The New-York Weekly Magazine, or Miscellaneous Repository Part 107

ODE TO CONTEMPLATION.

Come, contemplation! with celestial fire Warm the young bard, who drives thy heights to gain; So shall his muse obsequious strike the lyre, To sound thy bounty in his ardent strain.

Thou lov'st to dwell where solemn, silent night Divests the mind of folly's frantic dream; Where heaven's grand canopy attracts the sight, And whispering breezes keep the soul serene.

Ah! how I feel thy welcome power supreme, Whene'er I wander aged Humber's sh.o.r.e, Pensive beneath the moon's indulgent beam, At tir'd creation's universal snore.

If I extend my views to distant skies, What sure conviction dawns upon my soul?

Borne on a cherub's plume, it seems to rise, Seeking its destin'd reign, unconscious of controul.

And not alone amazement finds employ; Here, pure devotion lends her awful ray, Without whose light proves lifeless ev'ry joy That decks the night, or ornaments the day.

"But when I drop mine eye and look on man,"

I see strong outlines of eternal peace; A Being form'd of intricate, nice plan, Spurning the confines or of time or place.

Fain would I now retire from busy life, Sequester'd in some solitary cell, Alike unknown to envy and to strife, And bid all noisy scenes a long farewell.

There no ambition should possess my mind, Or pleasure's gilded baits my heart betray; But, to religion perfectly resign'd, I'd pa.s.s my moments usefully away.

How oft, directed by the friendly care, Silent, I'd range the church yard's awful gloom, Musing the fatal stroke I once must share, A wither'd victim to the cheerless tomb.

"There weigh my dust:" prepare for that grand scene, When life's last blaze shall quiver to decay: Then I'd exult in thee, my sacred theme, And sure companion thro' the trackless way.

E'en now with secret rapture I survey, When my freed soul shall break her chain, and rise Up to the regions of eternal day, From finite being to its native skies:

With thee review with perspicacious eye, The long, long chain of Providence design; Conceive the attributes of deity, And hymn his praise ineffably divine.

But cease my song! I hear the muse complain, How she has strove, and still may strive in vain, To tell the heart-felt pleasures of thy reign.

+Epigram on a false mistress.+

My heart still hovering round about you, I thought I could not live WITHOUT you; Now we have been two months asunder, How I liv'd WITH you--is the wonder!

NEW-YORK: _+Printed by THOMAS BURLING, No. 115, Cherry-street+--where Subscriptions for this +Magazine+ (at 6s. per quarter) will be gratefully received--And at No. 33, +Oliver-Street+._

_UTILE DULCI._

THE NEW-YORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE; or, Miscellaneous Repository.

+Vol. II.+] +Wednesday, January 11, 1797.+ [+No. 80.+

_For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

ESSAY.

No. I.

"Variety we still pursue, "In pleasure seek for something new."

SWIFT.

In man there is a natural love of change and variety: the mind is wearied by continual succession of similar objects, those pleasures which at first were capable of inspiring emotions of delight; which once filled the heart with rapture and enthusiasm; as they become familiar, fade by degrees, they lose their brilliancy, the charm of novelty is gone, and soon they please no more. The sublimer works of nature, which have roused the attention of the traveller, excite not similar sensations in the bosoms of those who have been long acquainted with their beauties: the lofty mountain "with its robe of mist," the stupenduous cliff that overlooks the torrent, and the loud sounding waters of the tremendous cataract, neither strike them with veneration nor with awe. Their eyes wander with languor and indifference, over those scenes in which nature has been most lavish of its beauties. The mind is attracted by diversity, we follow with avidity any object which appears fascinating and pleasing, until some fresh pursuit which fancy has furnished with superior charms captivates the imagination. This love of variety is predominant in the breast of every individual, it alike exists in the lowly cottage and the splendid palace, in the circles of business and in the vortex of pleasure, in the obscure paths of folly and ignorance, and in the exalted walks of literature and science: and although those objects which at a distance appeared dazling and beautiful, may lose their brightness on a nearer approach, still the acquirements which have cost us much labor and pain, have something in them peculiarly grateful. Man has ever been considered as a fickle and inconstant being, rarely content with his present situation, but continually looking out for brighter and fairer prospects. This restlessness of the human mind has been considered by some rigid moralists, as a source of trouble and vexation to those who are under its influence, but it is also a source of our greatest enjoyments: cold must be that heart, which is insensible to all the charms of variety, and but little calculated to partake of present joys, or to antic.i.p.ate the more sublime and exalted pleasures which are hid behind the impenetrable veil of futurity.

A. D.

DECEMBER 31, 1796.

[[Notes:

The reference to "the lofty mountain 'with its robe of mist'," may be from an article on Ossian in the New-York Magazine, Vol. 5, 1791.]]

JUSTICE.

Justice may be defined that virtue which impels us to give to every person what is his due. In this extended sense of the word, it comprehends the practice of every virtue which reason prescribes, or society should expect. Our duty to our Maker, to each other, and to ourselves, are fully answered, if we give them what we owe them. Thus justice, properly speaking, is the only virtue, and all the rest have their origin in it.

The qualities of candour, fort.i.tude, charity, and generosity, for instance, are not in their own nature virtues: and, if ever they deserve the t.i.tle, it is owing only to justice, which impels and directs them.

Without such a moderator, candour might become indiscretion, fort.i.tude obstinacy, charity imprudence, and generosity mistaken profusion.

+DEATH of a PHILOSOPHER.+

Let others bestrew the hea.r.s.es of the great with panegyric. When a philosopher dies, I consider myself as losing a patron, an instructor, and a friend; I consider the world as losing one who might serve to console her amidst the desolations of war and ambition. Nature every day produces in abundance men capable of filling all the requisite duties of authority; but she is a n.i.g.g.ard in the birth of an exalted mind, scarcely producing in a century a single genius to bless and enlighten a degenerate age. Prodigal in the production of kings, governors, mandarines, chams, and courtiers, she seems to have forgotten, for more than three thousand years, the manner in which she once formed the brain of a Confucius; and well it is she has forgotten, when a bad world gave him so very bad a reception.