Farewell! farewell! remembered shade!
And, O! sad dream, farewell!
Too surely what that look convey'd
My aching heart can tell,

"To taste unmix'd the joys of love
To mortals ne'er was given;
Then, as its happy home's ABOVE;

Seek not on EARTH for HEAVEN."

MB. OLDSCHOOL,

FOR THE PORT FOLIO.

F.

In the following original lines are deemed worthy of a place in The Port Folio, an insertion thereof would oblige,

Yours, &c.

'Twas in the dead of night! the orb of day
Had fled to distant climes; all nature lay
Enwrapt in shadowy robe; Silence her reign
Had spread wide o'er the interminable plain;

And every creature, fearful of the gloom,

Had found in sleep's embrace a transient tomb

Save Eliphaz. His troubled fancy sought

In vain, midst Morpheus' realms, retreat from thought:
All wakeful, as the poet turn'd his

eye

Within, some pleasing prospect to descry;

Sublime and heavenly thoughts his soul inspir'd,

And intellectual scenes his fancy fir'd.

When, lo! an awful form near to him drew,

From realms etherial burst upon his view:

A Spirit pass'd before his face!-affright

Unnerv'd his frame-he view'd the chilling sight-
And as he view'd, his shivering bones confess'd

The awful conflict raging in his breast.

With horror stood erect his streaming hair,

And ev'ry sense was palsied with despair.
Though suddenly, to his astonish'd view,
Unlook'd-unwish'd for, the fell phantom drew:

* Vide Job, chap. iv. 13, 19.

Not such its stay: still, stood the hateful shade,
And still the trembling Eliphaz survey'd.
A solemn fearful pause the spectre made;
Then came a voice--an awful language came,
That deep vibrated through his quivering frame.
"Shall mortal man, of ashes form'd, and dust,
Presume than the Most High to be more just?
Shall the most wise and virtuous mortal dare
Himself with his Creator to compare?

With folly charg'd was e'en th' Angelic race,
Though clothed with power and super-human grace?
If spirits then--inhabitants of light!

Not stand approv'd in their Creator's sight;

How vain the task! presumptuous man! how vain!
For thee to think, perfection's heights to gain!

Ere life began-ere the enkindling flame
From Heaven first lighted and inform❜d thy frame;
Thou, intermingling with the dust and clay,
In the low vale, unknown-inglorious lay!
Here thy proud origin. To know, hence learn,
As in the paths of life thy steps sojourn,
Humility: choose her thy friend; may she
Thy lov'd companion and instructress be:
So will approving Conscience thee befriend,

Upon thee shall Prosperity attend,

And heavenly prospects cheer thee in the end."

W.

FOR THE PORT FOLIO.

Ir Mr. Oldschool will but give the author credit for his intention, he is at perfect liberty to call him a wretched metaphysician, a clumsy moralist, and (if it shall seem good to his superior judgment) a bad poet.

FASHION-A POEM.

WHEN Fashion's gaudy glare attracts the eye,

And Folly draws the philanthropic sigh;

When magic charms to fix Devotion's gaze,
And powers to win involuntary praise,

Deep in their sacred shrines neglected rest;
While idle pleasures occupy the breast;
Why should a bard, unknown to Fame, obey
The pious zeal that animates his lay?

The voice of Poetry must plead in vain

When Fashion rules, and millions crowd her train: Yet, cherish'd Friendship claims the weak essay; Pleas'd, I assent, and honour'd I obey.

Oh! if the moral Muse could hope to gain
The list'ning ear of Beauty to her strain;
If, from the tow'ring hill where Reason reigns,
Her voice could reach to Pleasure's flow'ry plains,
And wake, with glowing warmth and taste refin'd,
Some noble purpose in a female mind:

Pleased would she strike the spark of holy flame
That lights the crimson blush of virtuous shame;
Delighted view reclaim'd the lovely maid,
And count the labour of her song o'erpaid.

While the gay ball-room shines with garish light, And Beauty's cheek reflects its rays more bright; While through the dance the voice of Music floats,

And eager footsteps echo to her notes;

Why does a smile o'er Satire's features play,
And rigid Reason, frowning, turn away?

Ah! that the Muse, who knows the secret well,
Should, sighing, blushing, hesitate to tell!

Why o'er the rose-bud bends the enamour'd swain,
While gaudier tulips spread their charms in vain?
Why does the traveller's raptured gaze prefer

The swelling landscape to the neat parterre?
'Tis Nature's hand that draws the willing eye

From glaring hues to sweet simplicity:

'Tis Nature's touch that bids th' obedient heart Contemn the cold, insipid, tricks of art;

Teaches the breast with sacred fire to glow,

And wakes the pulse of Joy her vot❜ries only know.. Ah, me! how hard the toilsome task, to win

From cherish'd Folly, or from darling Sin;

The stubborn force of Habit to control,

And tear the rooted passion from the soul:
But when the softer foibles open lie,

That tell of Weakness, not Depravity;
Those tender frailties Nature's warmth bestows,
That sometimes hush cold Reason to repose,
And fill the yielding heart, and give the mind
To charms inconstant as the varying wind;
Those giddy joys at which, when Temp'rance dies,
Prudence turns pale, and sadden'd Reason sighs;
Those thrills that never make their vot'ries blest,
But idly flutter in the idle breast;

Those trivial faults that shun the lover's gaze,
Or deck his fair one's charms with brighter blaze.
Ah, me! how painful 'tis with frigid truth

To chill the glow that paints the cheek of youth!
Ye fair that make the purest joys we know,
Sources of all our bliss, or all our wo,
In whom we boast a rich, exhaustless mine,
Thoughts that exalt, and feelings that refine;
From whom, when cares disturb the manly breast,
Or fond endearments lull those cares to rest,
We catch the kindling glance, the sacred sigh,
The tend'rest, dearest thrills of Sympathy:
Ye gentle fair, whose fond, endearing arts,
Polish our minds and captivate our hearts;
Oh, say! should charms so heav'nly, rich as these,
Such pow'rs to win, such faculties to please,
"Deep in their sacred shrines neglected rest,
While idle pleasures occupy the breast."

Ye blissful scenes! days of Arcadian joys,
When Nature's sons were true to Nature's voice;
Where, mid a simple, healthful, happy race,
Fashion and Folly never found a place;

Where, while the peasant till'd the fertile soil,
"Content sat basking on the cheek of Toil;"
When virgin Beauty never own'd a care,
That rigid Virtue would have blush'd to share:

1

Days of delight! when Pleasure, leagued with Death,

Had not yet pour'd his pestilential breath;
Nor yet on ruddy Vigour dared intrude
The sinking form of sickly Lassitude:
Days of delight! when hydra-headed Vice
Lived but in dreams and idle phantasies,
Till angels wept o'er pristine Virtue's urn:
Ye blissful scenes! Arcadian joys! return!
And, oh! ere Time's insidious milldew blights
The mind that dictates, and the hand that writes,
Soon may the happy age again be known
When Truth and Reason shall regain their throne;
When Youth shall own that idle pleasure cloys,
And Beauty dare to seek for nobler joys!

MORTUARY-FOR THE PORT FOLIO.

Angusta (Georgia) September 24th, 1812. DIED, suddenly, on Monday afternoon last, at the Sand Hills, Miss CHARLOTTE A. HERBERT, daughter of Isaac Herbert, Esq. of this place, aged twenty years. The numerous friends and acquaintances of this charming and amiable young lady, will feel that regret for her loss, and that sympathy for her afflicted and bereaved connexions, which the unexpected departure of so much worth and virtue is calculated to excite; and, among her friends, some there are who will, no doubt, feel the shock with peculiar sensibility. Kind, affectionate, and friendly, this lovely girl was not only without enemies, but was, we understand, upon the eve of forming one of the most endearing and interesting of all earthly connexions, when, by an inscrutable decree of an All-wise Providence, her bridal robe was converted into a funeral shroud. He who knew her worth, called her to the possession of those joys, for which she had long been preparing. She had early dedicated herself to God, and, therefore, amidst the sorrows of surviving friends, a source of consolation remains, of which they cannot be deprived.

Seated in realms of glory now,

With joy she sings triumphantly,

"O! Death! where is thy sting, and thou,
O! Grave! where is thy victory."