On Monday evening the 30th ult. by the Rev. Dr. M‘Knight, Mr. CHOATE, to
Mrs. SARAH YOUNG, widow of the late Mr. Ebenezer Young, all of this
city.
On Wednesday evening the 8th inst. by the Rev. John Juland, Mr.
CHRISTOPHER DUNN, late of Yorkshire, England, to Mrs. NANCY FERRIS, of
Throgs Neck.
On Thursday evening the 9th inst. by the Rev. Mr. Goodhue, Mr. ELIAS
BREVOORT to Miss MARGARET PAINTER, both of this city.
A few evenings since, by the Rev. Dr. Beach, Mr. JOHN DOUBLEDAY,
Printer, to Mrs. ODELL, both of this city.
[[The transcriber is sorry to say that “John Doubleday, printer,”
appears to have no connection with the publisher of the same name.]]
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_METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS._
_From the 12th to the 18th inst._
_Thermometor observed at 6, A.M. 3, P.M._
_Prevailing winds._
_OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER._
deg. deg. 6. 3. 6. 3.
100 100
Feb. 12 31 53 25 w. do. clear, calm, do. do.
13 36 38 ne. e. cloudy, lt. wind, rain do.
14 35 36 ne. do. rain, light wind, do. do.
15 27 30 ne. nw. snow, light wd clear do.
16 25 33 nw. do. clear, light wind, do. do.
17 25 39 e. s. cloudy, lt. wd do. h wd.
18 36 41 nw. do. cloudy, lt. wd rain do.
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SENSATION AND PERCEPTION.
A Thought.
Sweet are the dewy tears of morn,
Which drop profusion in the show’r;
And sweet the incense-breathing gale,
Which scatters fragrance from the flow’r.
But trifling such poor charms appear;
Can these with Nature’s feelings vie?
Much sweeter is the falling tear;
More grateful still--the heaving sigh!
* * * * *
* * * *
LAVINIA.
A PASTORAL.
Why steals from my bosom the sigh?
Why fix’d is my gaze on the ground?
Come, give me my pipe, and I’ll try
To banish my cares with the sound.
Ere now were its notes of accord
With the smile of the flow’r-footed muse:
Ah! why, by its master implor’d,
Shou’d it now the gay carol refuse?
’Twas taught by LAVINIA’s smile
In the mirth-loving chorus to join:
Ah me! how unweeting the while!
LAVINIA----cannot be mine!
Another, more happy, the maid
By fortune is destin’d to bless----
Tho’ the hope has forsook that betray’d,
Yet why shou’d I love her the less!
Her beauties are bright as the morn,
With rapture I counted them o’er;
Such virtues these beauties adorn,
I knew her, and prais’d ’em no more.
I term’d her no goddess of love,
I call’d not her beauty divine:
These far other passions may prove,
But they could not be figures of mine.
It ne’er was apparell’d with art,
On words it could never rely:
It reign’d in the throb of my heart,
It spoke in the glance of my eye.
Oh fool! in the circle to shine
That Fashion’s gay daughters approve,
You must speak as the fashions incline;--
Alas! are there fashions in love?
Yet sure they are simple who prize
The tongue that is smooth to deceive;
Yet sure she had sense to despise
The tinsel that folly may weave.
When I talk’d, I have seen her recline
With an aspect so pensively sweet,----
Tho’ I spoke what the shepherds opine,
A fop were asham’d to repeat.
She is soft as the dew-drops that fall
From the lip of the sweet-scented pea;
Perhaps, when she smil’d upon all,
I have thought that she smil’d upon me.
But why of her charms should I tell?
Ah me! when her charms have undone!
Yet I love the reflection too well,
The painful reflection to shun.
Ye souls of more delicate kind,
Who feast not on pleasure alone,
Who wear the soft sense of the mind,
To the sons of the world are unknown:
Ye know, tho’ I cannot express,
Why I foolishly dote on my pain;
Nor will ye believe it the less
That I have not the skill to complain.
I lean on my hand with a sigh,
My friends the soft sadness condemn,
Yet, methinks, tho’ I cannot tell why,
I should hate to be merry like them.
When I walk’d in the pride of the dawn,
Methought all the region look’d bright;
Has sweetness forsaken the lawn?
For, methinks, I grow sad at the sight.
When I stood by the stream, I have thought
There was mirth in the tremulous sound,
But now ’tis a sorrowful note,
And the banks are all gloomy around!
I have laugh’d at the jest of a friend;
Now they laugh and I know not the cause,
Tho’ I seem with my looks to attend,
How silly! I ask what it was!
They sing the sweet song of the May,
They sing it with mirth and with glee;
Sure I once thought the sonnet was gay,
But now ’tis all sadness to me.
Oh! give me the dubious light
That gleams thro’ the quivering shade;
Oh! give me the horrors of night
By gloom and by silence array’d!
Let me walk where the soft rising wave
Has pictur’d the moon on its breast:
Let me walk where the new-cover’d grave
Allows the pale lover to rest!
When shall I in its peaceable womb
Be laid with my sorrows asleep?
Should LAVINIA but chance on my tomb--
I could die if I thought she would weep.
Perhaps, if the souls of the just
Revisit these mansions of care,
It may be my favourite trust
To watch o’er the fate of the fair.
Perhaps the soft thought of her breast
With rapture more favour’d to warm;
Perhaps, if with sorrow oppress’d,
Her sorrow with patience to arm.
Then! then! in the tenderest part
May I whisper, “Poor COLIN was true;”
And mark if a heave of her heart
The thought of her COLIN pursue.
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