He pass'd: the ravish'd Prophets saw: confess'd
The miracle of grace, and thankful bless'd
Th' Eternal Spirit, and his glorious rest.
O'erjoy'd they ran the saint elect to meet,
And bow beneath the bright successor's feet.

They breathe their prayers and blessings in his arms,
Cheer his sad soul, and their own passions charm.
Their hearts within 'em glow, their graces burn;
Each speak mysterious oracles in their turn:
Inspired their mind, transform'd their very mien,
In both superior grace and beauty seen.

In holiness and truth sweet their accord,

And faith their consolation did afford,

Elijah's more illustrious second coming with his Lord.

JANE TURELL.

MRS TURELL was the only daughter of the Rev. Dr Colman, of whom we have already spoken, and was born in Boston, A. D. 1708. Her devotedness to literary pursuits was remarkable, even in her childhood, and she was distinguished for sobriety of demeanor and sweetness of disposition, as well as for an ardent desire to attain those mental treasures which it was once deemed expedient to put beyond the reach of the gentler sex. The powers of Mrs Turell's mind were highly extolled by some of her contemporaries; but their encomiums must be cautiously received, for educated ladies were, in her days, so rarely to be found in New England, that the results of careful tuition were generally mistaken for evidences of a brilliant genius, and as the fashionable code seemed to favor Mohammed's doctrine, that women were born without the gift of soul, every female, who, in the course of her reading, had advanced beyond the spelling-book and accidence, was regarded as little less than a prodigy.

Jane Colman, when a girl of eleven, made some feeble efforts in verse, and as her father frequently wrote to her in

rhymes suited to her capacity, and encouraged her to peruse the English poets, she became ready in composition, and often employed her hours of recreation in writing humorous essays, which displayed ingenuity and quickness of comprehension. On entering her nineteenth year she was married to the Rev. Mr Turell of Medford. She had then read and digested all the works on Divinity, History and Philosophy to which she could gain access, and was familiarly acquainted with the modern literature of a lighter kind. She died in 1735, at the age of twentyseven, having faithfully fulfilled those duties which shed the brightest lustre upon woman's name-the duties of the friend, the daughter, the mother, and the wife. Her poems are collected in a pamphlet, published by her husband immediately after her death.

A PARAPHRASE OF THE ONE HUNDRED

FOURTH PSALM.

As on the margin of Euphrates' flood

AND THIRTY

We wail'd our sins, and mourn'd an angry God;
For God provoked, to strangers gave our land,
And by a righteous Judge condemn'd we stand;
Deep were our groans, our griefs without compare,
With ardent cries we rent the yielding air.

Borne down with woes no friend at hand was found,
No helper in the waste and barren ground:
Only a mournful willow wither'd there,

Its aged arms by winter storms made bare;
On this our lyres, now useless grown, we hung,
Our lyres by us forsaken and unstrung!

We sigh'd in chains, and sunk beneath our wo,
Whilst more insulting our proud tyrants grow.
From hearts oppress'd with grief they did require
A sacred anthem on the sounding lyre:
Come, now, they cry, regale us with a song,
Music and mirth the fleeting hours prolong.
Shall Babel's daughter hear that blessed sound?
Shall songs divine be sung in heathen ground?
No, Heaven forbid that we should tune our voice,
Or touch the lyre! whilst slaves we can't rejoice.
O Palestina! our once dear abode,

Thou once wert blest with peace, and loved by God!
But now art desolate, a barren waste,

Thy fruitful fields by thorns and weeds defaced.

If I forget Judea's mournful land,
May nothing prosper that I take in hand!
Or if I string the lyre, or tune my voice,
Till thy deliverance cause me to rejoice;
O may my tongue forget her art to move,
And may
I never more my speech improve!
Return, O Lord! avenge us of our foes,
Destroy the men that up against us rose:
Let Edom's sons thy just displeasure know,
And, like us, serve some foreign conquering foe
In distant realms; far from their native home,
To which dear seat O let them never come!

Thou, Babel's daughter! author of our wo,
Shalt feel the stroke of some revenging blow:
Thy walls and towers be levell'd with the ground,
Sorrow and grief shall in each soul be found:
Thrice blest the man, who, that auspicious night,
Shall seize thy trembling infants in thy sight;
Regardless of thy flowing tears and moans,
And dash the tender babes against the stones.*

TO MY MUSE.

COME, gentle muse, and once more lend thine aid,
O bring thy succor to a humble maid !
How often dost thou liberally dispense
To our dull breast thy quick'ning influence!
By thee inspired, I'll cheerful tune my voice,
And love and sacred friendship make my choice.
In my pleased bosom you can freely pour,
A greater treasure than Jove's golden shower.
Come now, fair muse, and fill my empty mind,
With rich ideas, great and unconfin'd.
Instruct me in those secret arts that lie
Unseen to all but to a poet's eye.

Her father says of this Paraphrase, "The serious melancholy Psalm is well turned in the most parts of it, considering your years and advantages for such a performance. You speak of a single withered willow which they hung their harps on; but Euphrates was covered with willows along the banks of it, so that it has been called the River of Willows. I hope, my dear, your lyre will not be hung on such a sorrowful shrub. Go on in sacred songs, and we'll hang it on the stately cedars of Lebanon. Or let the pleasant elm before the door where you are suffice for you.''

O let me burn with Sappho's noble fire,
But not like her for faithless man expire.
And let me rival great Orinda's fame,
Or like sweet Philomela's* be my name.
Go lead the way, my muse, nor must you stop
Till we have gain'd Parnassus' shady top:
Till I have view'd those fragrant soft retreats,
Those fields of bliss, the muses' sacred seats.
I'll then devote thee to fair virtue's fame,
And so be worthy of a poet's name.

ON THE POEMS OF SIR RICHARD BLACKMORE.

BLACKMORE, thou wondrous bard! whose name inspires
My glowing breast to imitate thy fires,

O that my muse could give a lasting fame!
Then should my verse immortalize thy name.
Thy matchless lines thy inborn worth displays,
Inspires our souls, and fills our mouths with praise.
Thou for mankind's preceptor Heaven design'd,
To form their manners, and instruct their mind.
In virtue's cause undaunted you engage,
To stem the tide of vice, reform the stage,
And place the present with the golden age.
What eyes can view thy heroes, and not find
In them the lively copy of thy mind?
None but a soul profusely great and good,
A soul with every princely gift endow'd,
Could draw such virtues in their native light;
Virtues in which heroic souls delight.

With what sweet majesty Eliza stands,

While valiant Vere attends her high commands?
The vanquish'd Gauls before her cohorts fly,
And with their blood the Danube's current dye.
Here pious Arthur ploughs the watery main,
Heaven's righteous cause and worship to maintain;
His pious deeds and his victorious arms
Are crown'd with peace, and Ethelina's charms.
The virtuous Alfred next imbark'd we find,

In quest of wisdom for a princely mind,
To empire born and for a throne design'd.
Sages and kings alike the prince admire,

The schools and courts yield him his whole desire:

* Philomela was the name on the title page of Miss Singer's poems. Mr Colman, it seems, had not forgotton to discourse to his daughter of the fair maid of Bath.

His virtue, faithful Guithun, was thy care;
Nobly he fled the lewd Sicilian fair!

Chaste he return'd, and as an angel wise,

And more than crowns he found in fair Elsitha's eyes.
Thus Arthur, Alfred, and Eliza stand,
Drawn for examples by your matchless hand.

Had but the Mantuan felt that heavenly fire,
That warms thy breast, whene'er you tune the lyre,
Rome ne'er had known a rival in her praise,
Nor to Augusta e'er resign'd the bays.

To sacred numbers next your lyre is strung,
And mysteries divine flow from your tongue.

What heart's not sad, what eye flows not with tears,
When Job in all the pomp of grief appears?
His learned friends in vain attempt and try
God's secret springs of acting to descry;
And Job condemn, till God does justify.

With Israel's Psalmist next in cheerful lays,
Raptur'd in sacred love and heavenly praise,
To Israel's God your purer offerings rise,
For a sweet smell and grateful sacrifice.
No more shall Epicurean doctrine find
Belief in any but a sickly mind;
Nor will the Stagyrite again persuade,
'Twas not in time these mighty orbs were made,
Who read creation by your wit display'd.

Nor the bold Arian, whose blasphemous breath
The impure steam of sulphurous hell and death,
Shall scan the Almighty's ways, his truths deny,
And from the Saviour tear the Deity:

No more shall he the gazing world delude,
Nor on mankind his hellish schemes obtrude:
While you Redemption sing our faith does cry,
"My God, my God, I see thy deity!

O happy land! and of unrivall'd fame,

That claims thy birth, and boasts so great a name!
Albion alone is blest with such a son,

A birth to ages past, and thee, O Greece, unknown.

AN INVITATION INTO THE COUNTRY, IN IMITATION OF

HORACE.

FROM the soft shades, and from the balmy sweets

Of Medford's flowery vales, and green retreats,