nician taken from his workshop. In conversation they are often dull. Deep and refined reasonings they cannot comprehend. We know that there are splendid exceptions. Such was Cesar, at once the greatest soldier and the most sagacious statesman of his age, whilst in eloquence and literature, he left behind him almost all, who had devoted themselves exclusively to these pursuits. But such cases are

rare.

The conqueror of Napoleon, the hero of Waterloo, possesses undoubtedly great military talents; but we do not understand, that his most partial admirers claim for him a place in the highest class of minds. We will not go down for illustration to such men as Nelson, a man great on the deck, but debased by gross vices, and who never pretended to enlargement of intellect. To institute a comparison in point of talent and genius between such men and Milton, Bacon, and Shakespeare, is almost an insult on these illustrious names. Who can think of these truly great intelligences; of the range of their minds through heavea and earth; of their deep intuition into the soul; of their new and glowing combinations of thought; of the energy with which they grasped, and subjected to their main purpose, the infinite materials of illustration which nature and life afford,-who can think of the forms of transcendent beauty and grandeur which they created, or which were rather emanations of their own minds; of the calm wisdom and fervid imagination which they conjoined; of the voice of power, in which "though dead, they still speak," and awaken intellect, sensibility, and genius in both hemispheres,who can think of such men, and not feel the immense inferiority of the most gifted warrior, whose elements of thought are physical forces and physical obstructions, and whose employment is the combination of the lowest class of objects on which a powerful mind can be employed.

RELIGION AND LITERATURE-FROM THE ESSAY ON FENELON.

The truth is, that religion, justly viewed, surpasses all other principles, in giving a free and manifold action to the mind. It recognises in every faculty and sentiment the workmanship of God, and assigns a sphere of agency to each. It takes our whole nature under its guardianship, and with a parental love ministers to its inferior as well as higher gratifications. False religion mutilates the soul, sees evil in our innocent sensibilities, and rules with a tyrant's frown and rod. True religion is a mild and lawfulsovereign, governing to protect, to give strength, to unfold all our inward resources. We believe, that, under its influence, literature is to pass its present limits, and to put itself forth in original forms of composition. Religion is of all principles most fruitful, multiform, and unconfined. It is sympathy with that Being, who seems to delight in diversifying the modes of his agency, and the products of his wisdom and power. It does not chain us to a few essential duties, or express itself in a few unchanging modes of writing. It has the liberality and munificence of nature, which not only produces the necessary root and grain, but pours forth fruits and flowers. It has the variety and bold contrasts of nature, which, at the foot of the awful mountain, scoops out the freshest, sweetest valleys, and embosoms, in the wild, troubled ocean, islands, whose vernal airs, and loveliness, and teeming fruitfulness, almost breathe the joys of Paradise. Religion will accomplish for literature what it most needs; that is, will give it depth, at the same time that it heightens its grace and beauty. The union of these attributes is most to be desired. Our literature is lamentably superficial, and to some the beautiful and the superficial even seem to be natu

rally conjoined. Let not beauty be so wronged. It resides chiefly in profound thoughts and feelings. It overflows chiefly in the writings of poets, gifted with a sublime and piercing vision. A beautiful literature springs from the depth and fulness of intellectual and moral life, from an energy of thought and feeling, to which nothing, as we believe, ministers so largely as enlightened religion.

So far from a monotonous solemnity overspreading literature in consequence of the all-pervading influence of religion, we believe that the sportive and comic forms of composition, instead of being abandoned, will only be refined and improved. We know that these are supposed to be frowned upon by piety; but they have their root in the constitution which God has given us, and ought not therefore to be indiscriminately condemned. The propensity to wit and laughter does indeed, through excessive indulgence, often issue in a character of heartless levity, low mimicry, or unfeeling ridicule. It often seeks gratification in regions of impurity, throws a gaiety round vice, and sometimes even pours contempt on virtue. But, though often and mournfully perverted, it is still a gift of God, and may and ought to minister, not only to innocent pleasure, but to the intellect and the heart. Man was made for relaxation as truly as for labor; and by a law of his nature, which has not received the attention it deserves, he finds perhaps no relaxation so restorative, as that in which he reverts to his childhood, seems to forget his wisdom, leaves the imagination to exhilarate itself by sportive inventions, talks of amusing incongruities in conduct and events, smiles at the innocent eccentricities and odd mistakes of those whom he most esteems, allows himself in arch allusions or kind-hearted satire, and transports himself into a world of ludicrous combinations. We have said, that, on these occasions, the mind seems to put off its wisdom; but the truth is, that, in a pure mind, wisdom retreats, if we may so say, to its centre, and there, unseen, keeps guard over this transient folly, draws delicate lines which are never to be passed in the freest moments, and, like a judicious parent, watching the sports of childhood, preserves a stainless innocence of soul in the very exuberance of gaiety. This combination of moral power with wit and humor, with comic conceptions and irrepressible laughter, this union of mirth and virtue, belongs to an advanced stage of the character; and we believe, that, in proportion to the diffusion of an enlightened religion, this action of the mind will increase, and will overflow in compositions, which, joining innocence to sportiveness, will communicate unmixed delight. Religion is not at variance with occasional mirth. In the same character, the solemn thought and the sublime emotions of the improved Christian, may be joined with the unanxious freedom, buoyancy, and gaiety of early years.

We will add but one more illustration of our views. We believe, that the union of religion with genius will favor that species of composition to which it may seem at first to be least propitious. We refer to that department of literature, which has for its object the delineation of the stronger and more terrible and guilty passions. Strange as it may appear, these gloomy and appalling features of our nature may be best comprehended and portrayed by the purest and noblest minds. The common idea is, that overwhelming emotions, the more they are experienced, can the more effectually be described. We have one strong presumption against this doctrine. Tradition leads us to believe, that Shake. speare, though he painted so faithfully and fearfully the storms of passion, was a calm and cheerful man.

The passions are too engrossed by their objects to meditate on themselves; and none are more ignorant of their growth and subtile workings, than their own victims. Nothing reveals to us the secrets of our own souls like religion; and in disclosing to us, in ourselves, the tendency of passion to absorb every energy, and to spread its hues over every thought, it gives us a key to all souls; for, in all, human nature is essentially one, having the same spiritual elements, and the same grand features. No man, it is believed, understands the wild and irregular motions of the mind, like him in whom a principle of divine order has begun to establish peace. No man knows the horror of thick darkness which gathers over the slaves of vehement passion, like him who is rising into the light and liberty of virtue. There is indeed a selfish shrewdness, which is thought to give a peculiar and deep insight into human nature. But the knowledge, of which it boasts, is partial, distorted, and vulgar, and wholly unfit for the purposes of literature. We value it little. We believe, that no qualification avails so much to a knowledge of human nature in all its forms, in its good and evil manifestations, as that enlightened, celestial charity, which religion alone inspires; for this establishes sympathies between us and all men, and thus makes them intelligible to us. A man, imbued with this spirit, alone contemplates vice as it really exists, and as it ought always to be described. In the most depraved fellow-beings he sees partakers of his own nature. Amidst the terrible ravages of the passions, he sees conscience, though prostrate, not destroyed, nor wholly powerless. He sees the proofs of an unextinguished moral life, in inward struggles, in occasional relentings, in sighings for lost innocence, in reviving throbs of early affections, in the sophistry by which the guilty mind would become reconciled to itself, in remorse, in anxious forebodings, in despair, perhaps in studied recklessness and cherished self-forgetfulness. These conflicts, between the passions and the moral nature, are the most interesting subjects in the branch of literature to which we refer, and we believe, that to portray them with truth and power, the man of genius can find in nothing such effectual aid, as in the development of the moral and religious principles in his own breast.

HENRY T. FARMER.

HENRY T. FARMER was a native of England, who emigrated to Charleston, S. C., where he was for some time engaged in commercial pursuits. He afterwards retired from business, and removed to New York for the purpose of studying medicine. He received the instructions of Drs. Francis and Hosack, was graduated at the College of Physicians and Surgeons, and licensed as a physician in 1821. During the progress of his studies he published Imagination; the Maniac's Dream, and other Poems, in a small volume. The collection is dedicated to Mrs. Charles Baring, the wife of the author's uncle. This lady was, during a portion of her career, an actress, and the author of Virginia, The Royal Recluse, Zulaine, and other dramas, which were performed with success. Several of the poems of the collection, as the Essay on Taste, which has an appeal to "Croaker," are addressed to Dr. Francis and others of the writer's friends.

There was a harp, that might thy woes rehearse,
Imperial Greece! when wizard Homer's skill
In all the wild omnipotence of verse,
Charm'd the coy muses from the woodland hill;
When nature, lavish of her boundless store,
Thy classic chisel through each mountain rung,
Poured all her gifts, while art still showered more;
Quick from its touch immortal labors sprung;
Truth vied with fancy in the grateful strife,
And rocks assumed the noblest forms of life.

Alas! thy land is now a land of wo;
Thy muse is crowned with Druid misletoe.
See the lorn virgin with dishevelled hair,
To distant climes in 'wildered haste repair;
Chill desolation seeks her favored bowers,
Neglect, that mildew, blasts her cherished flowers;
The spring may bid their foliage bloom anew,
The night may dress them in her fairy dew;
But what shall chase the winter-cloud of pain,
And bid her early numbers breathe again?
What spring shall bid her mental gloom depart?
'Tis always winter in a broken heart.

The aged Patriarch seeks the sea-beat strand,
To leave for ever leave his native land;
No sun shall cheer him with so kind a beam,
No fountain bless him with so pure a stream;
Nay, should the exile through Elysium roam,
He leaves his heaven, when he leaves his home.
But, we may deeper, darker truth unfold,
Of matrons slaughtered, and of virgins sold,
Of shrines polluted by barbarian rage,
Of grey locks rifled from the head of age,
Of pilgrims murdered, and of chiefs defied,
Where Christians knelt, and Sparta's heroes died.
Once more thy chiefs their glittering arms resume,
For heaven, for vengeance, conquest or a tomb;
With fixed resolve to be for ever free,
Or leave all Greece one vast Thermopyla.
Columbia, rise! A voice comes o'er the main,
To ask thy blessing, nor to ask in vain;
Stand forth in bold magnificence, and be
For classic Greece, what France was once for thee.
So shall the gods each patriot bosom sway,
And make each Greek the hero of his day.
But, should thy wisdom and thy valor stand
On neutral ground-oh! may thy generous hand
Assist her hapless warriors, and repair
Her altars, scath'd by sacrilege and care;
Hail all her triumphs, all her ills deplore,
Nor let old Homer's manes beg once more.

TIMOTHY FLINT.

TIMOTHY FLINT was born in Reading, Massachusetts, in the year 1780, and was graduated at Harvard in 1800. After two years of theological study, he was ordained pastor of the Congregational Church of Lunenburg, Worcester county, where he remained for twelve years. In October, 1815, in consequence of ill health, he left with his family for the west, in pursuit of a milder climate, and change of scene. Crossing the Alleganies, and descending the Ohio, he arrived at Cincinnati, where he passed the winter months. The following

six.

His verses show a ready pen, a taste for the

Indiana, and Illinois, and after a halt at St. Louis, where he was, so far as he could learn, the first

Protestant minister who ever administered the communion in the place, arrived at St. Charles on the Missouri. He here established himself as a missionary, and remained for three years thus employed in the town and surrounding country. He then removed to Arkansas, but returned after a few months to St. Charles. In 1822 he visited New Orleans, where he remained during the winter, and passed the next summer in Covington, Florida. Returning to New Orleans in the autumn, he removed to Alexandria on the Red River, in order to take charge of a school, but was forced by ill health, after a year's residence, to return to the North.

T.Thnt.

In 1826 he published an account of these wanderings, and the scenes through which they had led him, in his Recollections of the last Ten Years passed in occasional residences and journeyings in the Valley of the Mississippi, in a series of letters to the Rev. James Flint, of Salem, Mass. It was successful, and was followed the same year by Francis Berrian, or the Mexican Patriot, a story of romantic adventure with the Comanches, and of military prowess in the Mexican struggle, resulting in the fall of Iturbide. The book has now become scarce. In its day it was better thought of by critics for its passages of description, than for its story, which involved many improbable and incongruous incidents. His third work, The Geography and History of the Mississippi Valley, appeared at Cincinnati in 1827, in two octavo volumes. It is arranged according to states, and gives ample information, in a plain style, on the subject comprised in its title.

In 1828 he published Arthur Clenning, a romantic novel, in which the hero and heroine are shipwrecked in the Southern Ocean, reach New Holland, and after various adventures settle down to rural felicity in Illinois. This was followed by George Mason the Young Backwoodsman, and in 1830 by the Shoshonee Valley, the scene of which is among the Indians of Oregon.

His next work, Lectures upon Natural History, Geology, Chemistry, the Application of Steam, and Interesting Discoveries in the Arts, was published in Boston in 1832.

On the retirement of Mr. C. F. Hoffman from the editorship of the Knickerbocker Magazine, Mr. Flint succeeded to his post for a few months in the year 1833. He translated about the same time L'art d'être heureuse by Droz, with additions of his own, and a novel entitled, celibacy Vanquished, or the Old Bachelor Reclaimed. In 1834 he removed to Cincinnati, where he edited the Western Monthly Magazine for three years, contributing to it and to other periodicals as well, a number of tales and essays. In 1835 he furnished a series of Sketches of the Literature of the United States to the London Athenæum. He afterwards removed to Louisiana, and in May, 1840, returned to New England on a visit for the benefit of his health. Halting at Natchez on his way, he was for some hours buried in the ruins of a house thrown down, with many others, by the violence of a tornado. On his arrival at Reading

his illness increased, and he wrote to his wife that his end would precede her reception of his letter, an announcement which hastened her own death and anticipated his own, by but a short time however, as he breathed his last on the eighteenth of August.

THE SHORES OF THE OHIO.

The

It was now the middle of November. weather up to this time had been, with the exception of a couple of days of fog and rain, delightful. The sky has a milder and lighter azure than that of the northern states. The wide, clean sand-bars stretching for miles together, and now and then a flock of wild geese, swans, or sand-hill cranes, and pelicans, stalking along on them; the infinite varieties of form of the towering bluffs; the new tribes of shrubs and plants on the shores; the exuberant fertility of the soil, evidencing itself in the natural as well as cultivated vegetation, in the height and size of the corn, of itself alone a matter of astonishment to an inhabitant of the northern states, in the thrifty aspect of the young orchards, literally bending under their fruit, the surprising size and rankness of the weeds, and, in the enclosures where cultivation had been for a while suspended, the matted abundance of every kind of vegetation that ensued, all these circumstances united to give a novelty and freshness to the scenery. The bottom Iorests everywhere display the huge sycamore, the king of the western forest, in all places an interesting tree, but particularly so here, and in autumn, when you see its white and long branches among its red and yellow fading leaves. You may add, that in all the trees that have been stripped of their leaves, you see them crowned with verdant tufts of the viscus or mistletoe, with its beautiful white berries, and their trunks entwined with grapevines, some of them in size not much short of the human body. To add to this union of pleasant circumstances, there is a delightful temperature of the air, more easily felt than described. In New England, when the sky was partially covered with fleecy clouds, and the wind blew very gently from the southwest, I have sometimes had the same sensations from the temperature there. A slight degree of languor ensues; and the irritability that is caused by the rougher and more bracing air of the north, and which is more favourable to physical strength and activity than enjoyment, gives place to a tranquillity highly propitious to meditation. There is something, too, in the gentle and almost imperceptible motion, as you sit on the deck of the boat, and see the trees apparently moving by you, and new groups of scenery still opening upon your eye, together with the view of these ancient and magnificent forests, which the axe has not yet despoiled, the broad and beautiful river, the earth and the sky, which render such a trip at this season the very element of poetry. Let him that has within him the bona indoles, the poetic mania, as yet unwhipt of justice, not think to sail down the Ohio under such circumstances, without venting to the genius of the river, the rocks, and the woods, the swans, and perchance his distant beloved, his dolorous notes.

HENRY PICKERING.

HENRY, the third son of Colonel Timothy Pickering and Rebecca Pickering, was born on the 8th of October, 1781, at Newburgh, in the Hasbrouck house, memorable as having been the headquarters of General Washington. Colonel Pickering was at the time quartermaster-general of the army

of the Confederated States, and was absent with the commander-in-chief at the siege of Yorktown.

In 1801, after a long residence in Pennsylvania, Colonel Pickering returned with his family to his native state, Massachusetts; and subsequently Henry engaged in mercantile pursuits in Salem. In the course of a few years he acquired a moderate fortune, which he dispensed most liberally; among other things, contributing largely towards the support of his father's family and the education of its younger members. In 1825, in consequence of pecuniary losses, he removed from Salem to New York, in the hope of retrieving his affairs; but being unsuccessful in business, he retired from the city, and resided several years at Rondout, and other places on the banks of the Hudson, devoting much of his time to reading, and finding in poetical composition a solace for his misfortunes. His writings take occasionally a sombre tint from the circumstances which shaded the latter years of his life, although his natural temperament was cheerful. He was a lover of the beautiful, as well in art as in nature, and he numbered among his friends the most eminent poets and artists of our country. An amiable trait in his character was a remarkable fondness for children, to whom he was endeared by his attentions. The affection with which he regarded his mother was peculiarly strong; and he deemed himself highly blest in having parents, the one distinguished for ability, integrity, and public usefulness, the other, beautiful, pure, gentle, and loving.

MOBERTS.SC

#Pickering

The following just tribute to his memory appeared in the Salem Gazette, in May, 1838:"Died in New York on the 8th instant Henry Pickering. His remains were brought to this city on Friday last, and deposited at the side of the memorial which filial piety had erected to the memory of venerated parents-and amid the ancestral group which has been collecting since the settlement of the country.

"A devoted, affectionate, and liberal son and brother, he entwined around him the best and the warmest feelings of his family circle. To his friends and acquaintances he was courteous, delicate, and refined in his deportment. With a highly cultivated and tasteful mind he imparted pleasant instruction to all who held intercourse

with him, while his unobtrusive manners silently forced themselves on the affections, and won the hearts of all who enjoyed his society."

The poems of Pickering are suggested by simple, natural subjects, and are in a healthy vein of reflection. A flower, a bird, a waterfall, childhood, maternal affection are his topics, with which he blends his own gentle moods. The Buckwheat Cake, which we print with his own corrections, first appeared in the New York Evening Post, and was published in an edition, now rare, in Boston, in 1831.

THE HOUSE IN WHICH I WAS BORN: ONCE THE HEADQUARTERS OF WASHINGTON.

I.

Square, and rough-hewn, and solid is the mass,
And ancient, if aught ancient here appear

Beside yon rock-ribb'd hills: but many a year
Hath into dim oblivion swept, alas!
Since bright in arms, the worthies of the land

Were here assembled. Let me reverent tread; For now, meseems, the spirits of the dead Are slowly gathering round, while I am fann'd By gales unearthly. Ay, they hover near

Patriots and Heroes the august and greatThe founders of a young and mighty state, Whose grandeur who shall tell? With holy fear, While tears unbidden my dim eyes suffuse, I mark them one by one, and marvelling, muse.

11.

I gaze, but they have vanish'd! and the eye,
Free now to roam from where I take my stand,
Dwells on the hoary pile. Let no rash hand
Attempt its desecration: for though I
Beneath the sod shall sleep, and memory's sigh
Be there for ever stifled in this breast,-
Yet all who boast them of a land so blest,
Whose pilgrim feet may some day hither hie,-
Shall melt, alike, and kindle at the thought

That these rude walls have echoed to the sound
Of the great Patriot's voice! that even the ground

I tread was trodden too by him who fought

To make us free; and whose unsullied name,
Still, like the sun, illustrious shines the same.

THE DISMANTLED CABINET.

Go, beautiful creations of the mind,

Fair forms of earth and heaven, and scenes as fairWhere Art appears with Nature's loveliest airGo, glad the few upon whom Fortune kind Yet lavishes her smiles. When calmly shin'd

My hours, ye did not fail a zest most rare To add to life; and when oppress'd by care, Or sadness twin'd, as she hath often twin'd, With cypress wreath my brow, even then ye threw Around enchantment. But though I deplore The separation, in the mirror true

Of mind, I yet shall see you as before:

Then, go! like friends that vanish from our view, Though ne'er to be forgot, we part to meet no more.

THE BUCKWHEAT CAKE.

But neither breath of morn, when she ascends With charm of earliest birds; nor rising sun On this delightful land; nor herb, fruit, flower, Glistering with dew; nor fragrance after showers; Nor grateful evening, without thee is sweet! Muse, that upon the top of Pindus sitt'st, And with the enchanting accents of thy lyre Dost soothe the immortals, while thy influence sweet Earth's favor'd bards confess, be present now; Breathe through my soul, inspire thyself the song, And upward bear me in the adventurous flight: Lo the resistless theme-THE BUCKWHEAT CAKE.

Let others boastful sing the golden ear
Whose farinaceous treasures, by nice art
And sleight of hand, with store of milk and eggs,
Form'd into pancakes of an ample round,
Might please an epicure-and homebred bards
Delight to celebrate the tassell'd maize
Worn in the bosom of the Indian maid,
Who taught to make the hoe-cake, (dainty fare,
When butter'd well!) I envy not their joys.
How easier of digestion, and, beyond
Compare, more pure, more delicate, the cake
All other cakes above, queen of the whole,
And triumph of the culinary art-

The Buckwheat Cake! my passion when a boy,
And still the object of intensest love-
Love undivided, knowing no decline,
Immutable. My benison on thee,

Thou glorious Plant! that thus with gladness crown'dst

Life's spring-time, and beneath bright Summer's eye, Lured'st me so oft to revel with the bee,

Among thy snow-white flowers: nay, that e'en yet
Propitious, amidst visions of the past

Which seem to make my day-dreams now of joy,
Giv'st me to triumph o'er the ills of time.
Thou, when the sun "pours down his sultry wrath,"
Scorching the earth and withering every flower,
Unlock'st, beneficent, thy fragrant cells,
And lavishest thy perfume on the air;
But when brown Autumn sweeps along the glebe,
Gathering the hoar-frost in her rustling train,
Thou captivat'st my heart! for thou dost then
Wear a rich purple tint, the sign most sure
That nature hath perform'd her kindly task,
Leaving the husbandman to sum his wealth,
And thank the bounteous Gods. O, now be wise,
Ye swains, and use the scythe most gently; else
The grain, plump and well-ripen'd, breaks the tie
Which slightly binds it to the parent stalk,
And falls in rattling showers upon the ground,
Mocking your futile toil; or, mingled straight
With earth, lies buried deep, with all the hopes
Of disappointed man! Soon as the scythe
Hath done its work, let the rake follow slow,
With caution gathering up into a swarth
The lusty' corn; which the prompt teamster next,
Or to the barn floor clean transports, or heaps
Remorseless on the ground, there to be thresh'd-
Dull work, and most unmusical the flail!
And yet, if ponderous rollers smooth the soil,
The earth affords a substitute not mean
For the more polish'd plank; and they who boast
The texture of their meal-the sober race
That claim a peaceful founder for their state-
(Title worth all the kingdoms of the world!)
Do most affect the practice. But a point,
So subtile, others may debate: enough
For me, if, when envelop'd in a cloud
Of steam, hot from the griddle, I perceive,
On tasting, no rude mixture in the cake,
Gravel, or sandy particle, to the ear
Even painful, and most fearful in effect:
For should the jaws in sudden contact meet,
The while, within a luscious morsel hid,
Some pebble comes between, lo! as the gates
Of Hell, they "grate harsh thunder;" and the man
Aghast, writhing with pain, the table spurns,
And looks with loathing on the rich repast.

But now, his garners full, and the sharp air,
And fancy keener still, the appetite
Inspiriting, to the mill, perch'd near some crag
Down which the foamy torrent rushes loud,
The farmer bears his grist. And here I must
To a discovery rare, in time advert:

For the pure substance dense which is conceal'd
Within the husk, and which, by process quick
As simple, is transform'd to meal, should first
Be clean divested of its sombre coat:
The which effected, 'tween the whizzing stones
Descends the kernel, beauteous, and reduced
To dust impalpable, comes drifting out
In a white cloud. Let not the secret, thus
Divulg'd be lost on you, ye delicate!
Unless, in sooth, convinc'd ye should prefer
A sprinkling of the bran; for 'tis by some
Alleg'd that this a higher zest confers.
Who shall decide? Epicurean skill

I boast not, nor exactest taste; but if
I am to be the umpire, then I say,
As did the Baratarian king, of sleep-
My blessing on the man who first the art
Divine invented! Ay, let the pure flour
Be like the driven snow, bright to the eye,
And unadulterate. So jovial sons

Of Bacchus, with electric joy, behold
"The dancing ruby;" then, impatient, toss
The clear unsullied draught. But is there aught
In the inebriate cup, to be compar'd
To the attractive object of my love,

The Buckwheat Cake? Let those who list, still quaff
The madd'ning juice, and, in their height of bliss,
Believe that such, she of the laughing eye
And lip of rose, celestial Hebe, deals
Among the Gods; but O, ye Powers divine!
If e'er ye listen to a mortal's prayer,
Still give me my ambrosia. This confers
No "pains arthritic," racking every joint,
But leaves the body healthful, and the mind
Serene and imperturb'd.-A nicer art

Than' all, remains yet to be taught; but dare
I venture on the theme? Ye Momus tribes,
Who laugh even wisdom into scorn-and ye,
Authoritative dames, who wave on high
Your sceptre-spit, away! and let the nymph
Whose smiles betoken pleasure in the task,
(If task it be,) bring forth the polish'd jar;
Or, wanting such, one of an humbler sort,
Earthen, but smooth within: although nor gold,
Nor silver vase, like those once used, in times
Remote, by the meek children of the Sun,
(Ere tyrant Spain had steep'd their land in gore,)
Were of too costly fabric. But, at once,
Obedient to the precepts of the muse,
Pour in the tepid stream, warm but not hot,
And pure as water from Castalian spring.
Yet interdicts she not the balmy tide
Which flows from the full udder, if preferr'd;
This, in the baking, o'er the luscious cake,
Diffuses a warm golden hue-but that
Frugality commends and Taste approves:
Though if the quantity of milk infus'd
Be not redundant, none can take offence.
Let salt the liquid mass impregnate next;
And then into the deep, capacious urn,
Adroitly sift the inestimable dust,
Stirring, meanwhile, with paddle firmly held,
The thickening fluid. Sage Discretion here
Can best determine the consistence fit,

Nor thin, nor yet too thick. Last add the barm-
The living spirit which throughout the whole
Shall quickly circulate, and airy, light,
Bear upward by degrees the body dull.

Be prudent now, nor let the appetite
Too keen, urge forward the last act of all.
Time, it is true, may move with languid wing,
And the impatient soul demand the cate
Delicious; yet would I advise to bear

A transient ill, and wait the award of Fate,