object, whose feelings and taste were so widely different from his own, should have so strongly attracted his regard; but either he had not a true conception of her character, or the violence of his love caused him to disregard the dissimilarity in their minds. It is indeed affirmed, that he was not violently enamored at first, but that his passion grew by being repelled, and that he no sooner found his object unattainable, than, with the disposition so natural to men, to value highly whatever is beyond their reach, he exalted her in imagination into a being of transcendent excellence, and his susceptible heart was kindled with a most intense flame. The more

firmly the lady repulsed him, the more vehemently did he urge his addresses. He could not believe that a passion so ardent and sincere as that which he felt, could fail to move the heart of his mistress, and the coldness with which she steadily met his protestations of love, only caused a persuasion that he was not fervent and earnest enough. He found her inaccessible, and his solicitation hopeless; but desperate as his case was, he continued his assiduities, and occupied his mind with this romantic and unfortunate passion to the last hour of his existence.

In the prosecution of his hopeless suit, he called to his aid the powers of his muse. He committed his woes to verse, and the lady was annoyed with a multitude of poetical epistles, in which the strength of his affection, and the keen fine-toned sensibility of his feelings, are most eloquently displayed. In common cases, we are inclined to doubt the sincerity of that passion which can vent itself in the artificial and labored utterance of verse; and Doctor Johnson has declared, that a man who courts his mistress in rhyme, deserves to lose her. But the truth of our poet's grief is not to be doubted. A convincing earnestness marks every line that he utters. The unhappiness under which he was suffering is depicted in language too earnest to allow us to believe it a fiction. There is a tone of deep, sincere feeling in these outpourings of his sorrow, that must have come from the heart. He called these epistles, The Letters of Arouet to Amanda.' The lady con

tinued inexorable, and Ladd becoming weary of so much ineffectual endeavor, yet not at all cooled in his passion, resolved to tear himself from his beloved Amanda, with the hope that absence and new objects would exert their usual influence in estranging his mind from the griefs which preyed upon his repose. He accordingly sailed for South Carolina, intending to remain there and practise his profession, but though at a distance from the object which had aroused his passion, it lived on with undiminished force; absence could not weaken it. Amanda became the wife of another; our poet received the information-he could no longer hope, but he loved still.

In 1786 he became engaged in a newspaper controversy, in Charleston, upon some political matter. This led to a personal misunderstanding, and a challenge was sent him, and accepted. A duel was fought, and Ladd received a wound which was not considered dangerous; but this unhappy man was languishing in despair, and had become weary of life. He refused all medical aid, and a mortification ensued. died in his thirtythird year.

He

A collection of his writings was published at Charleston in 1786, with the title of The Poems of Arouet.' It is said this volume contains but a small portion of his best Poems, and that the most of his epistles to Amanda are now lost. Those which remain show his poetical talent in a favorable and striking manner. They are written with the full energy of feeling, and are marked with none of the stale conceits, and worn-out figures of common love ditties, but come gushing from the heart in a strain of deep, poignant, and undissembled His other poems are not so impressive, for they want the fervor and heartfelt earnestness of his epistles, but they have ease, and liveliness of fancy. We are told that his volume was hastily compiled, and probably there are many of his pieces still extant, which are not included in it, as it was published soon after his death, at a distance from the region where he had passed the most of his days. Should any of these remains be discovered, we think their publication would be a 29*

sorrow.

VOL. 1.

service to the literature of the country, as well as a justice to the character of a person whose talents and misfortunes conspire to make him a signal object of interest.

AROUET TO AMANDA.

ONCE more, dear maid, the wretched Arcuet writes;
His pen obedient, as his heart indites;

These lines may haply waste your precious time,
And his loathed writings may be deem'd a crime.
Thou say'st that friendship can afford a cure
To the deep wounds, the sorrows I endure;
The generous thought with rapture I pursue-
It must be lovely, for it comes from you.
But O how poor is friendship to express
"The soul-felt pang of exquisite distress."
Once I was happy-blest with native ease,

A friend could cheer me, and a book could please;
But now no joys from books or friendship flow,
Not one poor respite to my load of wo.
Did not you, dearest, see my fond distress,
Beyond all power of language to express?
The whirling thought, the swift impassion'd kiss,
Delirium sweet and agony of bliss.

How have I listen'd when your accents broke,
And kiss'd the air that trembied as you spoke.
Death, friendly Death will soon relieve my pain,
Long sure he cannot be implored in vain.
When to my sight the monarch of the tomb
Shall rise terrific and pronounce my doom;
Will then Amanda, ah! she will, I trust,
Pay the last tribute to my clay-cold dust:
Will sighing say, here his last scene is o'er,
Who loved as mortal never loved before.
Dear, matchless maid! that kind concern display'd,
Would sweetly soothe my melancholy shade.
O'er my lone tomb O yield that sad relief;
Breathe the soft sigh and pour out all your grief;
Or shed one tear in pity as you pass,
And just remember that your Arouet was.

REMONSTRANCE

OF ALMASA ALLICAWN, WIFE OF ALMAS

ALLICAWN, TO WARREN HASTINGS.

It was said that Warren Hastings, having taken the husband of this lady, one of the eastern princes, prisoner, agreed to save his life for a ransom, and that he took the ransom and put the king to death.

My subjects slaughter'd, my whole kingdom spoil'd;
My treasures wasted and my husband slain.

O say, vile monster! art thou satisfied?
Hast thou, rapacious brute! sufficient wealth?
Hastings! my husband was your prisoner-
The wealth of kingdoms flew to his relief;
You took the ransom, and you
broke your faith.
Almas was slain-'t was perjury to your soul;
But perjury's a little crime with you.

In souls so black, it seem'd almost a virtue.
Say, cruel monster! art thou thirsting still
For human gore? O may'st thou ever thirst,
And may the righteous gods deny thee water
To cool thy boiling blood, inhuman wretch!
And, bloody ruffian! thou must go where Almas
Sits on a throne of state, and every hour
He stabs an Englishman, and sweetly feasts
Upon his bloody heart and trembling liver.
Yet, Hastings, tremble not, for thou art afe,
Yes, murderer! thou art safe from this repast:
A heart polluted with ten thousand crimes,
Is not a feast for Almas, he will pluck
That savage heart out of its bloody case,
And toss it to his dogs; wolves shall grow mad
By feeding on thy murderous carcase. More,
When some vile wretch, some monster of mankind,
Some brute like thee, perhaps thy relative,

Laden with horrid crimes without a name,

Shall stalk through earth, and we want curses for him,
We'll torture thought to curse the wretch, and then,
To damn him most supreme, we'll call him Hastings.

THE WAR HORSE.

PARAPHRASE FROM JOB.

AGAIN the Almighty from the whirlwind broke, And thus to Job, in stern continuance, spoke:

"Didst thou the horse with strength unequall'd mould,
Whose lofty neck the writhen thunders fold?
And canst thou make the intrepid courser fly,
When steely dangers glitter in his eye?

"See all around him spreads the flamy cloud,
Spurn'd from his nostrils, while he snorts aloud,
Trembling with vigor, how he paws the ground,
And hur's the thunder of his strength around!
Behold he pants for war, and scorning flight,
Collects his strength and rushes to the fight.

"When clouds of darts a sable horror spread,
And the full quiver rattles o'er his head:
To him no dread the sound of battle bears,
The clash of armor and the strife of spears;
But o'er his neck his waving mane reclined,
Spreads to the gale and wantons in the wind:
He spurns the field, fierce, terrible, and strong,
And rolls the earth back as he shoots along.

"Lo where the strife the distant warriors wage,
The neighing courser snuffs the sanguine rage;
While roaring trumpets and the dire affray
Provoke his laughter on that dreadful day;
More loud he snorts, more terrible he foams,
When nearer still the storm of battle comes;
And mingling roars are dreadful on the heath,
In shouts of victory, and groans of death."

RETIREMENT.

HAIL, Sweet retirement, hail!
Best state of man below,

To smooth the tide of passions frail,

And bear the soul away from scenery of wo.

When, retired from busy noise,

Vexing cares and troubled joys,

To a mild serener air,

In the country we repair:
Calm enjoy the rural scene,

Sportive o'er the meadows green:
When the sun's enlivening ray

Speaks the genial month of May,