WERTER'S EPITAPH.

I

Stranger! whoe'er thou art, that from below This gra.s.s-green hill, with steady steps dost press; Shed sympathetic tears; for stranger know, Here lies the son of sorrow and distress.

II

Although his soul with ev'ry virtue mov'd, Tho' at his birth deceitful fortune smil'd, In one sad hour, too fatally he lov'd; False fortune frown'd, and he was sorrow's child.

III

Heav'n gave him pa.s.sions, as she virtue gave, But gave not pow'r those pa.s.sions to suppress: By them subdu'd he slumbers in the grave-- The soul's last refuge from terrene distress.

IV

Around his tomb, the sweetest gra.s.s shall spring; And annual flowers shall ever blossom here; Here fairy forms their loveliest gifts shall bring, And pa.s.sing strangers shed the pitying tear.

_Amer. Museum_, I-474, May 1787, Phila.

[Dr. Ladd, _Werter's Epitaph_.]

DESCENT OF ODIN. AN ODE.

_New Haven Gaz. and Conn. Mag._, III-No. 21, May 29, 1788, New Haven.

[Thomas Gray, _Poems_. Publ. by Dodsley--London, July 1768. Publ. by Foulis--Glasgow, Sept. 1768.

Both editions contain the _Descent of Odin_. "The poem was written at Cambridge in 1761. It is a paraphrase of the ancient Icelandic lay called _Vegtams Kvida_, and sometimes _Baldrs draumar_. The original is to be found in Bartholinus, _de causis contemnendae mortis_; Hafniae, 1689, quarto. Gray has omitted to translate the first four lines." Cf.

_Works of Thomas Gray_, ed. by Edmund Gosse. N. Y., 1885. I-60.]

CHARACTERISTIC SKETCH OF THE LONG ISLAND DUTCH.

Still on those plains their num'rous race survive, And, born to labour, still are found to thrive; Through rain and sunshine, toiling for their heirs, They hold no nation on this earth like theirs.

Where'er they fix, all nature smiles around-- Groves bend with fruit, and plenty clothes the ground; No barren trees to shade their domes, are seen; Trees must be fertile, and their dwellings clean; No idle fancy dares its whims apply, Or hope attention from the master's eye.

All tends to something that must pelf produce, All for some end, and ev'ry thing its use.

Eternal scow'rings keep their floors afloat, Neat as the outside of the Sunday coat.

The wheel, the loom, the female band employ,-- These all their pleasure, these their darling joy.

The strong-ribb'd la.s.s no idle pa.s.sions move, No nice ideas of romantic love; He to her heart the readiest path can find, Who comes with gold, and courts her to be kind.

She heeds not valour, learning, wit, or birth, Minds not the swain--but asks him, what he's worth?

No female fears in her firm breast prevail, The helm she governs, and she trims the sail; In some small barque the way to market finds, Hauls aft the sheet, or veers it to the winds: While, lac'd ahead, subservient to her will, Hans smokes his pipe, and wonders at her skill.

Health to their toils--thus may they still go on-- Curse on my pen! what virtues have I drawn!

Is this the gen'ral taste? No--truth replies-- If fond of beauty, guiltless of disguise, See (where the social circle meant to grace) The handsome Yorker shades her lovely face; She, early led to happier talks at home, Prefers the labours that her s.e.x become; Remote from view, directs some fav'rite art, And leaves to hardier man the ruder part.

_Amer. Museum_, VII, Jan.-June 1790, Appendix I-42, Phila.

ON READING THE SORROWS OF WERTER.

Mistaken youth! thy love, to frenzy wrought, Spurn'd calm reflection and each sober thought.

A little time had shewn e'en Charlotte's charms Had shrunk and faded in a Werter's arms: For guilt and meanness ne'er could dwell with thee; And virtuous friendship soon had set thee free.

But hadst thou triumph'd o'er the fair one's fall, Thou then, as now, hadst met the fatal ball; Still keener anguish had attack'd thy mind Than e'en now dying thy stung soul did find.

None dare say Mercy wont extend its aid; } But who of that would not have been afraid, } If with a kiss thou Charlotte hadst betray'd. }

--Laura.

_Universal Asylum and Columbian Mag._, V-269, Oct. 1790, Phila.

WERTER'S EPITAPH By the late Dr. Ladd.

_Ma.s.s. Mag._, III-114, Feb. 1791, Boston.

[Also in _Amer. Museum_, I-474, May 1787, Phila.]

ELLA. A TALE.

History says that Sivard, King of Sweden, entered Norway with a numerous army, and committed the greatest enormities; but was at last overthrown, his army routed, and himself slain by one of those women whom he had brutally abused.

Between Norwegian hills wide spreads a plain, By nature form'd for sport; The Vet'ran warrior here, and hardy swain, To annual games resort.

High o'er their heads was hung the h.o.a.ry brow, Which cast an ample shade; From thence these words majestic seem'd to flow-- "Fierce foes your sports invade!"

They upward gaze--a warrior struck their sight; He bore aloft his lance, All sheath'd in arms, unsufferably bright, Where beamy splendors dance.

The western sun-beam round his helmit flies, He more than man appears; And more than mortal seem'd to sound the voice That rang upon their ears.

"Ye sons of Norway! harken to my tale, "Your rural games oh cease; "Sivard is marching thro' Dulvellon's vale, "Break off the sports of peace!

"The b.l.o.o.d.y Sivard leads his conqu'ring Swedes, "He riots in our shame; "The man, the matron, and the infant bleeds-- "Norway is but a name!

"The husband sees--curse on the tyrant's l.u.s.t-- "He sees his beauteous bride-- "Her virtue, worth, and honor in the dust-- "Oh where is Norway's pride!

"Rouse! rouse Norwegians! take your arms amain, "Let helms o'ershade each brow; "Let's meet these Swedish daemons in the plain, "And lay their triumphs low.

"O had you seen what these poor eyes have seen!

"'Twas Sivard done the deed-- "Our h.o.a.ry monarch, and our helpless queen, "I--yes, I saw them bleed.

"Their daughter Ella--no, I will not tell!

"Norwegians ne'er enquire-- "Ne'er hear it--what the royal maid befel; "I see your souls on fire.

"Oh seize your swords, your spears, helms, and shields!

"Oh vindicate your fame!

"Sivard and Sweden glare on Norway's fields; "Remember Norway's name."

He said--tears flow apace, fierce glow the swains, Rage fills each honest breast; In Swedish blood to wipe away their stains, Was ev'ry thought address'd.