Farewell! farewell! remembered shade! "To taste unmix'd the joys of love Seek not on EARTH for HEAVEN." MB. OLDSCHOOL, FOR THE PORT FOLIO. F. Ir 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 In vain, midst Morpheus' realms, retreat from thought: 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 The awful conflict raging in his breast. * Vide Job, chap. iv. 13, 19. Not such its stay: still, stood the hateful shade, With folly charg'd was e'en th' Angelic race, Not stand approv'd in their Creator's sight; Upon thee shall Prosperity attend, And heavenly prospects cheer thee in the end." W. FOR THE PORT FOLIO. Is 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, Deep in their sacred shrines neglected rest; Why should a bard, unknown to Fame, obey 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, Ah! that the Muse, who knows the secret well, Why o'er the rose-bud bends the enamour'd swain, 'Tis Nature's touch that bids th' obedient heart 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: That tell of Weakness, not Depravity; Those trivial faults that shun the lover's gaze, Oh, say! should charms so heav'nly, rich as these, Ye blissful scenes! days of Arcadian joys, Fashion and Folly never found a place; When virgin Beauty never own'd a care, Days of delight! when Pleasure, leagued with Death, 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, |