The New-York Weekly Magazine, or Miscellaneous Repository Part 15

_Days of the Month._ _Thermometor observed at 8, A.M. 1, P.M. 6, P.M._ _Prevailing winds._ _OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER._

deg. deg. deg. 8. 1. 6. 8. 1. 6.

100 100 100 JULY 10 73 78 50 74 NW. SW S. clear do. do.

11 73 25 78 77 50 S. do. do. cloudy do. do. rn. at n.

12 80 75 87 50 78 S. SW. W. cr. cy. do. thun. & light 13 76 72 50 74 25 SW do SW rain do. do.

14 72 74 75 72 SW do NW rain do. do. thun. & lit 15 72 76 50 72 N se sw cy. rn. cy. thun. & lit.

16 74 50 82 50 76 75 W do SW cloudy clear do.

17 74 25 80 50 79 SW do. do clear do. do.

18 72 79 73 W. SW W. clear. do. thun. & light 19 70 75 78 79 W. do do. thun. in the nt. cy. do cr 20 70 50 66 63 NE. do. N. cloudy rain do.

21 74 50 77 50 77 N. do. SW. cloudy clear do.

22 75 80 73 NE. do se clear do. do.

23 69 74 69 Ne do. e cloudy clear do.

+For the New-York Weekly Magazine.+

TO ELIZA.

Come, my Eliza, grace the sylvan scene, Ah! fly, and leave the careful seats of woe; No sorrows here intrude, all calm, serene, Our happy hours in sweet contentment flow; Bring guileless pleasures each succeeding day, Then clap their joyous wings, and quickly haste away.

O'er neighbouring fields, unlike our smiling plain, Fell tyranny his iron rod extends: There furious war and devastation reign, And pity bids us weep our slaughter'd friends Yet cannot sympathy our peace molest, We grow by sad comparison more blest.

O come, the time prophetic bards foretold, When tyranny, and war shall be no more; When circling years, restore the age of gold, And every sorrow, want, and pain are o'er; When heaven-born love, and peace shall reign again, To bless an unambitious gentle race of men.

MATILDA.

Cedar Grove, 1776.

_For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n

+Over the grave of my wife.+

And does this little s.p.a.ce contain The person of my wife?

Who, when alive, no house could hold, Her _tongue! ! !_----Ah! what is _life_?

THEODORE.

New-York, July 24, 1796.

TO AMANDA.

From me, dear maid, one faithful verse receive, The last sad offering that a wretch can give; Warm from that heart, decreed by heaven to prove, The sad experience of too great a love.

When first, Amanda, with your friendship blest, Your form too lovely, all my soul possest; Tho' sweet the hours, how swift the minutes flew, While pleas'd I sat and fondly gaz'd on you.

Ah! how I listen'd when your silence broke, And kiss'd the air which trembled as you spoke; Did you not, dearest, see my fond distress, Beyond all power of language to express?

Did not my soul betray the young disease, The soften'd look, the tender wish to please?

To sooth your cares, when all in vain I strove, Did not each action speak increase of love?

'Tis done! but ah, how wretched must I be, That lovely bosom heaves no sigh for me; For me, that heart with no warm pa.s.sion glows, Nor my Amanda one soft word bestows: But could she see the anguish of my heart, And view the tumults that her charms impart; Could she but read the sorrows of my mind, She sure would pity, for she must be kind.

Ah! what avails, dear maid, to souls like mine, That gen'rous friendship is your sweet design?

The pleasing thought with rapture I pursue, It must be lovely, for it comes from you.

But oh! how vain is friendship to repress The soul-felt pang of exquisite distress.

How small the balm, by friendship you impart, To the sharp tortures of th' impa.s.sion'd heart.

What tender wish, for you alone to live, Could once each dear deluding moment give?

When every look, bewitching as 'twas fair, Seiz'd all my heart, and play'd the tyrant there.

How did those eyes with soften'd l.u.s.tre shine, Thought unexpress'd, and sympathy divine?

While still the hope within my bosom grew; Vain hope!----to live for happiness and you.

Some swain more blest has taught thy breast to glow, But who can soothe the wretched Arouet's woe?

Ah! think not absence can afford a cure, To the sharp woes, the sorrows I endure: Amanda, no! 'twill but augment distress To such a height no mortal can express.

My soul, distracted, still is fix'd on you; Was ever heart so wretched and so true!

Oh! say, shall selfish love my bosom fire?

Shall you reluctant meet my fond desire?

If that dear heart has vow'd eternal truth, To some blest swain, some more engaging youth; Forgive the thought, dear angel of my breast, I must be wretched; O! may you be blest.

Yes, may the youth to whom you prove more kind, Know the rich treasures of that lovely mind: May he be fond, and may no cloud o'ercast The virtuous pa.s.sion, born to ever last.

But though his love in every act may shine, Yet know, sweet maid, it cannot be like mine: Your image never can from me depart; Fixt in my soul, and written on my heart.

_For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

THE WISH.

Where's my Olivia, tell me where?

Oh! could she all my pleasures share; Oh! could she---- No-- That thought restrain, She must not, shall not share my pain.

How oft with her I've rang'd the fields, Pleas'd with the blessings friendship yields; Contented then, no more desir'd, And only sung what it inspir'd.

Soon may she come, and with her bring That peace which taught me first to sing, That calm contentment which attends The gentle intercourse of friends.

'Till then in vain I seek relief, And sooth, with ev'ry art, my grief; Friendship alone can grief destroy, And tune the soul again to joy.

Can bid each flatt'ring hope be still, To reason's power subdue the will; Each feeling of the heart improve, And guard it from the darts of love.

HENRICUS.