Le Brun, a Jesuit, wrote what he called a Christian Virgil, and a Christian Ovid. The Virgil consists, of Eclogues, Georgics, and an Epic of twelve books, all however on devotional subjects. The Ovid is in the same taste. The Epistles are pious ones--the Fasti are the six days of the Creation--the Elegies are the Lamentations of Jeremiah--the Art of Love is a poem on The Love of God, and the history of some Conversions supplies the place of the Metamorphoses. MEMORY. Oh! why should Memory love to dwell On pleasures which can come no more? And why should Fancy's magic spell So brightly gild each scene of yore? Ev'n Hope's delusive, glittering beam May cease to shed its cheering light; And, dull and cold, Time's onward stream May flow before the aching sight. But Memory, like a fairy dream, Still haunts the pensive view, And, like mild Evening's lingering beam, Clothes fading scenes in loveliest hue. The Past, with all its glittering train Of joys, so sweet, so quickly fled, At Memory's touch returns again, To cheer the heart whose hopes are dead. Fond Retrospection lingers near Each scene of bliss which could not last, And links again that chain so dear, Which Memory flings around the past. Hopes, Friendships, _Loves_--a seraph band-- Which Time's cold blast had rudely torn, As Memory waves her magic wand, With more than former bliss return. They come, like Music's distant breath, So soft, so sweet their whisperings are-- And fadeless is that lovely wreath With which they bind the brow of care. Oh! Memory's joys will _always_ last-- No cloud can dim their brilliant ray; Still bright and brighter glows the Past, As Hope's sweet visions fade away. THE CITY. The City--the City--its glare and din-- Oh! my soul is sick of its sights and shows, My spirit is cramp'd, and my soul pent in-- I can scarcely think, and it seems to me My very breathing is not so free, As where the breeze in its freedom blows, And the vines untrammel'd but seem to be Disporting to tell of their liberty. There, _there_ I'd be--Oh! my spirit pines For the rivers, the trees, and the forest vines. From the crowded streets, and the jostling throng, And garish glitter, and vain parade-- My native woods! how I long, I long To bury me in thy wilds again; Then Art, and Fashion, and Form, oh! then I'll eschew ye all in my wild-wood shade. Like an uncaged bird, I shall scarcely know Which way to bend me, or whither to go; Yet I think my spirit would grateful rise Unto God, who dwells in the clear blue skies. _Columbia, S. C._ {28} MACEDOINE: BY THE AUTHOR OF OTHER THINGS. I. "I tell it as 'twas whispered unto me, By a strange voice not of this world I ween."