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inherent in the physical or moral constitution of the people, in their climate or form of government, is evident. That it does not arise from their poverty is no less clear, for where can be found a more flour ishing and prosperous nation?

The following anecdote occurs in Brissot's Travels. Twenty years, as is well known, have made no material alteration with respect to our encouragement of the arts.

The arts, says he, except those that respect navigation, do not receive much encouragement here. The history of the planetarium of Mr. Pope is a proof of it. Mr. Pope is a very ingenious artist, occupied in clock-making. The machine which he has constructed to explain the movement of the heavenly bodies would astonish you, especially when you consider that he has received no succour from Europe, and very little from books. He owes the whole to himself; he is, like the painter Trumbull, the child of nature. Ten years of his life have been occupied in perfecting this planetarium. He had opened a subscription to recompense his trouble; but the subscription was never full.

This discouraged artist told me one day, that he was going to Europe to sell this machine, and to construct others. This country, said he, is too poor to encourage the arts. These words, this country is too poor, struck me. I reflected that, if they were pronounced in Europe, they might lead to wrong ideas of America; for the idea of poverty carries that of rags, of hunger; and no country is more distant from that sad condition.

When riches are centered in a few hands, these have a great superfluity; and this superfluity may be applied to their pleasures, and to favour the agreeable and frivolous arts. When riches are equally divided in society, there is very little superfluity, and consequently little means of encouraging the agreeable arts. But which of the two countries is the rich, and which is the poor? According to the European ideas, and in the sense of Mr. Pope, it is the first that is rich; but, to the eye of reason, it is not, for the other is the happiest. So far Brissot.

A people must secure a provision of absolute necessaries, before they think of conveniences; and must enjoy conveniences before they can indulge in the agreeable arts of life. Long exercise of the indispensible arts will stock them with useful things; which, if their institutions be wholesome, will make them in general easy, and even rich as a people, without supposing enormous possessions in individual hands, and the attendant misery of others. The Americans began with log-houses, and are now in the progress to brick and stone, convenience and ele. gance; their attentions observe the like progress, and expand with the ability of attainment. When agriculture, with its attendant arts, and commerce, have rendered them comfortable in all respects, they will then naturally aspire to and encour age works of ingenuity and polite arts; which, though as yet unsuitable and beyond their views, will then evince their prosperity instead of their decay.

POETRY.

For the Literary Magazine.

ELEGY

O'er all those shores where oft his lyre
Sooth'd the soul or rapt to fire:
Such notes, Agriam nymphs, as ye have
heard

From the Greek of Moschus on the death When on your plains he fed his herd.

of Bion,

The author of the following poetical effusion introduced it to his readers

with these remarks:

The following is a humble attempt at translation of part of the celebrated elegy of Moschus on the death of Bion. I am sensible, that, in transplanting the odorous flowers of Asia into our ungenial soil, many a leaf has been despoiled of its luxuriance by the rude hand of an unskilful gardener. You will also observe that much has been omitted. In fact, the original is so perfumed with the fragrance of Asiatic scents, that a modern reader would be in danger of dying "in aromatic pain," had the translation been more faithful. Our style will not bear the exuberance of the oriental diction.

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Sicilian muses join the mournful cry,
And sing with me his plaintive elegy!

For to his flocks no more he plays,
No more he weaves his witching lays;
But under Pluto's gloomy power
His pipe beguiles the lazy hour;
His flocks in grief refuse to feed,
Another master tunes the reed!

Sicilian muses join the mournful cry,
And sing with me his plaintive elegy!
Phoebus, and all the Sylvan crew,
For him their ceaseless sorrow shew;
Pan hears no more his wonted lays,
When through his groves he fondly

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The source would gladly ascertain, that

tear

With tear might mingle; yet would the

eye

Not seek to pierce the veil or secret shade,

Where pale-fac'd Sorrow may delight to dwell

With avaricious fondness o'er her Treasur'd hoard. But, hark! again they flow.

Solemnity indeed!-Alas, 'tis death! Affection fond repeats the heavy groan From yonder grove. Amanda's gentle form,

Which the admiring eye has oft pursu'd, Is nothing now but dust. The dire disease

That on her bosom prey'd has mock'd the power

Of art, and rent in twain the brittle thread

Of life. But, oh! could none the ty

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years?

But no! permission given, gloomily
He smil'd, and bore his prize away.
Such oft

The wayward fate of man. The wretch forlorn,

Long, long estrang'd from peace, on troubled

Billows toss'd, grown weary of his bark, Which scarcely rides the storm, is doom'd to wait

Impatiently for his approach, destin'd, Alas, for future woes, if other woes The bosom yet can feel; while mourn'd Amanda,

So I term the fair, 'mid sweet enjoyments Plac'd, imparting bliss that angels must approve,

To go was loth, 'till resignation bent Her will to Heaven. Yet even then, alas, Would moments fond return, when fain

she

Would have liv'd, not for herself; ah,

no!

But for her infant babes, fast clinging

round

Her heart. Not that she doubted the paternal

Love of him, so long her bosom's dearest friend,

Not that she fear'd to trust those tender

ties

Cemented to her soul, to heaven's and his Kind fostering care; ah, no! in each her firm

Her highest confidence was seal'd. But ere health

Fled her youthful cheek, ere yet the damask

Rose had quit its mantling there, her heart a hope

Had cherish'd, not willing now to leave its fost❜ring

Home, of moulding the young ductile mind by her's,

Whose elegance of thought she had herself

Imbib'd in early youth. So firm the hope

Was tied around her heart, that nought but Death's

Cold icy hand could it erase from thence. Foe inexorable! Cruel, cruel Death! Can eye behold the chasm made, and not weep

Tears of salt, that furrows deep the cheek? Ah!

View all lonely now, the partner of her Youth! Disconsolate he droops, his little Babes around, unconscious of their loss, And wond'ring why the tears thus trickling fall,

As each in turn is folded to his heart. But hark! whose voice is that more mild than spring?

How mournful, yet how sweet! what mingled notes

Of sorrow and of love! Alas, heartrending

Truth, no fabled, fancied scenes are here Pourtray'd; a mother mourns her daugh

ter gone, Whose features ever wore a smile of love Unutterable at her approach, and such The look, no doubt, they wore, when

welcom❜d home

To the bright realms of never-ending day, To bliss supreme. But, oh! while here her presence

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To travellers' parched lips. Alas, what
has

The interesting mourner done, thus to
provoke

The ruthless hand of Fate? Death's
venom'd dart

Hath agoniz'd her breast time after

time,

When sons in manhood's prime twin'd

round her heart

By more than Nature's tie, by virtues
like

Her own, were hurried to the chambers
Of the mould'ring dead. Tyrannic

power!

But Heaven the mandate gave, and

therefore

Right. Religion bids her not its will
Arraign; submissive low she bends, yet

mourn

She must; for minds soform'd as her's can prove

No sudden cure. Still Hope, descending

mild,

Sheds o'er her aching mind its balmy

sweets;

Ere long she looks to join, in neverfading

Bliss, the darling children of her heart again.

ELIZA.

For the Literary Magazine:

REMONSTRANCE OF THE

WORM.

By J. E. Harwood.

POPLAR

WHAT means the quick averted eye,
The nimble footsteps apt to fly,

Experiments more cruel tried
Whene'er my form appears?
The cruel torture misapplied,
By vain and idle fears?

As slowly creeping on the ground,
You who my humble form surround,
With toil I gain what Heaven grants,
Know I resemble you :
I live in labour and in pain,

And you whose gilded chariots fly,
Obscure and hid from view.
Like meteors in the azure sky,
Your fate resembles mine:

Soon rais'd from dirt on zephyr's wing
I sail in many an airy ring,

My loathsome figure forms no screen
Whilst you to vice, to folly given,
Where poison lurks behind:
Debase the fairest form of heaven,
Non usitarâ nec tenui ferar
Degrade the godlike mind.
Penuâ.

And in rich lustre shine.
One diff'rence us there is between,

HOR

TO CORRESPONDENTS,

The Editor holds himself very much indebted to the author of Reflections on the French Revolution, published in his last number. Any new communications from the same hand will be gratefully received. Several pieces of poetry have come to hand, which, from the nature of their subjects, or from defects in composition, are not admissible. The editor will spare their authors and himself the pain of being more particular.

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NORFOLK.

PRINTED BY T. & G. PALMER, 116, HIGH STREET.

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