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By praising up the plaister's merits.
Courage, 'tis done,” the doctor cried,
Go, readers, gentle, eke and simple, If
you have wart, or corn, or pimple; To quack infallible apply ; Here 's room
nough for you to lie. His skill triumphant still prevails, For death 's a cure that never fails.
THE HYPOCRITE'S HOPE.
Blest is the man, who from the womb,
To saintship him betakes,
A long confession makes,
Shall take his former place,
And consequential grace ;
Declares how long by Satan vex'd,
From truth he did depart,
That smote his flinty heart.
He stands in half-way-covenant sure;
Full five long years or more, One foot in church's pale secure,
The other out of door.
Then riper grown in gifts and grace,
With every rite complies,
And deeper lengthens down his face,
And higher rolls his eyes.
Two lengthy prayers a day,
Has heard his father say.
Each Sunday perch'd on bench of pew,
To passing priest he bows,
Attunes his vocal nose.
With awful look then rises slow,
And prayerful visage sour, More fit to fright the apostate foe,
Then seek a pardoning power.
Then nodding hears the sermon next,
From priest haranguing loud; And doubles down each quoted text,
From Genesis to Jude.
And when the priest holds forth address,
To old ones born anew,
He rises in his pew.
Good works he careth nought about,
But faith alone will seek, While Sunday's pieties blot out
The knaveries of the week.
He makes the poor his daily prayer,
Yet drives them from his board : And though to his own good he swear,
Through habit breaks his word. This man advancing fresh and fair,
Shall all his race complete ; And wave at last his hoary hair,
Arrived in deacon's seat.
There shall he all church honors have,
By joyous brethren given-
Shall send him straight to heaven.
MR FRENEAU is, we believe, a descendant of the French protestants who came to this country upon the revocation of the Edict of Nantes. Of the precise period and place of his birth we are ignorant. He received his education at Princeton College, in New Jersey, where he was graduated in 1771, and was associated with Hopkinson in certain political writings published in Philadelphia during the revolution. After the federal government was established, he occupied a station in the Secretary of State's office, and also conducted a newspaper in Philadelphia for several years. These employments he finally relinquished for commercial pursuits, in the course of which, he made voyages to several parts of the world.
We had always been accustomed to hear this gentleman spoken of as deceased, and a late writer in one of our most distinguished literary journals has classed him among the departed poets. But on making inquiries respecting him a few months since, we learned that he was still living near Middletown Point in New Jersey. We hope he regrets the very splenetic tone of the letter which he took the trouble to write about us on the occasion.
The principal part of Mr Freneau's poetical effusions were published in a large volume in 1795. This book contains a greater variety than any volume of poetry by a single hand which we have ever seen. Many of the pieces have uncommon merit, and exhibit a degree of talent which would have enabled the author to take a high rank among our native bards. Mr Freneau's poetry however, has been neglected. Had he published less, he would have found more readers. His volume presented a miscellany of about three hundred different pieces, and a miscellany of such a size is apt to discourage a common reader. He has not managed all the subjects he has undertaken with an equal degree of success, but he writes in general with an unaffected ease and sprightliness, and displays a truly poetical warmth and exuberance of fancy.
THE DYING INDIAN.
“On yonder lake I spread the sail no more!
What solitary streams,
In dull and dreary dreams,
To what strange lands must Shalum take his way!
But sickly orchards there
Do fruits as sickly bear,
Ah me! what mischiefs on the dead attend !
Fine tales indeed, they tell
Beyond the western hills,
I too must be a fleeting ghost—no more-
For emptier groves below!
Ye glassy lakes and prattling streams,
Whether the sun did greet,
Adieu to all !
Adieu all triumphs here!
For some remoter sphere !
and beyond the floods,
He spoke, and bid the attending mourners weep:
THE WILD HONEYSUCKLE.
Fair flower, that dost so comely grow,
No roving foot shall find thee here,
No busy hand provoke a tear.