_Port Folio_, IV-342, Oct. 27, 1804, Phila.

AGAINST FAUSTUS.

In scorn of writers, Faustus still doth hold, Nought is now said, but hath been said of old; Well, Faustus, say my wits are gross and dull, If for that word I give thee not a Gull: Thus then I prove thou holdst a false position; I say thou art a man of fair condition, A man true of thy word, tall of thy hands, Of high descent and left good store of lands; Thou with false dice and cards hast never play'd, Corrupted never widow, wife or maid, And, as for swearing, none in all this realm, Doth seldomer in speech curse or blaspheme.

In fine, your virtues are so rare and ample, For all our Song thou mayst be made a sample.

This, I dare swear, _none ever said before_, This, I may swear, _none ever will say more_.

_Port Folio_, IV-383, Dec. 1, 1804, Phila.

THE CELEBRATED SWISS AIR, RANZ DES VACHES.

"This air, so dear to the Swiss," says Rousseau, "was forbidden by the French government to be played among the Swiss soldiers, employed in the service of France, under pain of death; because it excited such a fond remembrance of the scenes they had witnessed in their own native country, and such a strong desire of seeing them again, that it caused them to shed tears, to desert, or, if they despaired of this, to commit suicide."

Quand reverrai-je, en un jour, Tous les objets de mon amour?

Nos claires ruisseaux, Nos couteaux [_sic_], Nos hameaux, Nos montagnes, Et l'ornament de nos campagnes, La si gentille Isabeau?

A l'ombre d'un ormeau, Quand danserai-je au son du chalumeau?

Quand reverrai-je, en un jour, Tous les objects de mon amour?

Mon pere, Ma mere, Mon frere Ma soeur, Mes agneaux Mes troupeaux, Ma bergere?

Quand reverrai-je, en un jour, Tous les objet de mon amour?

LITERAL TRANSLATION.

When shall I behold again, in one day, all the pleasing objects of my affection?--our clear streams, our cottages [_sic_], our hamlets, our mountains, and the ornament of our fields, the gentle Isabelle?--Under the shade of a spreading elm, when shall I dance again to the sound of the tabor?

When shall I behold again, in one day, all pleasing objects of my love?--my father, mother, brothers, sisters, my lambs, my flocks, and my faithful shepherdess?--When shall I behold again, in one day, all the pleasing objects of my affection?

Boston, Jan. 30, 1805.

_Boston Weekly Mag._, III-60, Feb. 2, 1805, Boston.

For the Port Folio.

THE SCANDINAVIAN HERO.

SKOGUL.

From midst the dusty fields of war To realms beyond the northern star, To loud Valhalla's echoing halls, I bear the hero ere he falls; The valiant dwell in those abodes, And sit amid carousing G.o.ds; Not goblets rich, nor flasks of gold, But skulls of mantling mead they hold; The coward while he gasps for breath, Sinks darkling to Hela beneath.

HAROLD.

O be it mine, from conflict borne, To reach the realms of endless morn; At Odin's board my lips I'll lave In the foam'd bev'rage of the brave.

ODIN.

Who breaks the dusty fields of war, Death travels by his clattering car; Perch'd on the whirlwind's thund'ring tower, On comes the sable tempest's power; Ye warriors rise, ye chiefs give room, A G.o.dlike guest in youthful bloom, Harold from fields of battle see, Begin th' immortal revelry.

S.

_Port Folio_, V-120, Apr. 20, 1805, Phila.

WERTER'S EPITAPH.

_Phila. Repos._, V-164, May 25, 1805, Phila.

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

PRAYER OF FREDERICK II IN BEHALF OF POETS.

Ye G.o.ds! from whom each favour'd bard Receives those talents verse requires, O teach them truth! for sure 'tis hard They should be all such wicked liars.

_Boston Mag._, I-12, Nov. 9, 1805, Boston.

A SKETCH OF THE ALPS, AT DAYBREAK.

The sun-beams streak the azure skies, And line with light the mountain's brow; With hounds and horns the hunters rise, And chase the roebuck through the snow.

From rock to rock, with giant-bound, High on their iron poles they pa.s.s; Mute, lest the air, convuls'd by sound, Rend from above a frozen ma.s.s.

The goats wind slow their wonted way, Up craggy steeps and ridges rude; Mark'd by the wild wolf for his prey, From desert cave or hanging wood.

And while the torrent thunders loud, And as the echoing cliffs reply, The huts peep o'er the morning cloud, Perch'd, like an eagle's nest, on high.

_Evening Fireside_, II-74, Feb. 8, 1806, Phila.

In the following exquisite Parody, the sentiments are not less admirable than the talents of the author. We have often expressed our contempt for German plays, and we are happy to fortify our opinion of the Teutonic Muse, with the wit of a man of genius, and a polite scholar.

ODE TO THE GERMAN DRAMA, By Mr. SEWARD.

A Parody of Gray's Ode to Adversity.

Daughter of night, chaotic Queen!

Thou fruitful source of modern lays, Whose turbid plot, and tedious scene, The monarch spurn, the robber raise.

Bound in thy necromantic spell The audience taste the joys of h.e.l.l, And Briton's sons indignant grown With pangs unfelt before, at crimes before unknown.

When first, to make the nation stare, Folly her painted mask display'd, Schiller sublimely mad was there, And Kotz'bue lent his leaden aid.

Gigantic pair! their lofty soul Disdaining reason's weak control, On changeful Britain sped the blow, Who, thoughtless of her own, embraced fict.i.tious woe.

Aw'd by thy scowl tremendous, fly Fair Comedy's theatric brood, Light satire, wit, and harmless joy, And leave us dungeons, chains and blood.

Swift they disperse, and with them go, Mild Otway, sentimental Rowe; Congreve averts the indignant eye, And Shakespeare mourns to view the exotic prodigy.

Ruffians, in regal mantle dight, Maidens immers'd in thoughts profound, Spectres, that haunt the shades of night, And spread a waste of ruin round.

These form thy never-varying theme, While, buried in thy Stygian stream, Religion mourns her wasted fires And Hymen's sacred torch low hisses, and expires.