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fortunate; his associates were wild and abandoned; and 100 short a date to allow him to perfect such a taste; but the warmth of his nature took too much advantage of how far lie was likely to have succeeded, the critic may the latitude which the morals of those times so crimi- judge from his productions. nally allowed to the passions. All this depraved his I have found among his papers a novel, in rather an imagination, and made it the slave of his senses: but still inperfect state, which, as soon as I have arranged and a native sensibility is often very warmly perceptible; collected it, shall be submitted to the public eye. and when he touches on pathos, he reaches the heart Where Mr Little was born, or what is the genealogy immediately. They who have felt the sweets of return of his parents, are points in which very few readers can to a bome, from which they have long been absent, will be interested. His life was one of those humble streans confess the beauty of those simple unaffected lines: which have scarcely a name in the map of life, and the O quid solutis est beatius curis ?

traveller may pass it by without inquiring its source or Cuin mens opus reponit, ac peregrino

direction. His character was well known to all who Labore fessi venimus Larem ad nostruin

were acquainted with him ; for he had too much vanity Desideratoque acquiescimus lecto.


to hide its virtues, and not enough of art to conceal its His sorrows on the death of his brother are the very defects. The lighter traits of his miod may be traced pertears of poesy; and when he complains of the ingratitude baps in his writings; but the few for which he was valued of mankind, even the inexperienced cannot but sym- live only in the remembrance of his friends. pathize with him. I wish I were a poet; I should en

T. M. deavour to catch, by translation, the spirit of those beauties which I admire' so warmly.

It seems to have been peculiarly the fate of Catullus, TO J. ATK-NS-N, ESQ. that the better and more valuable part of his poetry has not reached us; for there is confessedly nothing in Liis extant works to authorize the epithet « doctus,” so universally bestowed upon him by the ancients. If time I feel a very sincere pleasure in dedicating to you the had suffered the rest to escape, we perhaps should liave Second Edition of our friend Lutle's Poems. I am not found among them some more purely amatory; but of unconscious dial there are many in the collection which those we possess, can there be a sweeter specimen of perhaps it would be prudent to have altered or omitted; warm, yet chastened description, ihan his loves of Acme and, to say the truth, I more than once revised them for and Septimius? and the few little songs of dalliance to

that purpose; but, I koow not why, I distrusted either Lesbia are distinguished by such an exquisite playfulness, my heart or my judgment; and the consequence is, you that they have always been assumed as models by the have them in their original form: most elegant modern Latinists. Sull, I must confess, in

Non possol nostros mulie, Faustine, lituræ the midst of these beauties,

Emendare jocos, una lirura potest.
- Medio de fonte leporum
Surgit urnari aliquid, quod in ipais floribus angar?

I am convinced, however, that though not quite a It has often been remarked, that the ancients knew casuiste reluche, you have charity enough to forgive such nothing of gallantry; and we are told there was too much inoffensive follies: you know the pious Beza was not the sincerity in their love to allow them to tritle with the less revered for those sportive juvenilia which he pubsemblance of passion. But I cannot perceive Want they lished under a fictitious name; nor did the levity of were any thing more constant than the moderns: they l'embo's poems present liim from making a very good

Cardinal. felt all the same dissipation of the heart, though they knew not those seductive graces by which gallantry

Believe ine, my dear friend, almost teaches it to be amiable, Waiton, the learned

With the truest esteen, advocate for the moderns, deserts them in considering

Yours, this point of comparison, and praises the ancients for

T. M. their ignorance of such a refinement; but he seems to Ipril 19, 1902. have collected his notions of gallantry froin the insipid fadeurs of the French romances, which are very unlike the sentimental devily, the rata protervitus,» of a

POEMS, ETC. Rochester or a Sedley.

From what I have had an opportunity of observing, the carly poets of our own language were the models which Mr LITTLE selected for imitation. To altain

TO JULIA. their simplicity (rvo rarissima nostro simplicitas) was lais fondest ambition. le could not have aimed at a grace more difficult of attainment; 3 and his life as of Why, let the stingless critic chide

With all that fume of vacant pride In the filling Poems, there is a translatonfone of his lines Which mantles o'er the pedant fool, but I any it is only * simul- ... , and descrees in

Like vapour on a stagnant pool! be pleit more than the attempe.

Oh! if the song, to feeling true, 3 ] 1 von illustration of the labour while simplity requirca,

Co please the elect, the sacred few, thus the Ramblese olub00, but as they 41 4ur, were written Whose souls, by Taste and Nature laughie,

Thrill with the genuine pulse of though u livliga, blisema !! mr losing from the heart. Tar the Juunn of patiul labour, palising thery old, and be

If some fond feeling maid like thee, lanchetery Hotel

The Warm-eyed child of Sympathy,


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Iy, in the dream that hovers

Around my sleeping mind,
Fancy thy form discovers,

And paints thee melting kind;


say, winile o'er my simple theme She languishes in Passion's dream, « He was, indeed, a tender soulNo eritie law, no chill control, Should ever freeze, by timid art, The flowings of so fond a heart!» Yes! soul of Nature! soul of Love! That, hovering like a snow-wing'd dove, Breathed o'er my cradle warblings wild, And haild me Passion's warmest child! Grant me the tear from Beauty's eye, From Feeling's breast the votive sigh; Oh! let my song, my memory, find A shrine within the tender mind; And I will scorn the critic's chide, And I will scorn the fume of pride Which mantles o'er the pedant fool, Like vapour on a stagnant pool!

If joys from sleep I borrow,

Sure thou'lt forgive me this; For he who wakes to sorrow

At least may dream of bliss!

Oh! if thon art, in seeming,

All that I've e'er required : Oh! if I feel, in dreaming,

All that I've e'er desired ;

Wilt thou forgive my taking

A kiss, or something more? What thou deny'st me waking,

Oh! let me slumber o'er !


Wher, casting many a look behind,

I leave the friends I cherish herePerchance some other friends to find,

But surely finding none so dear




--Ego pars-- Ving.

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Does she too mourn ?-Perhaps she may;

Perhaps she weeps our blisses fleeting : But why is Julia's eye so gay,

Jf Julia's beart like mine is beating?

I oft have loved the brilliant glow

Of rapture in her blue eye streamingBut can the bosom bleed with woe,

"'lile joy is in the glances beaming?

No, no !-- Yet, love, I will not chide,

Although your heart were fond of roving: Nor that, por all the world beside,

Could keep your faithful boy from loving.

You'll soon be distant from his eye,

And, with you, all that's worth possessing. Oh! then it will be sweet to die,

When life has lost its only blessing!

CEASE the sigbing fool to play;
Cease to trifle life away;
Nor vainly think those joys thine own,
Which all, alas! have falsely flown!
What hours, Catullus, once were thine,
llow fairly seemn d thy day to shine,
When lightly thou didst fly to meet
The girl, who smiled so rosy sweet-
The girl thou lovedst with fonder pain
Than e'er thy heart can feel again!
You met-your souls seem'd all in one-
Sweet liitle sports were said and done-
Thy heart was warm cnough for both,
And hers indeed was nothing loath.
Such were the hours that once were thine;
But, ah! those hours no longer shine!
For now the nymph delights no more
In what she loved so dear before;
And all Catullus now can do
Is to be proud and frigid too;
Nor follow where the wanton flies,
Nor sue the bliss that she denies.
False maid! he bids farewell to thee,
To love, and all love's misery.
The hey-day of his heart is o'er,
Nor will he court one favour more;
But soon he'll see thee droop thy head,
Doom'd to a lone and loveless bed,
When none will seek the happy night,
Or come to traffic in delight!
Fly, perjured girl!—but whither fly?
Who now will praise thy cheek and eye?
Who now will drink the

syren tone,
Which tells him thou art all his own?
Who now will court thy wild delights,
Thy honey kiss, and furtle bites?
Oh! none.--And he who loved before
Can never, never love thee more!

SONG. Sweet seducer! blandly smiling; Charming still, and still beguiling! Oft I swore to love thee never, Yet I love thee more than ever!

Why that little wavion blushing,
Glancing eye,

and bosom flushing? Flushing warın,

and wily glancing All is lovely, all entrancing!

Turn away

those lips of blisses-I am poison'd by thy kisses ! Yet, again, ah! turn them to me: Ruin's sweet, when they undo me!

Oh! be less, be less enchanting; Let some little grace be wanting; Let my eyes, when I'm expiring, Gaze a while without admiring!

Fer poets kuew better than Catullus what a French writer alls

- la delicates

D'un volupturun sentimenti ljut his passione toolten obscured his imagination.


"I believe this epigrain is originally French.-E.


Yes, I did love her--madly love

She was the sweetest, best deceiver ! And oft she swore she'd never rove!

And I was destined to believe her!


Then, lady, do not wear the smile

Of her whose smile could thus betray: Alas! I think the lovely wile

Again might steal my heart away. And when the spell that stole my mind

On lips so pure as thine I see, • I fear the heart which she resign'd

Will err again, and fly to thee!

In vain we fondly strive to trace The soul's reflection in the face; In vain we dwell on lines and crosses, Crooked mouth, or short proboscis; Boobies have look'd as wise and bright As Plato or the Stagyrite: And many a sage and learned skull Has peep'd through windows dark and dull! Since then, though art do all it can, We ne'er can reach the inward man, Nor inward woman, from without (Though, ma'am, you smile, as if in doubt), I think 't were well if Nature could (And Nature could, if Nature would) Some pretty short descriptions write, In tablets large, in black and white, Which she might hang about our throttles, Like labels upon plıysic-botiles. There we might read of all-But stayAs learned dialectics say, The argument most apt and ample For common use, is the example. For instance, tben, if Nature's care Had not arranged those traits so fair, Which speak the sout of Lucy L-od-n, This is the label she'd Lwe pion'd on.

SONG. Way, the world are all thinking about it;

And, as for myself, I can swear, Jf I fancied that heaven were without it,

I'd scarce feel a wish to go there.

If Mahomet would but receive me,

And Paradise be as he paints,
I'm greatly afraid, God forgive me!

I'd worship the eyes of his saints.
But why should I think of a trip

To the Prophet's seraglio above,
When Pluillida gives me her lip,

As my own little heaven of love!
Oh, Phillis! that kiss may be sweeter

Than ever by mortal was given;
But your lip, love! is only St Peter,

And keeps but the key to your heaven!

LABEL FIRST. Within this vase there lies enshrined The purest, brightest gem of mind! Though Feeling's hand may sometimes throw l'pon its charms the shade of woe, The lustre of the gem, when veild, Shall be but mellow'd, not conceald.

Now, sirs, imagine, if you're able,
That Nature wrote a second label,
They're her own words—at least suppose so-
And boldly pin it on Pomposo.

LABEL SECOND. When I composed the fustian brain Of this redoubted Captain Vain, I had at hand but few ingredients, And so was forced to use expedients. I put therein some small discerning, A grain of sense, a grain of learning; And when I saw the void behind, I till'd it up with-froth and wind!

Mock me no more with love's beguiling dream,

A dream, I lind, illusory as sweet:
One smile of friendship, nay of cold esteem,

Is dearer far th npan's bland deceit!
I've heard you oft eternal truth declare;

Your heart was only mine, I once believed. Ah! shall I say that all your vows were air ?

And must I say, my hopes were all deceived ? Vow, then, no longer that our souls are twined,

That all our joys are felt with mutual zeal: Julia! 't is pity, pity makes you kind;

You know I love, and you would seem to feel.

Sweet lady! look not thus again :

Those little pouting smiles recal
A maid remember'd now with pain,

Who was my love, my life, my all!

But shall I still go revel in those arms

On bliss in which affection takes no part? No, no! farewell! you give me but your charms,

When I had fondly thought you gave your heart.

Oh! while this heart delirious took

Sweet poison from her thrilling eye, Thus would she pout, and lisp, and look,

And I would hear, and gaze, and sigh!

IMPROMPTU. Look in my eyes, my blushing fair! Thou 'll see thyself reflected there ; And, as I gaze on thine, I see Two little miniatures of me:

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