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ed.-The way that leads to it is eafy; and this fuccefs proves that Mr. Bourret was right in his notions.

The two hardy travellers, in their way back, difcovered a chryftal oven, where they could not go for want of time. They alfo perceived, at the height of fixty or eighty fathoms above them, another peak, which they were compelled to leave unexplored, as they wanted both leifure and inftruments to cut steps on the ice that furrounded it

on all fides. By the report of those two men, and the measurement of the top of the Mont Blanc, they reached to the height of 2,346 fathoms.

The reafon given by Mr. Bourret why the heat experienced by the two travellers fhould act fo powerfully on the body, and yet not diffolve the fnow, is, that the amazing whitenes of the latter repels the rays of the fun, which, on the contrary, are entirely ab forbed by the body.

POETRY.

The most favourite SONGS, &c. in the new Pantomime of the MAGIC CAVERN; OR, VIRTUE'S TRIUMPH; performed at Covent-Garden Theatre.

COM

SONG. Mifs BRETT.

SOME, fhow me your palm, my fweet lafs,
And your
fortune l'il tell,

Full as clear and as well,

As you fee that sweet face in the glass.

A hufband you'll have, I fee, foon,

You'll meet him to-day,
Such a man, lack-a-day!
Would make a wife leap o'er the moon.

Of children you'll have a round dozen,,
Nay, I fee it as plain,

As this pretty blue vein.
I don't by my virgin-hood cozen.
As fure as Old Norwood I'm nam'd,
A great Queen you'll be,

And by ev'ry degree,

Like O.d England's, be lov'd and far fam'd.

AI R.Mr. DAVIES.

THE noble mind for fame will dare,

By fea or land to die;
When billows wage the wintry war,
And thunders rend the sky.
Around the crimfon fields of death,
The hero flies for fame;
When trumpets blow their martial breath,
And drums the charge proclaim,
The God of Love on Fame awaits,

With myrtle garlands bound;
Who would not brave'the worst of fates,
To hear his lute's foft found?
Fame, in an angel's form, appears
Upon a fteep most high;
Her votries país the vale of tears,
But after never die.

CHORU S. HAIL, female virtue! gift divine, Be still thy matchlefs treasure mine; A virtuous woman's price is more Than gold or precious ruby's ftore; For when the gems of earth expire, She lights the kies with purest fire;

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A Maid of Honour is a maid indeed!
'Tis not alone, among the virgin band,
Demure behind the chair of ftate to stand;
To groan beneath the labours of the loom,
A walking pageant of the drawing-room;
To hear the fmall-talk of fmall lords in waiting,
Or trifle with white wands, inclin'd to pratings
No! 'tis her province, firmly to fupport,
Intrench'd in the ftrong fences of a court,
That citadel, where thousand dangers wait,
And female honour holds her awful ftate!
Harmlefs, with bufy hum and empty found,
The filken court-flies buz, and flutter round:
They, like Fulgentio, are with scorn dismist,
So weak, 'tis fcarce a triumph to refift.
But when Bertoldus, true blood-royal, vie--
Then, then's the glorious effort to DENY!
To prove, with all a woman's graces on her,
She's still a MAID, a real MAID OF HONOUR?
Yet, ah! Camiola, thy fate was hard!
Severe the fentence of our rigid bard!
What! nip a beauteous maiden in her bloom,
And in a convent all her charms entomb!
Confign her fortune, blaft her bud of youth,
Though one fwain's falfehood proves another's
truth!

While fhe, like Cato, finds from each adorer
"Her bane and antidote are both before her!"
Sicilian Maids of Honour thus were undone
Ah, Maids of Honour act not thus in London!
Here, in chafte view fweet rofes hail the morn,
Undoom'd to wither on the virgin thorn.
Stern Romish doctrines, ftrict Italian rules,
Suit not the freedom of our British schools:
Our wifer law a fager code exhibits;
Our milder church fuch facrifice prohibits.
Should fome falfe lord, betroth'd, his contract
break,

And at the altar's foot the maid forfake,

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F truth, if virtue, innocence, and grace, May in celeftial records claim a place, Linley, thy name is, with an angel's pen, Written on golden leaves by fainted men! If wit, if beauty, modefty, and fense, Metearth's applaufe, or heav'n's high recompenfe: If e'er an angel left the folar fphere, To fix in wonder every eye and ear, *Twas thee, Maria-whofe fuperior grace Prov'd thee defcended of celestial race; Prov'd thee defign'd to mitigate our care, And raise our minds to know what angels are! Maria dear, adieu: and from th' abode Of faints, beftow thy light to point the road; That by thy radiance we may gain thy sky, And pafs with thee a blefs'd Eternity.

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Content to competency known,

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While competency ftill nice management must Much more of fweetness than of beauty,

My mufe would on the fair beftow, And prove it every author's duty,

To feparate fterling truth from fhow. Would you be happy-form reliance, Much more on virtue, than on fcience;

On friendship more than tendernefs; On conduct more than wit refin'd;

On health much more than wealth to blefs; On profit lefs than peace of mind.

A fmall eftate from mortgage free,
A little garden-fnug round table;
A little lafs that fmiles on me,
Are things both good and comfortable.,
I love thro' winter's dreary ftate,
A brifk fire in a little grate.
Thus men of tafte convivial pafs

Their hours with feftive joy elate,
With choice wine in a little glafs,
With tid-bits in a little plate.

From hence this truth we clearly trace,
Too much is ever out of place:
A maxim this well understood,
Both by the learned and the good.
Too much of reft but makes us heavy,
Too much of fufs but fpoils a levy.
To be too cool is indolence;
To be too active, turbulence.
Madness from too much love may rises
Death from too many remedies.
Too much refinement ends in art;
Too much of rigour fours the heart.
Avarice is ftrain'd œconomy;
Forc'd boldness is temerity.

Too much of wealth a burthen proves,
In fetters too much honour moves.
Pleasure deftroys, if to excefs,
And too much wit can rarely bless.
We're loft thro* too much confidence;
Too much of frankness leaves no fence:
Weakness with too much kindnefs flows,
And pride on too much fpirit grows;
Mean is the complaifance extreme,
And flat is the too-polish'd fcheme.
Yet this too much, if understood,

If aided by one faving clause,
Might eafily be turn'd to good,

By a mere nothing in our caufe. Yes! mighty nothing, thee we hail,

Since a mere nothing rules the roast, In war, love, law, whate'er the colt, A very nothing turns the fcale. A nothing wins upon the great, By nothing we the fair may gain A nothing gives our talents weight, A very nothing turns our brain. Thus to a nothing, or a hair, Hangs the fuccefs of all our care. A nothing gilds hope's flattering scene; A nothing wakes to dire alarms; Speak, Love! whofe tranfient fires are feen, Now bright, now quench'd in Chloe's arms.

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In the manner and perfon of PETRARCH. AH, dear Vauclue! romantic, fylvan feat

Fair manfion! Queen of y tequetter'd vale! Where mild retirement in her green retreat

Shuns the rude ftorms that lofty pomp affail, When oft her air-built fchemes and follies fail Shuns the amufements of the court and town,

Where the luxurious vanities refide;
Where bold ambition points her deadly frown,

And the vile croud adore y meteor blaze of pride. Adieu, ye breezy buw'rs, and em'rald glades!

Ye myrtle walks! ye fummer-painted plains! Adieu, fweet tenant of the poplar fhades, Soothing the ear of night with plaintive strains, Adieu, ye fleecy ficcks, and thepherd fwains!

Adieu, ye Naiads! from the wat'ry war
Now freed, in marble caves with filence fleep;
Fate calls; o'er Alpine fnows I journey far
From Ventou's cloudy cliffs, and Larga's chry.
ital deep.

I go, where Mincio, in the fav'rite land,
Thro' rustling reeds his winding paffage makes;
I go, ye Mufes, to my native ftrand,

Where olives border on the limpid lakes;
In fancy Paufilippo's laurel fpeaks;
I go from LAURA, from herfelf, and bear
This only folace of the dreary way,
This graceful portraiture of LAURA fair,
Of LAURA, justly fam'd in many a lyric lay.

Enchanting image!-at the noon of night, Dreaming I faw this animated fmile; BRITANNIA's beauties ftood before my fight, With LAURA, copied in the fea-girt ifle; Applaufe had crown'd the artist's happy toil; 'Tis the, they cried, the celebrated fair;

LAURA refounding thro' th' admiring throng; They mark the foreign grace, and easy air,

And brilliant eyes, that oft infpired the poet's fong.

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To paint with fading tints celcftial bloom?
How could'st thou on fuch radiant beauty gaze,
Uninjur'd by the fplendour of its rays?
Some angel, fure, has lent his friendly aid,
To sketch the features of each royal maid.
What sweetness foftens that majestic air!
What goodness beams from each diftinguished fair!
What spirit animates each lovely face!
And in each limb, what fymmetry and grace!
Such were the forms, that blefs'd y fhepherd's eyes,
On Ida's mount, contending for the prize.
Such the three Graces, of celeftial mold,
That charm'd the fculptors and the bards of old.
Confummate artist! fay, from whence you drew
The precepts of thy art fo juft, fo true?
With freedom thus, who bade thy pencil flow?
Such force, fuch fweetnefs in thy colours glow?
Haft thou, to give perfection to thy piece,
Studied the works of ancient Rome and Greece?
Haft thou furvey'd the celebrated * rule
Of ancient beauty? or each modern school
With critic eye compar'd, to ftore thy mind
With all these wonders of a taste refin'd?
Ah, no; thy matchless skill with fcorn disclaims,
The fancied merit built on pompous names.
Like great Corregio, nature's pupil, fraught
With inborn genius, and by practice taught.

O'er feas or Alps, let other artifts roam,
In queft of beauties, which you find at home:
Such charms our British nymphs alone poffefs,
And none but Gainsborough's pencil can exprefs!
SONG.

THE TRIMMER.
All the World's a Stage. SHAKSPEARE.
EAR-fhaken fools, by confcience aw'd,
My plan of action may deride;

FE

But I have ever found it beft,

T'affociate with the strongest fide.

I care not who is in or out,

Who reigns, who keeps the Treafury's keys; By trimming with the times, I live With plenty crown'd, and bleit with ease. Obedient to the ruling pow'rs,

Whoe'er they be, fubmifs, I bend,
And ne'er to cenfure what they do,
With monitory tones pretend.

Thofe who, with narrownefs of mind,
By principle thro' life are rul'd,
And often doom'd their lot to mourn
Thro' life, by falfe opinions fool'd:
By falfe opinions fway'd, they act

A rigid Roman's fteady part,
And mifs the road which leads to wealth,
For want of temporifing art.

I in a different mould am caft,

Am made of more compliant clay; Like good Lord WINCHESTER ‡ I rife, And firmly ftand by giving way.

To

SONNE T.

TWILIGHT.

By Mifs HELEN WILLIAMS.
EEK Twilight hafte to shroud the folar ray,

Mnd bring the hour my pensive fpiritloves
When o'er the hill is thed a paler day,

That gives to ftillnefs, and to night, the groves.
Ah! let the gay, the rofeate morning hail,
She bids freth beauty live along the vale,
When in the various blooms of light array'd,

And rapture tremble in the vocal fhade:
Sweet is the lucid morning's op'ning flower,
Her choral melodies benignly rife;
Yet dearer to my foul the fhadowy hour,

At which her bloffoms clofe, her mufic dies: For then mild nature, while fhe droops her head, Wakes the foft tear his luxury to fhed.

SONNE T,

To Mifs WILLIAM S, On her Epic Poem PERU.

He view'd even Raphael's works, with confcious PETIC Sister, who, with daring hand,

pride,

And "I'm a painter ftill," the artist cry'd!t LOND. MAG. Feb. 1785.

Ere thy fourth luftres laft foft year is flown, Haft feiz'd the epic lyre-with art divine; Wak'd on its golden ftrings each spirit bland! Or

* The canon or ftandard of beauty, formed by Polycletus.
+ See Du Pile's life of Corregio.

PLIN. 34.8.

The Marquis of Winchester, Queen Elizabeth's Lord Treafurer, having ferved four princes in various and changeable times, and being grown into high favour with the laft, was questioned by an intimate friend of his, how he had ftood up for thirty years together, amidit the change and ruins of fo many chancellors and great perfonages. His reply was brief and oracular Ortus fum efalice, non e quercu-1 fprung from the willow not the oak.”

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Where grafs and flowers in wild luxuriance wave; Let no memorial mark where I am laid,

Or point to common eyes the lover's grave: But oft at twilight morn, or clofing day,

The faithful friend with fault'ring step fhall glide,

Tributes of fond regret by ftealth to pay,

And figh for the unhappy fuicide. And fometimes, when the fun with parting rays Gilds the long grafs that hides my filent bed, The tear fhall tremble in my Charlotte's eyes;

Dear precious drops! they shall embalm ý dead. Yes! Charlotte o'er the mournful spot fhall weep, Where her poor Werter and his forrows fleep!

SONNE T.

From PETRARC H. By Mifs SMITH, of Bignor-Hall. LOOSE to the wind her golden treffes ftream'd,

And form'd bright waves with amorous zephyrs' fighs;

And, tho' averted now, her charming eyes Then with warm love and melting pity beam'dWas I deceiv'd?-Ah, furely, nymph divine!

That fine fuffufion on thy cheek was love; What wonder then thofe glowing tints fhould move, Should fire this heart, this tender heart of mine! Thy foft melodious voice, thy air, thy shape,

Were of a goddefs, not a mortal maid; But though thy charms, thy heavenly charms fhould fade,

My heart, my tender heart, could not escape;

Nor cure for me in time or change be found;
The fhaft extracted does not cure the wound.

SONNET

To Mifs SMITH, of Bignor-Hall, On her excellent Imitation of Petrarch in Sonnets. HEN Petrarch fung th' accomplish'd

WHEN Laura's praife,

Some with, at least, might urge his active mind, Not empty verfe alone he then defign'd;

But a foft paffion in her foul to raise. Love was the author of his flowing verfe,

Love the fond fource of all the poet's lays, By Cupid's aid alone, HE gain'd the bays, And modern ages ftill his lines rehearse.

But what can move this rival of his fame ?
So ftern a model, how can beauty chufe
To court fo coy, fo difficult a mufe,
Whilst others gain by eafier roads a name.
What zeal has caufed a general acclaim,
That Bignor-Hall's become a new Vauclufe?

ODE то A LARK. AIL! Lark, fweet harbinger of day,

H Melodious warbler, ever gay.

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Hail! earliest of the tuneful throng;
How lively thy untutor'd fong!-
Blythe minstrel, wilt thou leave the skies,
And feek the bower where Nifa lies?
Go, tell how miid the wettern gale
That breathes along the dewy vale;
How th' op'ning flowers of various hues
Their fragrant effences diffufe;
How fresh the groves, the fields how green;
How lovely all the fylvan scene.
Bid her enjoy the happy time,
Nor lofe the feafon in its prime;
And with thy fofteft accent, fay
The vernal hours fly faft away.
Go-Autter round her heaving breast-
But, O! while thus fupremely blest,
Waite not thy time in filent gaze,
But fweetly chant thy matin lays;.
Or fing of Nifa, and delay
For once to hail returning day.

DAPHNIS..

ISA AH XIV. 4. RGO tyranni jam furor infolens Tandem refedit?-Scilicet occidis ! Nec ferreo fævus coerces

E

Imperio populos trementes!

Virgam impiorum comminuit Deus,
Virgam potentum; verberis impetu
Nunquam remiffo conterentem
Attonitas fine lege gentes.
Orbis quievit littoris ultimi,
Quacunque tellus panditur, incola
Intemperanter feriatus

Ufque dies agit otiofas.

Lætantur altis montibus abietes Cedrique lætantur Libani: "Jaces: "Noftras nec in frondes fecurim

Fatiferam populator urget." Cemifne, ut Orcus regna per horrida Tumultuatur?-Cernis, ut inferas Recludit ædes, manumque

Turba venit tibi gratulantum? Regum, relictis fedibus, ordines In be fuperbo proveniunt gradu: Crudelibus verfam parati

Conviciis lacerare fortem : "Tune ergo noftrum jam fimilis? Tibi "Nobifque demum fors eadem venit? "Vah! quis fupremum credidiffet "Mortis iter tibi deftinatum!" Tecum fepulchro gloria conditur: Taces; remiffe fila tacent lyræ: Et vermium putres pererrans

Agmen edax epulatur artus.

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Quis te fepulchri munere, quis pari
Dignetur urna? Gentis eras mea
Occifor; et, quacunque fines
Porrigeret, fpoliator orbis.

Cadit fcelefti infleta intonoraque
Proles. Acerbum ftringite filiis

Enfem; patris ne mox cruentet, Ne feritas rediviva mundum. "Iras in illos exacuam graves," Jehova dicit, bellipotens Deus:

"Nomen Babelis, filiofque, et

"Reliquias generis revellam, "Certum eft ab imis verrere fedibus "Urbem: tenebit gurges: et ardea "Inter paludofas ruinas

"Ponet arundineum cubile." Jurare verax, bellipotens Deus Jehova dixit: non erit irritum Verbum Jehova, fempiternæ

Confilium nec inane mentis. 4 Tritam videbit fub pedibus mea "Gentem Babelis terra fuperftitem: Jugum refringam, ponderifque Colla mei populi levabo.

46

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ARTICLE CIV.

EDITHA, a Tragedy; infcribed to the Inhabitants of the City of Exeter and its Neighbourhood. By Hugh Downman, M. D. 8vo. Is. 6d. Grigg. Exeter. 1784.

THIS tragedy recalls to our memory "Infancy, a Poem," written by Mr. Downman fome years fince, which reflects confiderable honour on him a man of fenfe, genius, and learning, and it is with fatisfaction we can inform our readers, that the piece before us tends rather to increafe than diminish our esteem for him, though we by no means think he hath happily fucceeded in the difficult undertaking of writing tragedy: he is greatly deficient in that delineation of character

and purity of manners fo effentially requifite in this kind of writing; but notwithstanding, he fairly merits a feat with his contemporaries in the tragic line, as he often poffeffeth a fpirit of boldness, and a manlinefs of expreffion, rarely to be met with in their writings. To fupport our opinion, we fhall make the following extracts, which contain the principal caufe of Editha's diftrefs:

VOLNIR'S TEN T.
Enter a Soldier.

AS in our fartheft limits t'ward the city
I and my fellows held obfervant watch,
A damfel crofs'd our way with two attendants.
She bade us ftraightway lead her to our chief,
And begs to be admitted to thy prefence.
Volnir. Bring her before us.
Enter Gunhilda.
Voln. Mid the paths of death,
And throng of hoftile arms, fay, gentle maid,
What brings thee hither, at this hour of night?

Gun. Art thou the much-famed leader of the Danes?

Voln. My name is Volnir.

Gun. Hail, illuftrious chief
The favour of thy private ear.
My errand is to thee, and my riqueft

Voln.

Retire :

Thy will is granted. From a meffenger
So beauteous and fo rare, I may expect
No common tidings. Whence? and who art thou?

Gun. From Devon's weit extreme I come; a friend To thee and Denmark,

Voln. How a friend? Proceed.

Gun. Art thou ambitious o'er this town to triumph?

To gird the conqueror's laurel round thy brow? Q2 And

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