POETRY. [We have been favored with the manuscript of the following very beau tiful pieces of Mrs. Barbauld and Miss Aikin, with the permission te publish them.] ON THE KING'S ILLNESS BY MRS. BARBAULD. REST, rest, afflicted spirit, quickly pass Thine hour of bitter suffering. Rest await thee Art thou become like us? Oh, not for thee! To gaze on kings with admiration fond. And thou hast knelt at meek religion's shrine With no mock homage, and hast owned her rights And midnight prayer alike from vaulted domes, Linger beside thy couch, in this the day Of thy sad visitation, veiling faults Of erring judgment, and not will perverse. Yet oh! that thou hadst closed the wounds of war! That had been praise to suit a higher strain. On this eventful world, when aged grown, 1 T THE BALLOON-BY MISS AIKIN. HE airy ship at anchor rides; Proudly she heaves her painted sides, And now her silken form expands, How swift! for now I see her sail High mounted on the viewless gale, And now a speck in ether tost, A moment seen, a moment lost, She cheats my dazzled eye. Bright wonder! thee no flapping wing, By native buoyancy impelled, Thy easy flight was smoothly held, No curling mist at close of light, No leaf adown the summer's tide Yet thee, even thee, the destined hour Rapid in prone descent. 'Methinks I see thee downward borne, Thus daring fancy's plumes sublime, Thus love's bright wings are clipped by time; Exhales amid this grosser air; Thus lightest hearts are bowed by care, And genius yields to fate. STILL For the Repository. TO A CHILD. are wild fancy's flattering dreams believed? So fondly trusting, yet so oft deceived? Mysterious mistress of th' enthusiast's heart; His bliss, his pride-his chalice, and his smart! How hate thee, source whence purest pleasures flow? Thou child of hope-thou nursling of despair! Now the fierce lightning is thy Proteus form, Yet, dear enchantress, I must love the still. 'Tis sweet to view, in childhood's earliest dawn, Dear boy! I love to watch thine infant face, But oh! to thee be those kind feelings given, From Smyth's English Lyrics. TO CHEERFULNESS. THE hunter on the mountain's brow, By glooms of wayward fancy driven; Not always can the varying mind Bear to thy shrine an homage true; Some chains mysterious seem to bind, Some sullen sorcery to subdue; Nor always can the scene be gay, Nor blest the morrow as to day; And musing thoughts will sadness bring; Can time so near me hourly fly, Nor I his passing form descry, Nor ever hear his rustling wing? E'en now I feel with vain regret I mark the shades of eve descend; Beyond, with startled glance I see REVIEW. Nec vero hæ sine sorte datæ, sine judice, sedes-Virg. ARTICLE 1. Situation of England in 1811, by M. Mie. de Montgaillard. Translated from the French by a citizen of the United States. "We ought to be apprehensive, that the mad pretensions, the ty. ranny, and the cupidity of our ministers will one day open the eyes of all Europe. Let us enjoy with moderation our commercial prosperi ty, and not excite wars —If a great man should be seated on the throne of France, England would fall, and would be of no more importance than the island of Sardinia, for bankruptcy is at our doors." Bolingbroke 1732. New York, printed by C. S. Van Winkle, No. 122, Water Street, 1812. SUCH is the title-page of a work, which is introduced to the American reader, as the production of a French nobleman of talents, and great political information, and which the translator believes to contain "truths of a nature to excite the deepest concern in the mind of every American who feels an interest in the independence, the welfare, and the prosperity of his country." That such ought to be the effect of this work upon the mind of every reflecting man, of every man who regards the independence of Great Britain, and her ability to resist theenormous power, and in creasing usurpations of France, as important to the whole civilized world, cannot be denied, if we assume with the translator, that this French writer has displayed to us momentous truths, has given us a just view of her finan |