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So, near a forest tall, some worthless flower
Enjoys the triumph of its gaudy hour,
Scatters its little poison thro’ the skies,
Then droops its empty, hated head, and dies.

Still, as from famed Ilyssus' classic shore,
To Mincius' banks, the Muse her laurel bore,
The sacred plant to hands divine was given,
And deathless Maro nursed the boon of Heaven.
Exalted bard! to hear thy gentler voice,
The valleys listen, and their swains rejoice;
But when, on some wild mountain's awful form,
We hear thy spirit chaunting to the storm,
Of battling chiefs, and armies laid in gore,

rage, we sigh, we wonder and adore.
Thus Rome, with Greece, in rival splendour shone,
But claimed immortal satire for her own;
While Horace, pierced, full oft, the wanton breast
With sportive censure, and resistless jest;
And that Etrurian, whose indignant lay
Thy kindred genius can so well display,
With many a well aimed thought, and pointed line,
Drove the bold villain from his black design.
For, as those mighty masters of the lyre,
With temper'd dignity, or quenchless ire,
Through all the various paths of science trod,
Their school was NATURE and their teacher God.
Nor did the Muse decline till, o'er her head,
The savage tempest of the North was spread;
Till armed with desolation's bolt it came,
And wrapped her temple in funereal flame.

But soon the arts, once more, a dawn diffuse, And Danté hail'd it with his morning Muse; Petrarch and Boccace joined the choral lay, And Arno glisten'd with returning day.

Thus science rose; and, all her troubles passed,
She hoped a steady, tranquil reign at last;
But Faustus came: (indulge the painful thought,)
Were not his countless volumes dearly bought?
For, while to every clime and class they flew,
Their worth diminished as their numbers grew.
Some pressman, rich in Homer's glowing page,
Could give ten epics to one wondering age;
A single thought supplied the great design,
And clouds of Iliads spread from every line.
Nor Homer's glowing page, nor Virgil's fire,
Could one lone breast, with equal flame, inspire,
But lost in books, irregular and wild,
The poet wonder'd and the critic smiled;
The friendly smile, a bulkier work repays;
For fools wilt print, while greater fools will praise.

Touched with the mania, now, what millions rage To shine the laureat blockheads of the age. The dire contagion creeps thro' every grade, Girls, coxcombs, peers, and patriots drive the trade: And e'en the hind, his fruitful fields forgot, For rhyme and misery leaves his wife and cot. Ere, to his breast, the watchful mischief spread, Content and plenty cheer'd his little shed; And, while no thoughts of state perplex'd his mind, His harvest ripening, and Pastora kind, He laughed at toil, with health and vigour bless'd; For days of labour brought their nights of rest: But now in rags, ambitious for a name, The fool of faction, and the dupe of fame, His conscience haunts him with his guilty life, His starving children, and his ruin'd wife. Thus swarming wits, of all materials made. Their Gothic hands on social quiet laid, And, as they rave, unmindful of the storm, Call lust refinement, anarchy reform.

No love to foster, no dear friend to wrong, Wild as the mountain flood, they drive along: And sweep, remorseless, every social bloom To the dark level of an endless tomb.

By arms assailed, we still can arms oppose, And rescue learning from her brutal foes; But when those foes to friendship make pretence, And tempt the judgment with the baits of sense, Carouse with passion, laugh at God's controul, And sack the little empire of the soulWhat warning voice can save? Alas! 'tis o’er, The age of virtue will return no more; The doating world, its manly vigour flown, Wanders in mind, and dreams on folly's throne. Come then, sweet bard, again the cause defend, Be still the Muses' and religion's friend; Again the banner of thy wrath display, And save the world from Darwin's tinsel lay. A soul like thine no listless pause should know; Truth bids thee strike, and virtue guides the blow. From every conquest still more dreadful come, 'Till dulness fly, and folly's self be dumb.




It is agreeable to observe how differently modern writers, and the inspired author of the proverbs, describe a fine woman. The former confine their praises chiefly to personal charms, and ornamental accomplishments, while the latter celebrates only the virtues of a valuable mistress of a family, and a useful member of society. The one is perfectly acquainted with all the fashionable languages of Europe; the other, “opens her mouth with wisdom” and is perfectly acquainted with all the uses of the needle, the distaff, and the loom. The business of the one, is pleasure; the pleasure of the other, is business. The one is admired abroad ; the other is honoured and beloved at home. “ Her children rise up and call her blessed, her husband also and he praiseth her.” There is no fame in the world equal to this; nor is there a note in music half so delightful, as the respectful language with which a grateful son or daughter perpetuates the memory of a sensible and affectionate mother.

It should not surprise us that British customs, with respect to female education, have been transplanted into our American schools and families. We see marks of the same incongruity, of time and place, in many other things. We behold our houses accommodated to the climate of Great Britain, by eastern and western directions.

We behold our ladies panting in a heat of ninety degrees, under a hat and cushion, which were calculated for the temperature of a British summer. We behold our citizens condemned and punished by a criminal law, which was copied from a country where maturity in corruption renders public executions a part of the amusements of the nation. It is high time to awake from this servility-to study our own character-to examine the age of our country—and to adopt manners in every thing, that shall be accommodated to our state of society, and to the forms of our government. In particular it is incumbent upon us to make ornamental accomplishments, yield to principles and knowledge, in the education of our women.

A philosopher once said “let me make all the ballads of a country and I care not who makes its laws." He might with more propriety have said, let the ladies of a country be educated properly, and they will not only make and administer its laws, but form its manners and character. It would require a lively imagination to describe, or even to comprehend, the happiness of a country, where knowledge and virtue, were generally diffused among the female sex. Our young men would then be restrained from vice by the terror of being banished from their company. The loud laugh and the malignant smile, at the expense of innocence, or of personal infirmities—the feats of successful mimicry—and the low priced wit, which is borrowed from a misapplication of scripture phrases, would no more be considered as recommendations to the society of the ladies. A double entendre, in their presence, would then exclude a gentleman for ever from the

of both sexes,


probably oblige him to seek an asylum from contempt, in a foreign country. The influence of female education

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