The New-York Weekly Magazine, or Miscellaneous Repository Part 59

TO A YOUNG LADY, On the Author's Reading to her Sterne's Beautiful Story of Maria.

As Sterne's pathetic tale you hear, Why rudely check the rising sigh?

Why seek to hide the pitying tear, Which adds new l.u.s.tre to the eye?

Tears that lament another's woe, Unveil the goodness of the heart: Uncheck'd, Maria, these should flow-- They please beyond the pow'r of art.

Does not yon crimson-tinted rose, Whose opening blush delights the view, More splendid colouring disclose, When brightly gem'd with morning dew?

So shall Maria's beauteous face, Drest in more pleasing charms appear; When aided by the magic grace Of pity's sympathizing tear.

THE REPARTEE.

Cries Sylvia to a reverend Dean, What reason can be given, Since Marriage is a holy thing, That there are none in Heaven?

There are no women he replied.---- She quick returns the jest-- Women there are, but I'm afraid They cannot find a priest.

_For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

TO EMMA.

Charm'd by returning Friendship's gentle voice, Each waken'd pulse with new-born rapture beats; My lonely heart the welcome stranger greets, And bids each quiv'ring, trembling nerve rejoice.

Emma again shall meet my view, Still beats her heart to Friendship true, All the gay scenes by hope pourtray'd, Late hid by sorrow's sombre shade, Revive upon my raptur'd sight, In glowing colours now more bright Than when we erst in early Friendship's bands, First join'd our hearts and lock'd our infant hands.

Friend of my heart, that time again returns, Again we'll taste the joys of Friendship pure; And tho' Maria's loss my Emma mourns, Time and fond sympathy her grief shall cure.

There she was pity's mildest form, Her heart with ev'ry virtue warm, And well deserv'd affection's tear, The tender thought and sigh sincere; I too her early fate deplore, And mourn fair Virtue's child no more: In tender sympathy with thee I'll join, "Give tear for tear, and echo sighs to thine."

The subject sad my early woes revives; I too, my friend, have felt misfortune's dart, Still in my soul the sad remembrance lives Of objects dear;--Ah! doom'd how soon to part: Still in the melancholy hour Memory exerts her tyrant pow'r; Recalls thy form, Oh! parent dear, Still bids the much-lov'd shade appear, And prompts the deep-drawn sigh sincere, While down my pale cheek flows the tear: Deep in the grave my tender parent sleeps, While o'er the sod each kindred virtue weeps.

Soon too Selina did thy early worth The blooming beauty heaven its favourite gave, Seek the dark confines of the chilling earth, And join our much lov'd parents in the grave: Ye oft I meet, beloved shades, When wandering through the moonlight glades; Pale shadows shoot athwart my view, I start, I sigh, and think of you, And oft my wilder'd fancy brings Your dear lov'd forms, and o'er them flings Bright robes of heavenly radiance fair, Anon they vanish into air: Thus fled my joys, I cry, and tears pursue, The pleasing phantoms melting from my view.

Have I not cause, my friend, to grieve, To bid the mournful numbers flow, In solemn strains of dirge like woe, And tears the wounded heart relieve: But resignation, heaven born maid, Still sooths me with her cheering aid, She calls my wandering fancy home, To scenes of bliss beyond the tomb, And bids my rapt thought soar away, "In visions of eternal day."

Emma's dear friendship too shall calm my woe, Forbid the sigh to heave, the tear to flow.

Yes, charming maid, thy love returned bestows A cheering ray my darken'd path to light, As from the cloud, the sun breaks forth more bright, And all the sky with borrowed l.u.s.tre glows: Again shall please, the sweets of spring, And fancy ever on the wing, a.s.say to cull Pierian flowers, And spend the chearful smiling hours; When at the muses' shrine I bow, In waving garlands for thy brow: Nor thou my friend, the humble boon refuse, Tho' mean the gift, pure are the giver's views.

Yet think not, partial friend, thy Clara vain, Ah! well she knows, she wants the muses fire, Some abler hand should strike the sounding lyre, And with my Emma's praises swell the strain: Yet though my lay be wild and rude, By friendship's partial eye when view'd, Emma may smile--no more I ask, I will repay the pleasing task: More than the applauding world her smile I prize, Than the morn the mildness of her eyes.

CLARA

NEW-YORK Oct. 3, 1796.

SOLILOQUY TO LOVE.

O thou, or fiend, or angel, by what name Shall I address thee? how express thy powers?

Strange compound of extremes! of heat and cold, Of hope and fear, of pleasure and of pain!

Nought can escape thy prying scrutiny; Wretched, should aught but thwart thine ardent wish; And oh! how ravish'd if thou mark'st one glance, Which tells the latent longings of the soul!

In that high fever, the delirious brain Coins gaudy phantoms of celestial bliss, Of bliss that never comes--for now, e'en now From airy joys he wakes to solid pain.

Quick to his sight up springs, in long array, A tribe of horrid ills--the cold reply; The unanswer'd question; the a.s.senting nod Of dull Civility; the careless look Of blank Indifference; the chilling frown That freezes at the heart; the stony eye Of fixt Disdain; or more tormenting gaze Bent on another. These, with all the train Of fears and jealousies that wait on Love, Are no imagin'd griefs; no fancied ills These; or, if fancied, worse than real woes Such art thou, Love; then who, that once has known Thy countless rocks and sands that lurk beneath, Would ever tempt thy smiling surface more?

Long toss'd on stormy seas of hopes and fears, How willingly at last my wearied soul Would seek a shelter in forgetfulness!

Oh! bland Forgetfulness, Love's sweetest balm, Through all my veins thy pow'rs infuse; close up Each avenue to Love; purge off the lime That clogs his spirit, which fain would wing its flight To Sense, to Reason, Liberty and Peace.

NEW-YORK: _+Printed by JOHN BULL, No. 115, Cherry-Street+, where every Kind of Printing work is executed with the utmost Accuracy and Dispatch.--+Subscriptions+ for this +Magazine+ (at 2s. per month) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and by E. MITCh.e.l.l, Bookseller, No. 9, Maiden-Lane._

_UTILE DULCI._

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

+Vol. II.+] +Wednesday, October 19, 1796.+ [+No. 68.+

REFLECTIONS ON THE HARMONY OF SENSIBILITY AND REASON.

SINCERITY.

A little judgment, with less sensibility, makes a man cunning; a little more feeling, with even less reason, would make him sincere.

Some have no more knowledge of humanity, than just serves them to put on an appearance of it, to answer their own base and selfish purposes.

He who prefers cunning to sincerity, is insensible to the disgrace and suspicion which attend craft and deceit, and the social satisfaction which the generous mind finds in honesty and plain-dealing.

Men who know not the pleasures of sincerity, and who traffic in deceit, barter an image of kindness for a shadow of joy, and are deceived more than they deceive.

Pa.s.sION.

Let us suppose an end of Pa.s.sion, there must be an end of reasoning.

Pa.s.sion alone can correct Pa.s.sion. Thus we forego a present pleasure, in hopes that we shall afterwards enjoy a greater pleasure, or of longer duration: or suffer a present pain, to escape a greater; and this is called an act of the judgment. He who gives way to the dictates of present pa.s.sion, without consulting experience, listens to a partial evidence, and must of course determine wrongfully.

Some, in order to pay a false compliment to sentimental pleasures, attempt altogether to depreciate the pleasures of sense: with as little justice, though with like plausibility, have men endeavoured to decry the natural pa.s.sions and affections as inconsistent with human felicity.

Not from our natural desires and pa.s.sions do we suffer misery; for, without these, what pleasure can we be supposed to enjoy? But from false desires, or diseased appet.i.tes, acting without the aid of experience and understanding.

He who commits an action which debases him in his own mind, besides its other evil consequences, lays up a store of future misery, which will haunt him as long as the memory of the deed remains.