1798.] ( 
oy Bp ae 
ORIGINAL POETRY. 

BaLLap From THE GerMan 
or J. W. von GoETue. 
According to the Edda, the Deufes were divided 
into Deufes of Fire (Mufpelthurs ) and Deufes of 
Froft (Hrimtburs). Thofe frozen to death were 
Juppofed to have been feized by the latter clafs 
of Evil Spirits. A remnant of this fuperfti- 
tion appears to have fuggefted the following 
BALLAD. 
HAT journeys fo late thro” the night 
and the blast ? ; 
A father who carries his child. 
Clofe, clofe to his bofom he preffes it fat ; 
For chill is the froft on the wild. 
*¢ My darling, why hideft fo fearful thine 
Byes?” 
© The king of the deufes is there: 
I know by his ‘crownet, his tailand his fize,” 
«6 Child, tis but a miftin the air.” 
«¢ My pretty, come with me, my garden is gay 
All winter in fpite of the cold: 
Nice games my blithe fiiter fhall teach thee 
’ to play, é 
And dreis thee in coatings of gold.” 
* Hear, father, dof think that I really thall 
find 
The fine things I am promis’d to fee 
** Be quiet, my darling, ’tis only the wind, 
That blows the dead leaves o’er the lea.” 
“¢ Sweet boy, wilt thou with me? my daugh- 
ters fhall bring 
Freth {weetmeats from morning till night, 
And dandle and dance thee,and prattle and fing, 
And-rock thy new cradle till light.” 
€ Look, father, and feeft thou not dim on 
. the wold, - 
His daughters, who lurk by the way ?° 
“¢ My darling, thy phantoms full well I be- 
hold, 
Thofe are the old willows fo gray.” 
‘* I love thee, I fancy thy delicate thape, 
And willing or nilling thou’It come—” 
¢ My father, his talons I cannot efcape— 
The deufe bears me off to his home.’ 
Then quak’d the poor father, and durft not 
look back, 
And hurried and worried his horfe, 
In the dead of the night at kis home to alight, 
When lo! the fweet child was a corfe. 
TL 
One To Mr. Pacxwoap. 
OME Mufe and feize the trump of fame, 
To fing great Packwoods growing name. 
No king deferves it louder— 
Then {well your deep fonorous voice, 
To him who mortals bids rejoice ; 
And feek his ftrap and powder ! 
Oh! had’ft thou flourith’d in an age, 
When ev’ry hero, faint and fage, 
Like modern Pfalmanazor, 
Montuny Mac, No, xxxvip 
‘ tad 
Their hairy honours wore at length, 
And ev’ry beard was gaining ftrength, 
For want of patent razor ! 
Then Barbaroffa’s fiery chin, 
And Blue beards, fo renown’d in fin, 
Had been as fmooth as fatin ; 
And odes that only now are fung, 
To praife thee in thy mother tongue, 
Had then been made in Latin. 
No more fhall love-lorn Damon feek, 
The dimples of his Chloe’s cheek, 
With beard like Neb’chadnezzar— 
Since once he’s had the lucky hap, 
On Packwood’s wond’rous chemic ftrapy 
To whet his dulleft razor. 
No more fhall he with anguith grin 5 
No more fhali {mart his mangled chin, 
Thanks tothy “rap fo famous ! 
_A ftrap which gives the face fuch eafe, 
Might e’en a mighty monarch pleafe, 
When fhaved by Billy Ramus ! Ls 
Could’ft thou in France thy razors grind, 
Thy talents-there would furely find, 
>Mongtt lawgivers a ftation. 
Smooth as thy ftrap their chins would feel—= 
Thou’dft fharpen for the public weal 
The razor of the nation! 
Ch! could’ thou by a lucky hit, 
. Find out a ftrap to fharpen wit! 
(Tho” high thy prefent ftate is) 
Then wouldf thou make a monarch {mile, 
The ruler of a fea-girt ifle, 
And get a patent gratis. 
Thus would the fpreading voice of fame, 
Wich Paracelfus rank thy name, 
And other great gold finders.— 
The long-fought philofophic ftone, 
Become without difpute thy own, 
Thou Prince of Razor Grinders !— 
fe NW ee 
EE 
: SONNET 
To a Poor Boy.—By R. ANDERSON. 
EEK child of want! I pity thy diftrefs, 
For I have learn’d to feel another’s woe 3 
Yes, my heart pants, to make thy forrows 
CiSy 
And dry the tear which mis’ry bids to flaw. 
Ye, whom nor coid, nor pining hunger prefs, 
Nor frowning poverty’s fad anguifh know, 
What boots it that ye thine likeinfe&s gay, 
The vain, unthinking parafites of pow’ 2. 
How oft doth fyzen vice lead you attray, 
How oft embitter pleafure’s gaye hour ! 
Tho’ never thou enjoy ft ~he plenteous meal, 
Tho? tatter’d thy coarfe weeds, yet poor 
forlorn ! 
Sooner thy keeneft foryows would I feel, 
Than be the Son of wealth that mocks 
__ thy woes with {corn! 
Carlifie. . 
ac 4 TRANS* 
