The New-York Weekly Magazine, or Miscellaneous Repository - BestLightNovel.com
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L. B.
October 14, 1796.
NEW-YORK.
MARRIED,
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 Yorks.h.i.+re, 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.]]
_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.
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 G.o.ddess of love, I call'd not her beauty divine: These far other pa.s.sions 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 s.h.i.+ne That Fas.h.i.+on's gay daughters approve, You must speak as the fas.h.i.+ons incline;-- Alas! are there fas.h.i.+ons 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!
