University of Virginia Library

THE SAGE.

THE BEE—A FABLE.

DELIVERED BY A LITTLE MISS NINE YEARS OLD.

Ladies and Gentlemen, will you allow
A very little girl, who scarce knows how
To make her curtsey in a proper way,
To tell a story which she heard one day?
It chanc'd once on a time, no matter when,
For all strange things they tell us happen'd then;
A little Bee on a sun shiny day,
Crept from the hive, among the flow'rs to play.
A wise old lab'rer of the hive espied
His sportive gambols, and thus gravely cried,
“To work as well as play should be your pride.
Come learn of me, for wisdom is a treasure,
And you shall mingle profit with your pleasure.
Observe this bed of clustring flow'rs, behold
Their velvet leaves all powder'd o'er with gold,
And see, within the cups of crimson hue,
The precious drops of rich nectarious dew.
This golden dust, this precious dew collect,
Now in the early morning, nor neglect
To bear it to the hive, a valued store,
Against the time when chilling torrents roar,
And Boreas howls, and rains and snows decend,
And bees must on their hoarded stores depend.”
Now this young Bee was a good little creature,
Had much good sense, industry, and good nature;
She sipp'd the dew, scraped off the golden dust,
That turned to liquid sweets, and in a crust
Composed of this, the ambrosial treasure clos'd;
But as she work'd, a drone who had repos'd
For many a morning in a lily's bell,
Addressed her thus; “Poor thing 'tis mighty well,
That you have strength and spirits thus to labour,
I vow you are a valuable neighbour;
To labour thus from morn to eve for others;
For trust me little slave I and my brothers,
When we have spent the summer sweetly here,
All winter will regale on your good cheer.
For I'm too delicate, too blythe, too gay,
To waste in toil my summer hours away;
I was not form'd for labour, I was made
To rest on thyme beds in the myrtle shade;
I do protest, were I obliged to bear
That yellow dust away, and take such care,
That not a grain is lost; that I should die,
Fainting beneath the fervor of the sky.
But you were formed for toil and care by nature,
And are a mighty good industrious creature.”
“Winter draws nigh,” replies the little Bee,
“And who is wisest we shall quickly see,
My friend, who warn'd me to beware in season,
Or yours, who left you in dispite of reason
To bathe in dew, flit over beds of flowers,
Heedless of coming cold, or wintry showers.”
When winter came, the little Bee was well,
Secure and warm, within her waxen cell.
The drones half starv'd, came shiv'ring to the door,
And forc'd an entrance, they could do no more;
The lab'rers rose, the encroaching tribe drove forth,
To brave the horrors of the frigid north;
Shrink in the rigor of a wintry sky,
Lament their idleness, to starve and die.
While the good little Bee, next coming May,
Hail'd the returning sun, alert and gay,
Led forth an infant swarm in health and ease,
A bright example unto future bees.
My story 's ended; but methinks you say,
Is there no moral, little girl, I pray?
Yes, there 's a moral, hear it if you please,
This is the hive, and we 're the little bees;
Our governess is the adviser sage,
Who fits us for the world's delusive stage,
By pointing out the weeds among the flowers,
By teaching us to use our mental powers;
To shun the former, and with nicest care,
Cull from the latter all that 's sweet and fair,
Extract their honey, keep their colour bright
To deck the chaplet for a winter's night.
Have we succeeded? judge, you will not wrong us.
I trust we have no idle drones among us;
Or is there one or two, how great their shame,
Whilst here, we're striving for the meed of fame,
And catch with transports of exulting joy,
The approbating glance from every eye;
To feel they cannot hope to share our pleasure,
To know they slighted wisdom's offered treasure,
To feel that those kind friends, who dearest love them,
Will blush and pity, while they can't approve them
Oh dear, I would not for the richest gem,
That India can produce, feel just like them
Nor lose the joy we hope to feel this day,
To hear our friends and patronesses say,
All is done right and well; and truly these
Dear children, are a hive of thriving bees.
And should you thus approve, you'll make of me,
A very proud, and happy little Bee.

INTRODUCTORY ADDRESS

FOR 1807.

“'Tis education forms the infant mind,
Just as the twig is bent the tree's inclined.”
If this is true, how careful should they be,
Who train the twig, to form the future tree?
Nor is there aught a parent can bestow,
For which a child more gratitude can owe,
Than education! when with studious art
The teacher stores the head, and mends the heart.
While in each acquisition we improve,
To gain our friends' applause, our parents' love,
We are taught we shall not always tarry here,
Bade to press forward to a nobler sphere:
When if we have improv'd the talents given,
Tenfold will be our great reward in heaven.
Is it not well for us that we have friends,
Knowing how much our future peace depends
On what we are taught in youth, who kindly grant
The means to attain those graces which we want?
Dear friends, behold our works, look round and say
Has your expense, our time, been thrown away?
Ah! if it had, how great had been our blame,
The slighted means, would dye our cheeks with shame;
And we throughout our future lives should mourn
The golden hours which never can return.
But while the needle's various arts we have pli'd,
The imitative pencil strove to guide,
History's interesting facts delighted,
Nor were the poets' magic numbers slighted.
The penman's nicer skill we have strove to attain,
And hope our efforts have not been in vain.
If you approve us on this happy day,
How light will beat our hearts to hear you say,
Well done good children! go on, persevere;
Yes, for those smiles to our young hearts so dear,
We will, nor slack on any vain pretence,
Since perseverance leads to excellence.

INTRODUCTORY ADDRESS.

FOR 1810.

SERIOUS REFLECTIONS.

Life's but a shadow, fleeting swift away,
Like gleams of sunshine, on a wint'ry day;
That by their radiance cheer, and gently warm.
But as we feel the soft delusive charm:
Slowly but sure the shades of night arise
And veil the transient splendor from our eyes,
Impenetrable gloom involves the plain,
Till the revolving sun arise again.
So the bright gleams of youth and beauty fade,
Shrouded by death's impenetrable shade,
Deep shade! long night! where is the sun shall rise,
Bid the same youth and beauty meet our eyes,
Wake our departed friends, disperse the gloom,
And shed a radiance o'er the dreary tomb?
Alas! the scene is clos'd, those we deplore,
Shall greet our ears, shall bless our eyes no more.
Say not my friends this subject is too dull.
It is a theme with which my heart is full;
Then let me speak my thoughts, let me impart,
Reflections which may pain yet mend the heart.
Can none remember? Yes, some here I see,
Who must remember, think, and feel like me;
Bid fancy lead the beauteous visions on,
And mourn companions now for ever gone.
Six years, short space, how swiftly did ye fly,
While wing'd with childish sports ye glided by;
The pleasing retrospect before me lies,
But as each scene in quick succession flies,
My heart retracing every dear delight,
Melts o'er companions wrapp'd in endless night.
Sees Proctor gay as pleasure's airy child,
On whose fair prospect love and fortune smil'd.
Sees Bishop lovely, and as good as fair;
By nature grac'd with talents rich and rare.
Beholds their festive pomp and bridal wreath,
Chang'd for the sad habiliments of death;
Sees them depart from off life's motley scene,
And seem alas! as though they ne'er had been.
Fair Means in whom were innocence and truth,
Combined with beauty's charm, and opening youth,
And manners gentle as the breath of May,
Means too, has like a shadow pass'd away.
McClure, I lov'd thee much? and all who knew
Thy good and gentle nature, lov'd thee too.
But thou art gone;—and quickly in thy rear,
Sweet unassuming Noyes has press'd her bier.
Harris with whom in revels light and gay,
I've pass'd the closing eve, or wak'd the day;
Lov'd for thy mild good humour, cheerful mirth,
And tenderly esteemed for innate worth;
Thou too art faded, but upon thy breast,
In fairest flowers may the turf be drest,
Nor weed nor brier dare profane the ground,
For in thy mind, nor weed nor brier was found.
Rebecca! thou whose grave but newly clos'd,
Who snatched from lingering pain art now repos'd
In that calm mansion of eternal peace,
Where tears are wip'd away and sorrows cease.
Thy form, Rebecca, rises to my view
As when this annual day was grac'd by you;
Then your fair sister liv'd, and youth and joy,
Flush'd in your cheeks, and revel'd in your eye.
All now is past, closed are those speaking eyes,
And shrouded in the grave Rebecca lies.
Methinks I hear your voice addressing me,
Say, “what I am, alas! you soon must be.”
Thy virtues then be mine, thy modest worth
Though never vaunted, shone conspicuous forth
To me thy uncomplaining mind be given,
Thy meek submission to the will of heaven,
At least in mem'ry treasur'd they shall be
And when I aim to excel, I'll copy thee.
But are these dear companions, we deplore,
Snatch'd from our eyes to be beheld no more?
No, though from sublunary scenes they're gone,
Yet in the presence of the Eternal One
Again they live, they join the seraphs' lays,
And tune their harps to the Eternal's praise,
And we, my friends, even we who still are here,
Poor [illeg.]ets crawling on this nether sphere,
One day shall join in the celestial strain
And meet with our departed friends again.
Sure solemn truth, let it awake each sense
Impress our minds, and banish folly hence,
Incite us to be virtuous, pious, wise,
And seek beyond the grave a mansion in the skies.

DIALOGUE.

SPOKEN BY THREE LITTLE MISSES.

Lucy.
Dear, what a noise these little girls are making;
Children what puts you into such a taking?

Nancy.
Why dont you know, that uncle John is come,
And he has brought our cousin Julia home—

Eliza.
The prettiest waxen baby ever seen—

Nancy.
And a straw bonnet trimm'd and lin'd with green—

Eliza.
With flaxen hair and teeth as if they grew—

Nancy.
A new pellise, and pink kid slippers too—

Eliza.
With sweet blue eyes, she opens them and shuts them—

Nancy.
A beautiful red trunk, in which she puts them—

Eliza.
Dress'd in a satin slip—

Lucy.
Do pray be quiet;
One would suppose by all this fuss and riot,
You never saw a waxen doll before;
If she has that and fifty play things more,
'Tis nothing strange.—Indeed, you make me blush,
To hear you talk so much like babies, hush.

Nancy.
Dear, you're so grave and give yourself such airs,
And talk so sensibly; but pray who cares?
For all your serious face, miss, we can see
You love fine clothes and dolls as well as we.

Lucy.
I love fine clothes?—I hope not, I've been taught,
Not to be vain of things so cheaply bought.
Mamma has told me: child if you are vain
Of finery, it is confessing plain
That you're a foolish, childish, silly creature.

Eliza.
Yes, and she bade you treat us with good nature,
And not to think yourself so good and clever
As to be finding fault with us for ever.
And 'tother evening my father said,
Women were fond of glitter and parade;
Fine clothes, fine furniture, fine coaches, and—

Lucy.
You talk of what you do not understand;
Papa was joking—

Eliza.
Joking, now I reckon
He spoke as true and serious as a deacon.

Nancy.
Why is it wrong to love a pretty doll
With such fine clothes, such hair, and eyes and all?

Eliza.
I'm sure if it is naughty to love play,
We little girls are naughty every day.

Nancy.
And if it is I think it very hard;
For yesterday mamma received a card,
Inviting her to come and meet a few
Good social friends, and play a pool at loo.

Eliza.
A loo what's that?

Nancy.
What? why I hardly know;
They've cards, and all set round a table, so
They all put money in a box, and then
Shuffle the cards, put money in again,
And keep on shuffling; sometimes Pam they call,
And she who shuffles longest takes up all.

Eliza.
Well that's a foolish play, indeed, for a woman;
But if our mothers spend their time in common;
In play and such like, pray are we to blame
If with our baby things we do the same?

Lucy.
I would not waste my time so if I might,
I think we had better learn to read and write.

Eliza.
Well dear I love my school, as well as you,
And love my book, love my needle too.
Dear I can hem and sew—

Nancy.
And so can I,
And the next quarter I intend to try
To work a sampler—

Eliza.
I shall work one too
Upon white canvas all with pink and blue.

Lucy.
That's my dear sisters this is being good,
Industrious and wise as children should;
It will charm all our friends, and the next year.
When as we hope again to meet them here—

Eliza.
I'll prove I have not spent my time in vain—

Nancy.
And I shall strive a medal to obtain.

Eliza.
O, if I could but get the highest prize,
What joy would sparkle in my mother's eyes:
But how?—

Lucy.
Tis very hard to get, my dear,
One must be very good for a whole year,
Must not be rude, must never tell a lie,
Be neat, polite, industrious, but I
Shall never get it—

Nancy.
Do dear let us try,
Wont you?

Eliza.
Yes, that I will, nor throw away
One moment more in idleness or play.

Lucy.
And if we do our best in such a cause,
We're certain of one prize, our friends' applause.

DIALOGUE.

FOR TWO LITTLE MISSES.

Mary.
Do stop miss Lucretia, pray why in such haste
And where in the world are you running so fast?

Lucretia.
Pray miss dont detain me, I'm going to school
And our governess long has established a rule,
She who for three months the most neatly is drest,
Comes the soonest to school, says her lesson the best;
Shall receive from her hand the reward of a book,
And what's more, a kind word, an affectionate look;
For ten weeks I've been there e'er the bell has rung nine,
And in one fortnight more, the dear prize will be mine.

Mary.
Well, dear, 'twas but eight a few minutes ago
So you may stop a moment, you've time enough now;
What's the prize of a book? such nonsensical stuff,
If I want new books, aunt can give me enough,
I abominate reading, it makes one so dumpish,
And as to our governess, la! she's so frumpish,
Miss do mind your work, do child sit upright,
Miss your frock is unpin'd, dear how badly you write.
Then if I am late she cries, “Miss how you stay;
I believe in my heart you love nothing but play.”
Love play! to be sure I do, so you do all,
Yes it's truth, the great misses as well as the small.
Some primitive miss may protest that she don't,
And you may believe if your please, but I wont.

Lucretia.
Dear me how you talk child, I'm really amaz'd;
Such a parcel of stuff I believe you craz'd.
Pray what do you think our dear friends would all do,
If all little girls were as giddy as you?
I own I love play; yes, none more admires it,
Yet I cheerfully work when my dear aunt requires it
I make all the linen for her and my brother,
Indeed, I should blush were they made by another.
To assist in the household concerns, I arise
With the sun, nay, I sometimes make puddings and pies,
See the sheets and the tablecloths kept in repair,
Help wash, rince, and starch, when the weather is fair.
For I've heard my aunt say, who lead indolent lives,
Are indifferent daughters, and make wretched wives.

Mary.
Wives! well, 'twere worth while to be married indeed,
Were one forced to do nothing but work, write and read,
Why dear when one's married the principal merit
Is dancing with elegance, betting with spirit,
At whist or at loo, Mrs. Giddy makes light;
If she only should lose fifty dollars a night,
And miss Tattle told me, a lady she knew,
Made nothing of losing a hundred or two.
And d'ye think when I'm married, that I'll be confined
At home to make pies or the servants to mind?
No child I shall marry to live at my ease,
Eat, drink, dance and dress, and do just as I please
But la! we're fine folks to be prating away,
About marriage indeed; come dear let's go to play.

Lucretia.
Play—no, my dear Mary, though I did not choose,
To hasten to school, I should surely refuse,
To spend my time idly, for I have to make,
Full fifty new garments for charity's sake.
For dear do you know many children there be,
As good, nay, perhaps who are better than we,
Without any home where to shelter their head
Without clothes, without fire, and sometimes without bread?

Mary.
Dear me! is that true? now indeed I'm asham'd,
But I hope I am not very much to be blam'd;
Though yesterday morning I gave half a dollar
To buy little Pompey a pretty new collar.
And had I have known some poor child as you say
Might be hungry, I would not have thrown it away.
But see here, the last week when my aunt was in town,
She gave me to keep for her sake this French crown.
She bade me be sure and not foolishly spend it,
But I'm certain she did not forbid me to lend it,
'Twill buy them some linen, Lucretia do take it,
You buy it, and though I hate work, I'll help make it.

Lucretia.
How good you are Mary, I blush when I see,
In virtue you rise thus superior to me.
The prize of true merit is surely your due;
And certain I am if our governess knew
How much you deserved it she'd give it to you.

Mary.
No; No; It is yours, for my merit is small,
And compared with Lucretia 'tis nothing at all.
My flippancy henceforth I'll strive to correct;
Strive to be like yourself free, from ev'ry defect.

Lucretia.
And I thy benevolent spirit will join,
To the little industrious spirit of mine;
To be good as I can I'll exert my best pow'r—

Mary.
When I've nothing to give, why I'll work for the poor.

DIALOGUE.

FOR TWO YOUNG LADIES.

Lucy.
DEAR sister, good morning, I'm glad we are met,
But pray what's the matter? you seem in a fret;
Is your task yet unlearn'd, and our governess vex'd?
Is our mother offended?

Maria.
Dear, no, I'm perplex'd;
You know that next Wednesday Miss Gay gives a ball.

Lucy.
Well, we both are invited—

Maria.
But that is not all;
For I heard brother Tom tell mamma he would go,
On Wednesday with us to the play. Now you know
We cannot go to both; and it is so tormenting,
Because for the ball I had just been inventing
The sweetest new dress. But la! you don't mind,
I vow I believe you are deaf, dumb, and blind.

Lucy.
Deaf! no, my dear sister, I never need fear
My auricular sense should be lost when you're near;
But why thus torment yourself? Though I must own,
I dearly love dancing, and hop'd to have gone;
Yet I cheerfully could, should our mother desire,
Pass the evening with her by our own parlour fire;
And though fond of the theatre, yet I protest
Should I ne'er go again, it would not break my rest;
Abroad for true pleasure I never should roam—

Maria.
Dear, dear! I've no patience! stay always at home?
You may if you please, but so will not I;
It would mope me to death, I should certainly die.
And pray what would signify all my fine clothes?
I must lay them in lavender, child, I suppose;
A calico wrapper would certainly do
To stay prosing at home with my mother and you;
And then for amusement; perhaps we may drone
Over Gregory's letters, or Madam Chapone;
Or read about Solon, Lycurgus, Cassander,
Old Numa Pompilius, or mad Alexander.
No amusement in such stupid books can I see,
What's Solon or Numa Pompilius to me?
Were I to read much of such stuff it would craze me,
I hate such nonsensical trash.—

Lucy.
You amaze me.
Dear sister, forgive me, indeed you're to blame
So lightly to mention our dear mother's name;
So truly indulgent, I'm sure that from you
Submission and grateful affection is is due;
I feel that our debt to her care is so large,
A whole life of duty would scarcely discharge.
Did we e'er make a wish but was instantly granted?

Maria.
Yes; 'twas but last Monday, you know, when I wanted
A white satin slip, that she flatly refus'd me;
And you too, oh dear! how I could have abus'd ye,
To say our white lutestrings were yet very good,
You would not have another forsooth if you could.
It was cross to refuse me, papa can afford it,
What else can he do with his money, but hoard it.
He's rich enough—

Lucy.
Sister, I cannot endure
To hear you talk thus; though our father's not poor,
In youth 'twas his frugal industrious care,
Made him now have enough, and a little to spare.
Then pray, my dear sister, reflect ere too late,
Had he then been profuse, what had now been our fate?
And say should misfortune, for who is secure,
Deprive our dear parents of wealth, leave them poor;
Should the ocean a part of his property swallow,
And by fraud, or by fire, all the rest soon should follow.
Say, sister, could we by our industry earn
Subsistence for them, and thus partly return
Their unbounded kindness to us; could we toil
From morning till night, and yet come with a smile
To wait on their persons, their meals to prepare;
And between us a servant's employments to share;
Say could we do this?

Maria.
Do stop and take breath;
Why sister! you frighten me almost to death.
I work like a servant, sweep rooms, make the beds;
Or patch the old clothes that are dropping to shreds?
No sister, no! no! you may do as you please,
But I don't think that you could descend with such ease;
You would feel some repugnance.

Lucy.
Indeed that is true,
I should feel for our parents, myself, and for you;
Yes sister, for you; when I heard you lament,
The time and the money you idly had spent.

Maria.
But child this can't happen; supposing it may,
I'm resolv'd I will never meet sorrow half way.
Why youth is the season for frolic and play,
Let to-morrow bring care I'll be happy to-day.
And as to that meagre old ill looking dame,
Whose garments scarce cover her skeleton frame.
Madam POVERTY, pray don't bring her to my view,
With her thin purple lips; her nose pinch'd, and so blue!
I'm sure should she come our dear parents a nigh.
Tho' I never could work, I do think I should die.

Lucy.
As you represent it, 'tis shocking indeed;
Attend, and the phantom shall quickly recede.
I know of a neat little tight finger'd dame;
In close cap and stuff gown, and INDUSTRY her name,
Her constant attendant FRUGALITY stands,
And CHEERFULNESS forwards the work of her hands;
Whoever she visits, of care she'll beguile,
And make e'en the children of poverty smile;
She brings what can never be purchas'd by wealth,
The glow of content, and the roses of health.
And believe me, dear sister, though we are so blest,
And not to have poverty, unwelcome guest,
Intrude on our dwelling, we both have a part
In the drama of life, and require some art
To act that part well.

Maria.
Ah! sister, I find
Your sentiments just, though I thought them unkind
Direct me, assist me, my sister, my friend,
To find out each error, correct and amend;
I'll strive to be better, still following you,
And keeping your brilliant example in view.

Lucy.
Nay, do not distress me, dear girl, you have merit
Superior to mine; but your volatile spirit,
Pursuing gay trifles in every direction,
Deprives you of time for more solid reflection.

Maria.
Well then from this moment indeed you shall find,
I'll think less of my person and more of my mind.

Lucy.
Together we'll study the peace of our mother.

Maria.
And daily correct, and improve one another.

Lucy.
And what from superfluous dress we can spare—

Maria.
The poor and the widow and orphan shall share
We need not work much?

Lucy.
For ourselves, no, I grant it;
But we may do a little for those who may want it.
Then when one is idle, the other may hint her,
How many poor children want clothing for winter.
We'll go out but little—

Maria.
No, that's a fix'd plan.

Lucy.
And study?

Maria.
Yes, study as much as I can.

Lucy.
To make much of to-day we will constantly strive,
For we know that to-morrow may never arrive.

DIALOGUE.

FOR THREE YOUNG LADIES.

'Tis a beautiful morning, come girls let us go
And rumage the shops; there 's an elegant show
Of caps, hats, and bonnets; some trim'd with a feather,
Some with flowers, some plain, the whole put together,
Enough to bewitch you; why don't you make haste?

Mary.
Because I shan't go; I've no money to waste.
Mamma has just bought me a hat for the season,
And a dress for the balls.

Lucy.
Lud child, that's no reason
For staying at home, when the shops are so full
Of fashions, of belles and of beaux.—

Mary.
I'm so dull
Dear sister, to me 'tis no pleasure to fly
From shop, into shop, without meaning to buy.
Turning over the goods till they're nearly destroy'd;
I think that we all may be better employ'd.

Rosa.
I think so indeed, now I have a plan,
That 'tis better than yours child, deny if you can,
As we've time on our hands, and the morning is fair;
Let us walk in the mall, for a little fresh air;
And when we return, by myself 'tis decreed,
While two of us work, that the other shall read.

Lucy.
My dear lady Wisdom, now pray condescend,
To tell us what book you would please recommend.
Some wise and political treatise perchance,
On the pride of Old England and power of France;
Or Bonaparte, wonderful hero, display,
Holding kingdoms in chains, keeping Europe at bay
And striding about to decide all disputes,
Like Woglog the giant in seven league boots.
Or a juggler at cards, who so dextrous and nice,
Can turn all his knaves into kings, in a trice.
So misses your servant; I would not be bound,
To read such dull stuff for a good hundred pound.

Rosa.
Why Lucy, by this giddy rattle I see,
You are wiser by far, than your sister and me,
In political lore; now to me I confess,
Instruction comes best in a fanciful dress.
I like a good novel—

Lucy.
Hush child if you do
You must not confess it; your wisdom to shew,
You must rail and look grave, say they're meant to mislead.

Mary.
And say what you will, coz, they are so indeed.

Rosa.
What, all?

Mary.
No; not all; some few we may find
Where piety, learning, and sense are combin'd;
Whose model is nature, whose pictures have art,
To shew life so true, that they better the heart.
But small is the number, while hundreds contain,
A slow subtle poison perverting the brain;
And who through a road wet and miry should wade
To seek for a pearl some rich man had mislaid;
Would surely contract so much soil in the way,
As the price of the jewel would hardly repay.

Lucy.
Oh! mercy! oh mercy! dear girls let me go,
You're so wise, and sententious, so learned, and so
Pedantic; I vow, but it is between friends,
I blush for you both, to my poor fingers ends.

Mary.
I am glad you can blush! but pray let it be known,
You blush some for our faults, but more for your own.
Yet trust me, 'twere better while staying at home,
Read fifty dull novels, than thoughtlessly roam;
Waste your own hours of leisure, and heedless of care
Destroy that for others you cannot repair;
Besides sister Lucy the truth I must tell,
Were there less foreign fashions 'twould be quite as well.

Lucy.
Why Mary, that sentiment comes out so pat,
I believe in my heart you're a strong democrat;
Who would talk of the internal strength of the nation,
Independently great; tho' we've no importation.
Bid us tremble at Britain, who seeks to enslave us;
But honour Napoleon, altho' he dares brave us.
Sell our jewels and plate, and be spare in our diet,
To make up a tribute to keep Woglog quiet.
For should he his seven league boots keep in motion,
Who knows but he'll stride o'er the great Western Ocean.

Rosa.
He come! he ask tribute! why Lucy you joke,
Such a measure would age, and mere childhood provoke
To link in a band, place on heav'n their reliance,
And hurt at the murd'rous usurper defiance.
Of superfluous baubles myself I'd divest,
My food should be coarse, and as coarse I'd be drest,
I'd cheerfully yield my paternal estate,
To defend this lov'd land, from the tyrant I hate
But girl as I am, if 'tis tribute requir'd,
I'd die e'er I'd give him one cent—

Mary.
Must admir'd,
Most excellent patriot, tell me for why
Your voice speaks in thunder, in lightning your eye?
Say where is the nation his power has withstood

Rosa.
He stole regal ermine, and stain'd it with blood;
Oh Mary, remember how Louis has died,
That Louis who fought on America's side,
That Louis whose crown now encircles the brows—

Lucy.
Of Woglog the giant, as all the world knows.
And which of us three has the power or spirit
To snatch off the crowns or the head? for the merit
Were equal in either.

Mary.
For shame, child, for shame.
I honour Napoleon, I rev'rence his name;
He's superior to all the fam'd heroes of old,
Invincible, noble, intrepid and bold.
As Socrates wise; as the Macedon glorious;
As a lawgiver sage; as a hero victorious.

Rosa.
From such sages and heroes heaven save us, I pray—

Lucy.
And keep from our shores mighty Woglog away;
For he sets the most dreadful examples in life,
And between you and I, beats and locks up his wife.
Heaven help her, poor soul, she's an empress 'tis true,
But I warrant she's oftentimes pinch'd black and blue.
Her chains, tho' of gold, she may keep for all me,
I'm content to be poor, tho' I may but be free.

Mary.
Oh, that's not a point, child, so hard to be carried,
You'll be poor while you live, and be free till you're married.
But get on your bonnets, we'll go if you please,
'Tis folly to talk of such matters as these;
Let kings ask for power, and misers for wealth,
Let us only pray for contentment and health.

Rosa.
But health and contentment would cease to be ours,
Should heavenly peace quit America's shores;
Oh! peace! gentle peace! beneath whose benign reign,
Best thrives the rich harvest that gladdens the plain;
Beneath whose auspices fair commerce sails forth,
Brings the gems of the east, and the furs of the north;
The treasures of India, Arabia's perfume,
The pearls of Bassora, the spoils of the loom
Beneficent power, thy pinions expand,
And shed thy best gifts on my dear native land.

Lucy.
In this we're united, for this ev'ry day
From demos and despots, I ardently pray,
Some power benign may deliver the nation;
But just now I confess, I've no great inclination
For that, or ought else, on my knees to be dropping;
I want to see fashions; come let's go a shopping.

Rosa.
It is better befitting our sex, age and station;
So we'll leave the more arduous cares of the nation—

Lucy.
To the wise and magnanimous lords of creation.

DIALOGUE.

FOR THREE YOUNG LADIES.

Ellen.
Cousin, where have you been? oh, I see by your looks,
By your haste to get home, and your cargo of books;
Let me look at your list, one, two, three, four, five,
Six, seven, eight, volumes, as I am alive;
Well how I do envy you, dear do you know,
Mamma for the world would not let me do so,
She calls novels nonsense, devoid of all truth,
Say's they poison the minds, and the morals of youth,
Paint life in false colours—

Lucy.
indeed, they do not.
Virtue always is charming though found in a cot;

Caroline.
Yes, lovely and charming, and all that is great
And marries a noble, and lives in high state—

Lucy.
And oh, what distress the poor heroine proves,
From cross fathers and guardians, the man whom she loves
Being poor and dependant—

Caroline.
for titles and pelf,
They make her wed one twice as old as herself,
Then such fainting and dying, 'tis sweetly alarming.

Lucy.
And then when the old husband dies, 'tis so charming;
The lover turns out to be somebody great,
A lord or a duke, with a monstrous estate,
Who makes her a lady and sweetly presents,
Pearls, diamonds and guineas as though they were cents.

Ellen.
Dear Lucy such nonsense can never be true,
For history holds no such scenes to our view.

Lucy.
Why don't it?

Ellen.
no; surely, when I was at home
And read through the annals of Greece and of Rome,
I found no such wonderful stories, not I,
Nor was it so easy to faint and to die;
To faint was disgrace, but on some dread occasion,
And none would brave death, but to profit the nation.

Caroline.
Brave death, what is death for the good of the state?

Lucy.
Dear me, a'nt it better to live and be great?

Caroline
Yes, all would be great I am sure if they could;

Ellen.
But 'tis not a word very well understood.

Lucy.
Oh! I comprehend it—It is to be gay,
To have money to trifle and squander away:
To wear finer cloaths than the rest of our neighbours;

Ellen.
To laugh at the being who reasons or labours;
To turn all religion and virtue to jest,
To game, run in debt—

Lucy.
cousin, now I protest
You are dreadfully hard—

Ellen.
yet these I belive
Are the principal virtues your novelists give.

Caroline.
Do pray let me rescue some few from your satire,
Miss Burney, her novels are copied from nature;
And others in excellent writing excel—

Ellen.
I'm delighted to hear it, now dear wont you tell
Mamma, that some few, in a moment of leisure,
I surely may read—

Caroline.
with both profit and pleasure.

Ellen.
But cousin, you know 'tis not often we see,
Girls rais'd from a low to an envied degree,
And acting with judgment—

Lucy.
now do not say so;
There was Pamela rais'd but some few years ago,
From a plain country girl—

Caroline.
to a life full of care.

Lucy.
Made the wife of a lord—

Caroline.
a lord's follies to bear;
And tamely his libertine humours to suit,
Bear slights and contempt, be obediently mute,

Lucy.
To be sure! when by silent submission they prove
The extent of their confidence, honour, and love.
Then they share in the honours their spouse may acquire.

Ellen.
Now Lucy how foolish; who thinks to aspire
To titles and honour, whose birth is unknown,
Except in the page of a novel alone.

Lucy.
Nay, that's your mistake, we have proofs here at home;

Ellen.
Pray where?

Lucy.
can you ask? why in madam Jerome,
Only think what a novel her life might produce,

Ellen.
And should it be written pray where is its use.
A woman, a native Columbian, born free,
Weds a foreigner 'scaped from the storms of the sea.
He leaves her—

Lucy.
his brother the emp'ror desired it,
She was not a princess, his honour required it.

Ellen.
And acted with honour, the man who complied?
And deserted a lovely, young, innocent bride.

Lucy.
She was but a citizen's daughter, now here
She's an emperor's sister—

Ellen.
I'd rather, my dear,
Be the wife of a ploughman and live in a cot,

Lucy.
Oh, Ellen, how vulgar. I'm sure I would not.
Only think how delightful it sounds to the ear,
A duchess, and five thousand guineas a year,
To spend as she pleases.

Ellen
Well rather let me
Be poor—and remain independent and free;
Or a citizen's wife, for what title is greater,
A mild unassuming, but well inform'd creature,
Who knows how to manage her house.

Lucy.
What makes pies?
Soups, pickles, and sweet meats! my dear I despise
Such low bred employment, I rather would know
How to manage my husband—

Caroline.
ay, that you'll allow
Would be better by half—

Ellen.
no! no! I would first
Learn to conquer myself—'tis a task child I trust,
You will own asks more energy prudence and art,
Than had Alexander, or e'en Bonaparte.

Caroline.
Oh, hapless Napoleon, he poor silly elf
Would easier conquer the world than himself.

Ellen.
He may conquer the world, but I think he would find
'Twas a much harder task to subdue a free mind.
Every native Columbian should bid him defiance;
Spurn his titles and scorn his unhallow'd alliance

Caroline.
I think I should spurn them if offered to me,
I should like to be great; but I'd rather be free;
And with all his fine promises, somehow should dread.
That one day or other, he'd cut off my head.

Ellen.
My cousin, 'tis virtue alone makes us great,
Religion alone makes us free;—from this state
Of dependence and bondage when'er we arise,
And soar to our primitive region, the skies,
'Tis virtue alone can conduct us—

Lucy.
but say,
Is the path hard to find; only point out the way.

Ellen.
Make religion your choice, your director through life,

Caroline.
Yes Lucy—read “Cœlebs in search of a wife.”

Ellen.
That's not all, be the character there represented,

Caroline.
Only half so good, Ellen, would make me contented.

Lucy.
Well novels I'm certain may sometimes be good.

Caroline.
And my aunt, though severe, would not be understood
To pass sentence on all, no, where nature speaks out,
And religion is honoured, that novel no doubt
May be read with advantage;

Ellen.
that novel would be
Allowed by my mother a lesson for me.
Such a novel she'd bid me peruse o'er and o'er,
The authors?

Caroline.
are Edgworth, and Burney and More.
By each line they have written, the taste may be formed,
The heart rendered better, its piety warmed,
The judgment corrected—

Lucy.
Yes, all that may be;
But they're not exactly the novels for me.
I love runaway marriages, castles and spectres,
And libertine lovers, and gen'rous protectors,
And fighting of duels—

Ellen.
oh! pray dont proceed,
Such novels as that must be wicked indeed.
So let us dear cousins, resolve to read none;
But engross'd by our juvenile studies alone,
Strive to learn all the duties befitting our station,
And our honour's will spring from our friend's approbation.

DIALOGUE.

SPOKEN BY TWO YOUNG LADIES.

Harriet.
So Mary! my Father has sent for us home,
I wish to my heart that I never had come,
Only three weeks in Boston, and hurried away,
I've not been to a ball, and I've seen but one play.

Mary.
Well Harriet you know when my father consented,
You promised to be with one fortnight contented,
It seems a great while.

Harriet.
To you child it may,
But to me it appears little more than a day.
So many sweet parties to which we're invited;
And you know at the play we were both so delighted,
Even you must confess, if the truth you would speak,
You would like to go there ev'ry night in the week.

Mary.
Indeed, I should not, I was pleas'd I confess,
It was something so novel, the actors, their dress
The house, and the music, together combin'd,
Must forcibly strike on an uninformed mind.

Harriet.
Oh dear! 'twas delightful, drums, trumpets and firing;
And who could forbear the brave lady admiring.
Well I thought I should die, when the soldier was bid,
To fire at the cask where Tekeli was hid.
And when he was fix'd on the old miller's back,
They thrust the sharp bayonet into the sack.
I wanted to scream.—Then some are so witty,
The men are so droll, and the ladies so pretty,
I cannot go home.

Mary.
Nay Harriet you must;
And when once safe at home you'll be happy I trust

Harriet.
Be happy! Oh yes—we must rise with the sun,
Eat breakfast most gravely, and when that is done
Look into the kitchen see what's doing there,
Some custards, a pie, or a pudding prepare:
See the china and glass are all in their places,
Make a cap for mamma, or wash up her fine laces,
Or else in the parlour stuck up at my work,
Why Mary 'tis leading the life of a Turk,
Who is chain'd to the oar.

Mary.
Nay surely my dear,
We have neighbours who visit us—

Harriet.
once in a year
Prink'd out in their best, stuck all in a row,
Quite round our great parlour, they make a fine show.
One in a half whisper, to her who sits next,
Complains how she's cheated tormented and vext,
The help are so dirty, so wasteful, so lazy,
Dear ma'm how are yours? mine drive me quite crazy.
Then the misses all get in a corner together,
First talk of the walking, the riding, the weather;
Of a cap, of a shoe-bow, a bonnet or feather;
Of some miss who is vulgar, or one who is sly,
Then titter and giggle, they cannot tell why.

Mary.
Dear Harriet, your satire though keen, is quite rude,
This journey to Boston has done you no good;
My sister forgets, how sometimes of an eve,
A well chosen book, may the moments deceive.

Harriet.
A book! yes, I see us all just after tea,
“Harriet, sweep up the hearth,” says my father to me;
“And Mary my darling go up to my room,
And bring down a volume of Rapin or Hume.
Our Harriet shall read.” And then hapless I
Must drag through long chapters so tedious and dry,
About those who made kings, and those who dethron'd them,
And pilfer'd the sceptres from those who once own'd them.
What is all this to me? I'm sure I don't care,
Who is king, or who queen, who at peace, or at war.

Mary.
Of war my dear sister we know but the name,
Heaven grant we may never be wrapp'd in its flame;
Be my dear native land ever safe from all foes,
Nor Europe's dread tyrant disturb its repose.

Harriet.
Well rail at this tyrant as much as you can,
I think Bonaparte is a brave little man;
So powerful, politic, hardy and bold,
He reminds me of some mighty giant of old.
Like some fam'd necromancer, his wand he round swings,
And kings turn to mushrooms, and mushrooms to kings.

Mary.
May the wand that's so potent be 'reft of its pow'r,
E'er it touches the verge of America's shore;
And the power to wield it be snatch'd from his hand
E'er such fungus should spring on my dear native land.

Harriet.
Well said dear miss Graveairs! but now for my part
I envy Louisa the prize of his heart.

Mary.
The prize! oh my sister! the fates she should thank
Had she missed it. Poor girl! she will find it a blank,
Nay worse than a blank, for each column is soil'd,
Till the fair page of nature is totally spoil'd.

Harriet.
'Tis easy to say you would not be his bride,
That virtue is spotless which never was tried;
I'm afraid had the offer been mine I had borne
The weight of a crown, though 'twas lin'd with a thorn.

Mary.
The thorn had pierced deeply, thy confidence shaken.
Oh Josephine! slighted, degraded, forsaken,
Thou once wert an empress.—Thou once had his heart,
And Louisa may one day be, what thou now art.

Harriet.
No not if she's wise, she'll exert her best pow'rs
To humble this giant, and pay off old scores.
Were I in her place—

Mary.
Dear sister no more,
Here, Thomas is waiting, the chaise at the door:
Then come dearest Harriet, our parents expect;
Shall we treat those dear parents with slight and neglect?
Our neighbours are waiting to hail our return,
Whose bosoms with friendly sincerity burn.

Harriet.
I cannot, I will not go home.

Mary.
Well then stay:
Enjoy the gay scene that will last but a day;
Think pleasure will wait you wherever you go,
When sickness or sorrow approaches you'll know
No hand like a mother's can bind the pain'd head,
No hand like a sister's can smooth the sick bed;
No voice like a mother's can calm the sad heart,
No power like a father's protection impart;
No friend like your Mary. Now Harriet adieu.

[going
Harriet.
(catching her hand.)
Stay Mary—my sister—oh let me go too.
I ask for no pleasure that home cannot give,
I wish but beloved by my parents to live,
I ask for no crown but the praise of my friends.

Mary.
Then here my dear sister our short dispute ends,
We'll be virtuous and useful, be kind and humane.

Harriet.
And when I desire to leave home again
May I marry a Bonaparte—

Mary.
Nay that's too hard.

Harriet.
Then worse my dear girl, may I lose your regard.

Mary.
Now then we're agreed, that wherever we roam,
To be happy for life, we must seek it at home.