you solicit it with the frankness which is natural to you. Thus I exercise a right as well as perform a duty, not in addressing literary observations to you, but in repelling an insult to christianity, an insult on which I should be silent, if Barlow was a common writer, or his poem an inferior work, because the book and its author would soon sink together into the stream of oblivion.

Amicus usque ad aras, says an ancient. It is at the foot of the altar, that I blame certain lines in your book, and an engraving which has the following inscription, Final destruction of prejudices. Prejudices!-Perhaps no one desires their destruction more than myself. But what do you call by this equivocal name? and what do I perceive in the midst of the heaps in this picture, which serve for emblems? The attributes of the catholic ministry, and, above all, the standard of christianity, the cross of Jesus Christ! Are these what you call prejudices! If even the excellent works, which have rendered evident the truth of the gospel; if even the principles and the history of eighteen centuries did not formally contradict you, it would be easy to show that this picture is an attack against all christian societies, that it is an act of intolerance, of persecution, which offends God and man.

The unlimited freedom of religion in the United States confers on no sect a character of domination, nor any of those exclusive privileges, that are possessed in different countries of Europe by the churches of the Catholics, Greeks, Lutherans, Calvanists, &c. &c. Let us leave to the partizans of the English church the endless dispute on the prerogatives of the established church, on the utility of those civil establishments which, already shaken, will crumble, perhaps, on all sides, at no very distant epoch. Though I am by conviction, by sentiment, a VOL. II. 3 1