tence.

Men are always discontented, and one who has spent all his days in literature, may, through ignorance, wish, at a late period of existence, that he had followed some business: but no man, who has seen what business is, and abandons it for literature, will, at any time of life, desire to return to it.

GROTIUS.

When this excellent man was confined by the prince of Orange, in the castle of Louvestein, with his friend Barneveldt, on the suspicion of favouring the sect of the Armenians, he obAfter some tained permission to have his books sent to him. time the guards neglected to examine the boxes as they came in and were sent out. His wife placed Grotius in one of the empty boxes that was going out, and he was safely, in this manner, extricated from his confinement. Some soldiers, whilst they were carrying the chest, observed, that it was as heavy as if an Armenian had been in it-Grotius, however, after much apprehension, escaped. The following verses were made to commemorate so fortunate an elopement.-The arca, or chest, in which he was concealed, is alluded to by the author:

Hæc ea, quæ domini solita est portare libellos
Grotiada fuerat pondere facta gravis!

Mutatum neque sensit onus, quod enim illa ferebat,'

Id quoque, sed spirans bibliotheca, fuit.

Or thus, done into English.

This chest, which to its master did convey

Full many a massy volume every day,

Unconscious now of greater weight and cares

A living library in Grotius bears.

Grotius related this circumstance to M. Menage. It happened in the year 1662.

PIRON.

A bishop, not generally suspected of writing his own sermons, accosted Piron, with, "Well, Piron, have you read my charge to the clergy." "No my lord; have you?" was the reply of the poet.

PUNNING SERMON.

During Cromwell's government, one Slater, a broken apothecary of Birmingham, got possession of the rectory of St. Martin's, in opposition to one Jennings, owner of Aston furnace; one Smallbroke, a wealthy inhabitant;" and Sir Thomas Holt, who wished for it.

In his first sermon he told his people, the Lord had carried him through many troubles, for he had passed, like Shadrach, Mesach, and Abednego, through the fiery furnace; and as the Lord had enabled the children of Israel to pass over the Red Sea, so he had assisted him in passing over the Small brooks, and to overcome the strong Holts of sin and Satan. J. E. H.

SELECTED POETRY.

PORTUGUESE HYMN TO THE VIRGIN MARY.

"The Star of the Sea."-By John Leyden.

Star of the wide and pathless sea,
Who lovest on mariners to shine,
Those votive garments, wet to thee
We hang, within thy holy shrine;
When o'er us flashed the surging brine,

Amid the warring waters tost,

We called no other name but thine,
And hoped when other hope was lost.

Ave Maris Stella!

Star of the vast and howling main,
When dark and lone is all the sky,
And mountain-waves o'er Ocean's plain,
Erect their stormy heads on high:
When virgins for their true loves sigh,
They raise their weeping eyes to thee;
The Star of Ocean heeds their cry,
And saves the foundering bark at sea.
Ave Maris Stella!

Star of the dark and stormy sea,

When wrecking tempests round us rave, Thy gentle virgin form we see

Bright rising o'er the hoary wave.

The howling storm that seems to crave Their victims, sink in music sweet;

The surging seas recede to pave The path beneath thy glistening feet.

Ave Maris Stella!

Star of the desart waters wild,

Who pitying hears the seaman's cry,

The God of mercy, as a child,

On that chaste bosom loves to lie; While soft the chorus of the sky Their hymns of tender mercy sing, And angel voices name on high, The mother of the heavenly King.

Ave Maris Stella.

Star of the deep! at that blest name
The waves sleep silent round the keel,

The tempest wild their fury tame

That made the deep's foundations reel:
The soft celestial accents steal
So soothing through the realms of wo,
The newly damned a respite feel
From torture, in the depths below.

Ave Maris Stella!

Star of the mild and placid seas,
Whom rainbow rays of mercy crown,
Whose name thy faithful Portuguese,
O'er all that to the depths go down,
With hymns of grateful transport own:
When gathering clouds obscure their light,
And heaven assumes an awful frown,
The Star of Ocean glitters bright.

Ave Maris Stella!

Star of the deep! when angel lyres
To hymn thy holy name essay,
In vain a mortal harp aspires

To mingle in the mighty lay!
Mother of God! one living ray
Of hope our grateful bosoms fires,
When storms and tempests pass away,
To join the bright immortal choirs.

Ave Maris Stella!

MR OLDSCHOOL,

I send you, for publication in the Port Folio, a Persian Ode of Hafiz, translated by the late Sir WILLIAM JONES. The translator, who was as much distinguished for good taste, as he was for great learning and extensive research, observes- The wildness and simplicity of this Persian song pleased me so much, that I have attempted to translate it in verse: the reader will excuse the singularity of the measure which I have used, if he considers the difficulty of bringing so many eastern proper names into our stanzas.

I have endeavoured, as far as I was able, to give my translation the easy turn of the original; and I have, as nearly as possible, imitated the cadence and accent of the Persian measure; from which every reader, who understands music, will perceive that the Asiatic numbers are capable of as regular a melody as any are in Metastasio."

As many of your readers are not versed in Persian literature, nor familiar with all the works of our learned translator, I presume this elegant little piece will not be an unacceptable pre

sent.

Yours, &c.

J. C.

A PERSIAN SONG.

Sweet maid, if thou wouldst charm my sight,

And bid these arms thy neck infold;

That rosy check, that liy hand

Would give thy poet more delight
Than all Bakhara's vaunted gold,
Than all the gems of Samarcand.

Boy, let yon liquid ruby flow,
And bid thy pensive heart be glad,
What'er the frowning zealots say:
Tell them their Eden cannot show
A stream so clear as Roenabad,
A bower so sweet as Mossellay.
Oh! when these fair perfidious maids,
Whose eyes our secret haunts infest,
Their dear destructive charms display,
Each glance my tender breast invades,
And robs my wounded soul of rest,
As Tartars seize their destined prey.
In vain with love our bosoms glow;
Can all our tears, can all our sighs
New lustre to those charms impart?
Can cheeks where living roses blow,
Where Nature spreads her richest dies,
Require the borrowed gloss of art?
Speak not of fate-ah! change the theme,
And talk of odours, talk of wine,
Talk of the flowers that round us bloom:
'Tis all a cloud, 'tis all a dream:
To love and joy thy thoughts confine,
Nor hope to pierce the sacred gloom:
Beauty has such resistless power,
That e'en the chaste Egyptian damef
Sigh'd for the blooming Hebrew boy:
For her how fatal was the hour,
When to the banks of Nilus came
A youth so lovely and so coy!

But ah! sweet maid, my counsel hear;
(Youth should attend when those advise
Whom long experience renders sage)
While music charms the ravished ear,
While sparkling cups delight our eyes,
Be gay; and scorn the frowns of age.

* A melted ruby is a common periphrasis for wine in the Persian poetry, See Hafiz, ode 22. t Zoleikha, Potiphar's wife.

+ Joseph.