of strength; he threw off the incumbent weight like a giant, and behold! the Paradise Lost broke out in all its splendour !

The unhappiness of poets is proverbial, and the malignity of the world is fond of attributing it to their own imprudences. But from what causes do those imprudences arise? From directing their minds into excursions beyond themselves; from not confining their attention and talents to lay plots for, and watch over, their own selfish interests! Perhaps however even this unhappiness, though it be a sad price to pay for the favours of the Muse, tends, for the reasons I have given, to invigorate their faculties, and give more affecting tones to the effusions of their lyre! Yet let not their persecutors thus satisfy their consciences; in them the crime becomes not only cruel, but brutal; and they must only expect to be held up, as they deserve, according to a favourite quotation,

"Fit garbage for the hell-hound Infamy!"

N° XXXIV.

A familiar poetical Epistle to a Friend, expressive of private Melancholy.

BY A CORRESPONDENT.

TO THE RUMINATOR.

SIR,

May 10, 1808,

As you seem inclined to vary your papers by a mixture of poetry with your prose, I solicit admission for the following familiar Epistle, written literally currente calamo, by a very dear friend. As it contains some moral touches, I hope it will not dishonour your ruminations. To secure its insertion, I leave the name of the person, who is responsible for it, with your Printer.

L. L. Z.

Familiar Epistle to the Rev. M

P

April 13, 1808.

Dear P*nn*****n, whose full-stor`d mind

Is with all varied wealth refin’d,

Permit me thus to scrawl at ease,
Without e'en the attempt to please!
Thy mighty intellect can spy
In rudest scrawls ability;

And can with kindest candour sigh
O'er casual imbecility!

Born of a race, whose mighty powers

k

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O'er Europe's wide domains are known,
Thy judgments no vile envy sours,
Thy censure takes no petty tone.—
Learning and taste alike combine
The fiat of thy thoughts to sign;
And Genius, fairest of the three,
Is proud to own her strains in thee.
How oft with rapture do I hear
The enlighten'd words thy lips endear;
Oft on thy heart's decrees repose,
Whence goodness as from fountains flows!
To me in candour wilt thou listen,
Tho' in my strains no genius glisten?
Alas! thou know'st not, how distracted
The cares that on my brain have acted;
My spirits low, my body weak,
I scarce in languid tone can speak,
Unless with agonized eyes
Loud indignation's tones arise,
Then leave me once again to languor,

Forgot the very sighs of anger!

Ah! thy more placid bosom knows

Not the wild rage, in me that glows;

*This alludes to the fame of the learned Mrs. E. C.

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Nor aught of the untam'd emotions,
That agitate my ill-starr'd notions:
But thou the tumult wilt forgive,

In which by fate's decree I live!
When night's black shades invest the sky,
Doubtful of rest, tho' tir'd, I fly

To bed, where sleep my frame may bless
With transient forgetfulness!

But all the horrid thoughts of day
Come in a doubly-dark array ;

And tear my bosom, and affright
My fancy with their glaring light!
O whence these tumults of my breast,
O why, when other bosoms rest,
Should thus my ease of mind be crost?
Should thus my life in cares be lost?
What special crimes have cast their stain,
Unworn by years of grief and pain?
I wander thro' the fields of morn,
I strive my temples to adorn

With all the simplest flowers, that grow
Beneath the spring's first genial glow;
I dress my humble mental powers
With learning's gems, and fancy's flowers;
I strive my heart to raise above
The selfish wordling's grovelling love,

And lift its bold affections high

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On mighty views beyond the sky.

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But traverst still, and still opprest,
I never know an hour of rest;

Some insult breaks my wise resolves;
Some new injustice, that involves
My tinder passions in a flame,
Rises my dying strength to claim.

There are, my friend, who still survey

My irritations as their

prey;

Who see indignant bursts, with joy,
My vital energy destroy;

And laugh to view th' exhausting pains

I feel, in struggling with my chains.

"He whom the world a prophet deem,

In his own land has small esteem:"
Ah! friend, I own it with a sigh,
Nor prophet nor yet bard am I!
But still if they, as well they may,
Refuse such praise as this to pay,
The good denied, they might as well
Leave me without the attendant ill!

I've often heard it said, there is

In the mind's own exertions bliss;
And bliss there is; for were there not,
The bard's would be a hapless lot.
God help him! how would he endure

The laugh of the conceited boor,

The coxcomb's sneer, the cynic's frown,
The giggle of the senseless town,

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