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Mechanics, servants, farmers, and so forth,
Are copy paper of inferior worth;

Less priz'd, more useful, for your desk decreed;
Free to all pens, and prompt at ev'ry need.

The wretch, whom av'rice bids to pinch and spare,
Starve, cheat and pilfer, to enrich an heir,

Is coarse brown paper, such as pedlars choose
To wrap up wares, which better men will use..

Take next the miser's contrast, who destroys
Health, fame, and fortune, in a round of joys.
Will any paper match him? Yes, throughout,
He's a true sinking paper, past all doubt.

The retail politician's anxious thought

Deems this side always right and that stark naught;
He foams with censure; with applause he raves,
A dupe to rumours, and a tool of knaves;
He'll want no type his weakness to proclaim,
While such a thing as fools-cap has a name.

The hasty gentleman, whose blood runs high,
Who picks a quarrel if you step awry,
Who can't a jest, or hint, or look endure:
What's he? What? Touch-paper to be sure.

What are our poets, take them as they fall,
Good, bad, rich, poor, much read, not read at all?
Them and their works in the same class you'll find;
They are the mere waste-paper of mankind.

Observe the maiden, innocently sweet,
She's fair white paper, an unsullied sheet;
On which the happy man, whom fate ordains,
May write his name, and take her for his pains,

One instance more, and only one I'll bring;
'Tis the great man who scorns a little thing;
Whose thoughts, whose deeds, whose maxims are his own,
Form'd on the feelings of his heart alone:
True genuine royal paper is his breast;

Of all the kinds, most precious, purest, best.

DR. FRANKLIN.

Power of Music.

SUMMER'S dun cloud, that, slowly rising, holds
The sweeping tempest in its rushing folds,
Though o'er the ridges of its thundering breast,
The King of Terrors lifts his lightning crest;
Pleas'd we behold when, those dark folds we find
Fring'd with the golden light, that glows behind.
So when one language bound the human race,
On Shinar's plain, round Babel's mighty base,
Gloomily rose the minister of wrath;

Dark was his form, destructive was his path;
That tower was blasted, by the touch of Heaven;
That bond was burst-that race asunder driven:
Yet round the Avenger's brow, that frown'd above,
Play'd Mercy's beams-the lambent lights of love.
All was not lost, though busy Discord flung
Repulsive accents, from each jarring tongue;
All was not lost; for Love one tie had twin'd
And Mercy dropt it, to connect mankind:
One tie, that winds, with soft and sweet control,
Its silken fibres round the yielding soul;
Binds man to man, sooths Passion's wildest strife,
And, through the mazy labyrinths of life,
Supplies a faithful clue, to lead the lone
And weary wanderer, to his Father's throne.
That tie is Music. How supreme her sway!
How lovely is the Power, that all obey!
Dumb matter trembles at her thrilling shock;
Her voice is echoed by the desert rock;
For her, the asp withholds the sting of death,
And bares his fangs, but to inhale her breath;
The lordly lion leaves his lonely lair,
And crouching, listens when she treads the air;
And man, by wilder impulse driven to ill,
Is tamed, and led by this Enchantress still.
Who ne'er has felt her hand assuasive steal
Along his heart.-That heart will never feel.
'Tis her's to chain the passions, sooth the soul,.
To snatch the dagger, and to dash the bowl
From Murder's hand; to smooth the couch of Care,
Extract the thorns, and scatter roses there;
Of Pain's hot brow, to still the bounding throb,
Despair's long sigh and Grief's convulsive sob.)

How vast her empire! Turn through earth, through air,
Your aching eye, you find her subjects there;
Nor is the throne of heaven above her spell,
Nor yet beneath it is the host of hell.

To her Religion owes her holiest flame:"

Her eye

looks heaven-ward, for from heaven she came And when Religion's mild and genial ray, Around the frozen heart begins to play, Music's soft breath falls on the quivering light; The fire is kindled, and the flame is bright; And that cold mass, by either power assail'd, Is warm'd-made liquid-and to heaven exhal'd. Airs of Palestine.

Sacred Music at Midnight.

'Tis night again: for Music loves to steal
Abroad at night; when all her subjects kneel
In more profound devotion at her throne:
And, at that sable hour, sh'll sit alone,
Upon a bank, by her sequestered cell,

And breathe her sorrows through her wreathed shell.
Again 'tis night-the diamond lights on high,
Burn bright, and dance harmonious through the sky;
And silence leads her downy footed hours,
Round Sion's hill and Salem's holy towers.
The Lord of Life with his few faithful friends,
Drown'd in mute sorrow, down that hill descends.
They cross the stream that bathes its foot, and dashes
Around the tomb, where sleep a monarch's ashes;
And climb the steep, where oft the midnight air
Received the sufferer's solitary prayer.
There, in dark bowers embosomed, Jesus flings
His hand celestial o'er prophetic strings ;
Displays his purple robe, his bosom gory,
His crown of thorns, his cross, his future glory;
And, while the group, each hallowed accent gleaning,
On pilgrim's staff, in pensive posture leaning,
Their reverend beards, that sweep their bosoms, wet
With the chill dews of shady Olivet-

Wonder and weep, they pour the song of sorrow,
With their lov'd Lord, whose death shall shroud the

morrow.

Heavens! what a strain was that! those matchless tones,
That ravish "Princedoms, Dominations, Thrones;"
That, heard on high, had hush'd those peals of praise,
That seraphs swell, and harping angels raise,
Soft, as the wave from Siloa's brook that flows,
Through the drear silence of the mountain rose.
How sad the Saviour's song! how sweet! how holy!
The last he sung on earth-how melancholy!
Along the valley sweep the expiring notes.
On Kedron's wave the melting music floats:
From her blue arch, the lamp of evening flings
Her mellow lustre as the Saviour sings;
The moon above, the wave beneath is still,
And light and music mingle on the hill.
The glittering guard, whose viewless ranks invest
The brook's green margin and the mountain's crest,
Catch that unearthly song, and soar away,
Leave this dark orb for fields of endless day,
And round the Eternal's throne on buoyant pinions play,
Ye glowing seraphs, that enchanted swim
In seas of rapture as ye tune the hymn,
Ye bore from earth.-O say ye choral quires,
Why in such haste to make your golden lyres?
Why, like a flattering, like a fleeting dream,
Leave that lone mountain and that silent stream?
Say, could not then the "Man of Sorrows" claim
Your shield of adamant, your sword of flame ?
Hell forc'd a smile, at your retiring wing,
And man was left to crucify your King.

The Maniac.

HARK! the Maniac fiercely raging,
Howls his sorrows to the wind,
Nought his frantic grief assuaging,
Nought can ease his phrenzied mind.

Ibid.

View him bounding now with anguish,
While his eyes in terror roll,
Now they soften, now they languish,
Marking thus his varied soul.

Hear the far fetch'd groans of horror,
Issuing from his throbbing breast,
See those pallid cheeks of sorrow,
And those limbs which know no rest.

Once, those eyes were fraught with pleasure,
Once, those cheeks were coral red,
But bereft of the mind's treasure,
Those more treacherous beauties fled.

Once, proud Fortune on him smiled,
And bright Hope his thoughts did train;
When alas! of both beguiled,
"Maddening fury" seiz'd his brain.

Now he roams poor and unfriended,
None his wayward steps to guide,
All his wishes unattended,
All his wants are unsupply'd.

So speak those tatter'd garments on him,
And his shaggy matted hair,

O do not with disgust turn from him,

He was once as you now are.

Port Folio.

On the Powers of the Human Understanding.

This human mind! how grand a theme:
Faint image of the Great Supreme,

The universal soul,

That lives, that thinks, compares, contrives;
From its vast self all power derives

To manage or controul.

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