A SIMILE, ON A LADY'S PORTRAIT.

By James Montgomery, Esq.

A FOUNTAIN issuing into light,
Before a marble palace, threw

To heaven its column, pure and bright,
Returning thence in showers of dew ;-
But soon a humbler course it took,
And glid away-a nameless brook.

Flowers on its grassy margin sprang,
Flies o'er its eddying surface play'd,
Birds 'midst the waving branches sang,
Flocks through the verdant meadows stray'd;
The weary there lay down to rest,

And there the halcyon built her nest.

'Twas beautiful-to stand and watch

The fountain's crystal turn to gems,
And such resplendent colours catch,
As though 'twere raining diadems;
Yet all was cold and curious art,

That charm'd the eye, but miss'd the heart!

Dearer to me the little stream,

Whose unimprison'd waters run,

Wild as the changes of a dream,

By rock and glen, through shade and sun;
Its lovely links have power to bind,
And whirl away my willing mind.

So thought I, when I saw the face,
By happy portraiture reveal'd,
Of one, adorn'd with every grace;
Her name and date from me conceal'd,

But not her story;-she had been
The pride of many a splendid scene.

She cast her glory round a court,
And frolick'd in the gayest ring,

Where Fashion's high-born minions sport,

Like gilded insects on the wing;

But thence, when love had touch'd her soul,

To nature and to truth she stole.

From din, and pageantry, and strife,

'Midst woods and mountains, vales and plains,

She treads the paths of lowly life,

Yet in affection's bosom reigns;

No fountain scattering diamond-showers,

But the sweet streamlet, edged with flowers!

THE EPISTLE

OF SERVIUS SULPICIUS TO MARCUS TULLIUS

CICERO.

Translated by HIS MAJESTY.

As soon as I heard your daughter Tullia was dead, I
confess I was extremely concerned, as it became me
to be, at a loss which I regarded as common to us
both; and if I had been with you, I should not have
been wanting to you, but should have openly testified
the bitterness of my grief. 'Tis true this
but a poor
and miserable consolation, because those who ought
to administer it, I mean our nearest friends and rela-
tions, are almost equally affected with ourselves, nor
ean they attempt it without shedding many a tear:
so that they appear to be more in want of comfort
themselves than to perform that duty to others. I
resolved, however, to set down in a short letter to you
such considerations as occurred to my mind, not be-
cause they can have escaped you, but because I think
that your grief has hindered your attending to them.
What reason is there why you should be transported
by so immoderate a grief: consider how fortune has

hitherto dealt with us; consider that we have lost what ought to be dearer to us than our own offspring, our country, our credit, dignity, and all our honours. This one misfortune more, how can it increase our misery? Or what mind is there that has been subject to such distress, but must have now grown callous, and regard every thing else as of little consequence? Is it for her sake that you grieve? But how often must you have fallen into that train of thinking into which I often fall, which suggests to me that those persons are not the most unfortunate at this time who are permitted to exchange life for death? What is there now which could make her What affairs? what

so much regret the loss of life? hopes? what prospects of comfort?

Was it that she

might pass her life with some Nobleman of high rank and qualification? And can you really think that it was in your power, deservedly honored as you are, to choose out of our present youth, a son-inlaw, to whom you might safely commit a child so dear to you? Or, was it that she might bear children from whose flourishing condition she might have drawn much pleasure? Who might have enjoyed a large fortune, transmitted to them from their parents? Who might have been candidates in turn for the honors of the state; and who might have employed their liberty in the service of your friends! Alas! which of these blessings was not taken

away before she was in a condition to bestow them on others? But it is a most shocking thing to. lose one's children. True, if it were not much more so to suffer and undergo what we now do. Give me leave to relate to you, what on a certain occasion afforded me some little comfort, and allow me to hope that it may have the same effect upon you. Upon my return from Asia, as I sailed from Ægina to Megara, I began attentively to view the countries that lay around me. Behind me was Ægina, before me Megara, on my right hand Piræus, on my left Corinth. These cities were at one time. flourishing beyond imagination, but are now desolate and in ruins. Thus I began to ruminate with myself; alas! do we poor mortals resent it so much, if one of us dies, or is killed, whose life is of so short a date, when we see in one spot the many carcases of so great cities lying before us? Will you not, Servius, check your grief by recollecting that you are born a man? Believe me I was not a little comforted by that thought. If you please, therefore, try the power of it on yourself. It was but lately we saw many famous men perish, a great empire declining and all the provinces in the utmost distress. And shall the death of one little woman so grievously afflict you! Who if she had not died now, must in a few years have done so; for she was born a mortal. Let me beg of you therefore, as much as is in your power, to call off your