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out of his ashes you may spring another phoenix as a honeycomb out of the strong lion; a royal branch of that rare root; a strong rod to be a sceptre to rule: so shall your highness's holy and ever virtuous progress be a new crown of comfort to the three nations, filling the people's hearts with joyful hopes of happiness, and a firm well-grounded peace, that they may sit safely under their vines and fig-trees, freed from the terrors and turmoils of tumultuous broils; and that your highness may obtain and enjoy the continual protection of the Omnipotent Protector, to crown your highness and the nations with loving kindness and tender mercies, shall be the constant prayer of

"Your highness's most humble
and faithfully devoted,

EDWARD MATTHEWS."

FREDERICK THE GREAT, AND THE YOUNG PRETENDER.

A COPY of the following letter from the king of Prussia, to the young pretender, was found amongst the papers of a gentleman of the first rank, after his decease, in 1770. It presents every mark of genuineness.

Much beloved cousin,

I can no longer, my dear prince, deny myself the satisfaction of congratulating you on your safe arrival in France, and though my connection with the reigning family did not permit me to rejoice too openly at the progress of your arms, I can assure you, on the word of a king, I was sincerely touched at your misfortunes, and under the deepest apprehensions for the safety of your person. All Europe was astonished at the greatness of the enterprise; for, though Alexander, and other heroes, have conquered kingdoms with inferior armies, you are the only one who ever engaged in such an attempt without

one.

Voltaire, who, of all poets, is best able to write, is, above all men, indebted to your highness, for having at length furnished him with a subject worthy of his pen, which has all the requisites of an epic poem, except happier event.

However, though fortune was your foe, Great Britain, and not your highness, are the only losers by it, as the difficulties you have undergone have only served to discover those talents and virtues which have gained you the admiration of

all mankind, and even the esteem of those amongst your enemies, in whom every spark of virtue is not totally extinct.

The princess, who has all the curiosity of her sex, is desirous of seeing the features of a hero, of whom she has heard so much; so that your highness has it in your power to oblige both her and me by sending us your picture by the count de who is on his return to Berlin, and be assured I shall esteem it the most valuable acquisition I ever made.

You are frequently the subject of my conversation with Marshal Keith, whom I have had the good fortune to engage in my service; and besides his consummate knowledge in military affairs, he is possessed of a thousand amiable qualities: yet nothing endears him so much to me, as his entertaining the same sentiments that I do with regard to your royal highness.

Were my situation different from what it is, I should give you more essential proofs of my friendship than mere words; but you may depend upon any good offices I can do with my brother of France: yet I am sorry to tell you, that I am too well acquainted with the politics of that court, to expect that they will do you any solid service, as they would have every thing to apprehend from a prince of your consummate abilities and enterprising genius, placed at the head of the bravest people in the world.

Adieu, royal hero! and assure yourself that no change of fortune can make any alteration in my esteem.

From our Court at Berlin,

Nov. 8th 1747.

PRUSSIA.

RULES FOR BECOMING A POET.

THE following observations on poetry were written in the Turkish language, by Nabi Effendi, a celebrated poet, who died about the beginning of the eighteenth century. If modern British poets would subject themselves to the standard thus prescribed, they would either be less numerous, or more valued.

"My son, before you attempt to run the painful race of poetry, examine your strength. If you perceive within yourself that divine fire which glows in the bosom of great poets,

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give yourself up to your genius. First enrich your mind by reading the works of those who have excelled in verse. Nesi and Baki are in the first rank of the Turkish poets. Persia, the fruitful mother of genius, has produced a great number of good poets. What strength and purity in the works of Saib and Kellmi! Ciami, Nouri, and Khakani abound with beauties innumerable, and inexpressible. Sali, like the soft nightingale, fills the groves with sounds of melody. Chevket, like the eagle, bears his ambitious wings to heaven. Hafiz sings of love, and the sweet juices of the vine, while Atter aids the cause of virtue, by the sublime precepts of morality. The Arabs have been no less ardent in the cultivation of poetry than the Persians. They have even more of that enthusiasm, that poetic furor which seizes, inflames, and elevates the heart. Their style is impetuous: their strong imagination paints every object with force; and their poetry is impregnated with all the warmth of their climate. Their works are like diamonds, that dart a thousand rays; but, to taste their beauty, it is necessary thoroughly to understand their language. Whoever would attain to perfection, should have a consummate knowledge of the Arabic and the Persian. Those two languages are the wings on which a poet must rise into the air; without them he will grovel on the ground.

"Would you wish, my son, that your verse should not only be admired by your contemporaries, but pass to posterity, never sacrifice sense to rhyme. Convey some useful truth under some ingenious emblem, or fine allegory. Let your works have a general tendency to promote the virtues of mankind. The garden of poetry is dry and ungenial, if it be not watered with the streams of philosophy.

"The greater part of our ordinary poets speak only of lilies, locks of hair, nightingales, and wine. If they describe some imaginary beauty with which they are smitten, they compare her sometimes to the spring, sometimes to an enamelled mead. Her lips are like the rose, and and her complexion resembles the jessamine. Cold and servile imitators, their languid imagination supplies them with nothing new. They cannot march, except in a beaten path.

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Truth, my son, hath no need of severity to make us hear her voice. Never employ your muse in satire. A professed satirist is feared by all mankind: all are apprehensive of the malignity of his pen. He has hatred and envy to encounter, and many reasons to repent his caustic genius."

SLEEP OF PLANTS.

In the middle of the eighteenth century, botanists thought they had made a new discovery, which they called by a very pretty metaphorical name,-the Sleep of Plants. It was observed, however, as far back as the time of Chaucer, who, speaking of this flower, in his "Legende of Good Women," has the following lines:

"There lovith no wight hartyer alyve,

And whan that it is evyn, I rynne belyve,
As sone as the sonne ginneth to west,
To see this floure, how it will go to rest,
For fere of night, so hatith the darkenes,
Her chere is plainly spread in brightnesse
Of the sonne, for then it will unclose."

LINES BY A YOUNG LADY BORN BLIND.

If this delicious, grateful flower,
Which blows but for a little hour,
Should to the sight so lovely be,
As from its fragrance seems to me,
A sigh must then its colour show,
For that's the softest joy I know;
And sure the rose is like a sigh,
Born just to soothe, and then-to die.

My father, when our fortune smil'd,
With jewels deck'd his eyeless child;
Their glittering worth the world might see,
But, ah! they had no charms for me;
A trickling tear bedew'd my arm—
I felt it-and my heart was warm;
And sure the gem to me most dear,
Was a kind father's pitying tear.

These exquisite lines appeared some time ago in the newspapers without any name affixed. If they are, as stated, truly the production of "a young lady born blind," she must be allowed, not only to excel all who have gone before her, afflicted with the same deprivation, but to be an ornament to her sex and country.

THE SIGH.

ONCE, when no language yet was known,
Save what expedience taught alone;
When words and signs, and symbols spoke,
The grave discourse and sprightly joke,
And all the thoughts that heads produce,
Found language suited to their use;
But when the heart had learn'd no tone
To make its inward anguish known,
A youth, 'tis said, who felt a flame,
Known far too well to need a name,
Reclin'd beneath a hazel grove,

Thought much of her whom much he lov'd.
As thus he lay, a passing gale

Pour'd through the trees a mournful wail;
And while the trees prolong'd the moan,
His heartstrings caught the plaintive tone
With anguish strung, and beating high,
Gave to the world the earliest sigh.
Thus erst did nature first impart
A language to the burden'd heart;
And thus the bosom learn'd to tell
What words can never show so well.

TO THE EOLIAN HARP.

I NEVER hear that plaintive sigh,
Borne on the trembling zephyr's wings,
But fancy paints some spirit nigh,
Who breathes in rapture o'er thy strings;
Some minstrel sylph or fairy power,
Whose music charms in lonely hour.

Æolian harp! the magic swell,
That lingers midst thy sounding wire,
On whose wild notes I love to dwell,
Could aught but angel voice inspire?

Could mortal voice so sweetly sing,
Or raise the soul on fancy's wing?

A.

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