tional bank originated with him; the scale of Justice determined in his favour, and he departed from the trial supported by Religion and Wealth; but Liberty and Loyalty disdained to hold his train.

He re

tained the See of Salisbury from 1689 to his death, which occurred March 17, 1714-5, aged 71. His remains were interred in St. James's Church, Clerkenwell, London. Dr. Burnet was extravagantly fond of tobacco and writing; to enjoy both, at the same time, he perforated the broad brim of his large hat, and putting his long pipe through it, puffed and wrote, and wrote and puffed again. He was proverbially absent. He asked, earnestly asked, to dine with Prince Eugene, when entertained by Marlborough: "Bishop, you know how absent you are; will you be accurate?"" Your Grace may depend upon it."-The Prince observing a dignified ecclesiastick at table, inquired of the Bishop whether "he was ever in Paris.""Yes, I was there when the Princesswas taken up on suspicion of poisoning." Now this lady was the mother of the Prince. Recollecting the affinity when too late, he retired, covered with confusion, as if it had been a withal." Burnet wrapper and South were in opposite church interests. Dr. Henry Bagshaw, canon of Durham, after a long absence coming to London, said to his old fellow collegiate South, "Robin what is the character of Bishop Burnet on the Articles?" Why, Harry, he has served the church of England just as the Jews did St. Paul, given her forty stripes save one."

ORIGINAL POETRY,
For The Port Folio.
ODE-from Hafız,

-

And with them fling

A smiling farewell to the parting hours,

Dance, soul of love,

For lo! Hygeia's gallant hopes arrive;

Sing in the grove,

And bid the dying year awake and live.

In Fall's array,

By cheerful fire,

To sing of Nature's charms, in native strain, The sweet reward.

The living world, confounded to behold
Darkness at noon!

How awful and sublime

Behold! e'en at mid-day, when pure the air, And scarce à cloud obscures the hemisphere,

All Nature smiling in her robes of green,

spread

Her curtain in the west-then all at once Involved the skies-shut out the light of

Stole every smile, and kiss'd off childhood's

bloom;

Careless of hope, I saw the friendly tear, And wond'ring asked, how came the truant there?

The stifled sigh, on holy Silence borne, Was Sadness' self, e'en Echo seemed to mourn,

But my cold heart no kind response could give,

Though on a sigh, reviving hope might live.
The gentle knock upon the wicker door,
The tiptoe movement o'er our cottage floor,
My anxious mother and the sorrowing train,
Who smil'd with me or gambol'd on the
plain,

My favourite cur, companion of my way,
To walk at dawn or frolick in the play,
Were all to Mem'ry lost indifferently,
To friendly sorrow or a parent's sigh.
Ah could but Mem'ry catch the goblin train
That sometimes frolick'd in my sicken'd
brain.

That fancied realms, not cheer'd by summer gales

Where senses slumber, and where reason fails,

My varied strains would dance along the line,

The Sylph-like visions of the plastick vine, But soon these listless hours sped fast away,

And blooming health stole gently o'er de

cay.

The flowers that closed with spring's re

tiring sun,

And 'neath the nightly dew dependant hung,

Regain'd at earliest dawn their roseate hue,

And borrow'd smiles e'en from the chilling

dew,

Then sweet the joy that filled the parent's

breast!

The village smil'd, Tray frolick'd with the rest,

The heart-felt prayer was borne on every gale,

The pipe and dance new gladden'd all the vale.

For The Port Folio.

Of the beautiful passage of Catullus, Ut flos in septis secretis nascitur hortis, &c. I have seen many translations, with none of which was I

perfectly pleased. Nor can I declare myself entirely satisfied with the following. Perhaps, however, the justness of the sentiment may atone for the want of elegance in the translation. Accept the assurance of my respect and esteem.

Like some fair flower, within a garden born,

By herds unseen, by no rude ploughshare torn,

Which zephyrs fan, the sun's mild rays endue,

With sweets untasted, and with varied hue,

While vernal showers and summer rains but serve

To deck with vigour and its strength pre

serve;

It breathes its fragrance round by all admir'd,

By virgins sought for and by swains desired;

Torn from its stem, its sweets, alas, are flown,

It falls forgotten and expires unknown.
So the chaste maid who uncorrupt remains,
In love still triumphs and with virtue
reigns;

But should she, hapless, that fair flower neglect,

Nor be with virtue as with beauty deck'd, How far she falls! alas, no more to rise, The swains neglect her, and her sex de« spise.

ASTOLPHO.

Vol. V.

For The Port Folio.

TRAVELS.

IF you have a map of the coast of France before you, you must perceive that there is a continuation of lagunes along the part of it where we now are. At about a mile from Montpelier is a canal communicating with one of these, and by that means with Cette, whence the merchants of the neighbouring country made their shipments to foreign parts, whilst there was trade in France. As the distance to Cette admitted of our going and returning in the course of the same day, we could not resist our desire of taking a nearer view of the Mediterranean, and set out early one

No. 17.

morning in company with a lively, good-natured, well-behaved Virginian, whose physician had sent him to the south of France. He had found us out directly on our arrival, and had manifested a sincere and stronglyexpressed satisfaction at the sight of an American family, but when he found that we had been upon James, River, and could talk of Rapahannock and Potowmack, and heard us speak with respect and affection of persons, whose names were familiar to him, I thought he would have devoured us. It was one continued vineyard up to the gates of the ancient town of Frontignac, and Montpelier appeared, when we looked back upon it, like some capital city, proudly seated on an eminence, amidst tributary villages. This Frontignac is a miserable place, notwithstanding the fertile soil it stands in, and the excellent wine it gives name to. The houses and walls appear to be of white clay, rather than of stone, and the streets are hardly broader than the walks of a modern garden. We found Cette a small and not very clean town, with a hard bour and a light house, and somé