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On every Olympic the humourest drollid,

So none could his jokes disapprove, He

sung, repartee'd, and some old stories told, And at last thus began upon Jove.

Sire! mark how yon matter is heaving below,

Were it settleii, 'twould please all your court; Tis not wisdom to let it lie useless, you know,

Pray people it-..just for our sport.

Jove nodded assent, all Olympus bow'd down,

At his fiat Creation took birtla;
The cloud-keeping Deity smild on his throue,

Then announced the production was Earth.

To honour their Sovereign each God gave a boon;

Apollo presented it light,
The Goddess of child-bed despatched us a Moon,

To silver the shadow of night.

The queen of soft wishes, foul Vulcan's fair bride,

Leer'd wanton on her man of war; Saying, as to these Earth folks, I'll give them a guide,

So she sparkled the morn and eve star.

Froin her cloud, all in spirits, the Goddess up sprung,

In ellipsis each Planet advanc'd;
The tune of the spheres the Nine Sisters sang,

As round Terra Nova they danced.

Eren Jove himself could not insensible staud,

Bid Saturn his girdle fast bind:
The Expounder of fate grasp'd the globe in his haud

And laughed at those mites called mankind.

From the hand of great Jove into space it was hurld,

He was charın'd with the roll of the ball, Bid his daughter Attraction take charge of the world,

And she hung it up high in liis hall.

Miss, pleas'd with the present, review'd the globe round,

Saw with rapture, hills, vallies, and plains; The self balanc'd orb in an atinosphere bound,

Prolific by suns, dews, and rains.

With silver, gold, jewels, the Indiaę endow'd,

France and Spain she taught vineyards to rear; What was fit for each elime on each clime she bestow'd,

And Freedom she fenrund Aourished here.

The blue ey'd celestial, Minerva the wise,

Ineffably smild on the spot;
My dear, says plumed Pallas, your last gift I prize,

But, excuse me, one thing is forgot.

Licentiousness Freedom's destruction may bring,

Unless Prudenee prepare its defence;
The Goddess of Sapience bid Iris take wing,

And on Britons bestow'd common sense.

Four cardinal virtues she left in this isle,

As griardians to cherish the root;
The blossoms of Liberty gayly 'gan smile,

And Englishmen fed on the fruit.

Thus fed, and thu, bred, by a bounty so rare,

Oh preserve it as pure as 'twas given,
We will, while we've breath, nay, we'll grasp it in death,

And return it untainted to Heaven.

THE CLASSICAL WORLD--FOR THE PORT FOLIO.

Since our commencement of the publication of the very po pular poems of HORACE in London, we have been repeatedly asked « who is the admirable author of odes so witty, fluent, and humorous;" and, although we have instituted an inquiry, both in London and elsewhere, all our inquisitiveness is hitherto baffled. We have, however, some reason to conjecture that this Rabelais work is the joint effusion of a brace of Templars, who, strange as it may seeni to my Lord Chief Justice, prefer Catullus to Coke, and pore with more pleasure over the classical

page than

Salkield and Ventries
And all their damn’d Entries.

The following imitation of one of the most noble odes of the Roman original is a new and splendid proof of the peerless powers of a laughing wit. The compliment to the genius of Walter Scott, though expressed with whimsical excentricity, is evidently the dictate at oncc of Judgment and Taste. The charm

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ing contrast between the Muse of Marmion and the Muse of Horace is drawn with all the skill of a poetical painter. The playful jokes at the expense of Pye, the laureat, and the allusion to British glory in Egypt will scarcely escape the attention of the enthusiastic and delighted reader. It is reverently hoped that the fun in the closing stanza of this jocund ode will not be very acrimoniously censured by the wits of Philadelphia, who dearly love a quibble and a conundrum sometimes, although they are capable, whenever they please, to exert a nobler powerma of rising to the highest heaven of Invention, and of dazzling their admirers with those lights of mind which, for their purest radiance, require no fictitious and phosphoric power.

EDITOR.

BIORACE IN LONDON-BOOK IV. ODE II.

'IO HENRY JAMES PYE, ESQ. POET LAUREAT.

Pindarum quisquis studet uemulari, &c.

The bard, who rivals WALTER SCOTT,
Like Sancho, from the blanket shot,

Must soar in devious sprawl;
Then, weaving in his antique plot,
Vocabularies, long forgot,
With, well I ween and well I wot

The days of yore recall.
Ilim tinkling symbals on shall drive,
Queen bee of the Parnassian hive

The meed of glory woll,
Whether he with the Minstrel creep,
Or mount the massy Donjon keep

With blackbrow'd Marmion.
Let him in eddying metre sail,
Still changing with the changing tale,

Now ruffled, now serene;
Ilis mutilated stanza treat
Like fam'd Procrustes, lopping feet,

Per Syncopen, I ween!
It'e'er his creeping Muse invade,
A convent's consecrated shade,
Let her describe those haunts of leisure,
In gentle undulating measure,

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With thundersound and lightning blaze
Fill'd hordes of Arabs with amaze;
Made, like a hunted ostrich, Nile
Conceal his seven heads the while;
Flashi'd like a meteor through the midnight gloom,
And shook the dust from Pharoah's marble tomb.

All this dear bard, is mighty well
But in land battles never tell

Of Albion's wit or worth.
Unlike that giant, big of bone,
Who wrestled with Alcmena's son,
Britannia mourns her vigour gone

When'ere she fights on earth.

VI.
Now cease my Muse, thy rain desire
To emulate the Laureat's fire,
How vast the intermediate line

"Twixt hurricane and zephyr.
Il match'd, as when in battle join
Ten bulls and eke as many kine

Oppos’d to one poor heifer.
Proceed, great sir, and still display
Shreds of the buckram garb of Gray

In thy Pindaric strain;
To cut thy wing though critics try,
Then heed then not, with thee, my Pre

Tis cut and come aguin.

THE MORAL WORLD-FOR THE PORT FOLIO.

The Port Folio is osten perused even by the pious during the decline of Sunday. Papers entirely of a gay and sportive description are not always relished, even by the dissipated themselves, at those solemn seasons, when Duty and Custum both impel us to commune with our own hearts in the inner chamber and be still. We have long been steadfastly and seriously of opinion that a moral department should have its conspicuous place in the Port Folio. Hence, it is our determination to devote something to the serious and sentimental as well as to the laughing lounger. We shall be anxiously on our guard, in this department of labour, not to perplex ourselves or others with angry polemics or by drowsy prosing to stupify

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