purity of his heart, and, in a sense of duty discharged, that tranquil happiness which, to a wise man, is of far higher price than the shouts and huzzas of the multitude—that mental peace which can cheer the gloom of solitude, and whose elastic energy can buoy up the soul under the heaviest distresses, his name would have come down to posterity circumvested with a halo of glory, ever enlarging, ever brightening. As it is, there is a spot upon his fame which all his splendid achievements may not wipe off. The man who courts toil, and suffering, and danger in his country’s cause, earns well the patriot’s meed; but he who conquers himself, achieves a nobler triumph. He bequeaths to the generations of all time, in the bright example he leaves for their emulation, a rarer and richer legacy. There may be glory in the might Which treadeth nations down; Wreaths for the crimson conqueror, Pride for the kingly crown; But nobler is that triumph hour The disenthralled shall find, When evil passion boweth down Unto the Godlike mind. In his contempt of this sentiment consisted Coriolanus’ great error. Alas for his fame, that he had not discerned its truth and acted accordingly! {739} MR. EDITOR,—Reading the “Belles of Williamsburg” in your July number of the Messenger, induced me to search amongst some old papers for the enclosed graphical and beautiful lines, which though not written at quite so early a period as 1777, will serve to show that in 1799 the halo of refinement and wit was still shining around that classical spot so famed in Virginia history. P. BEAUTY TO THE BEAUX OF WILLIAMSBURG. Gallants! who now so brisk and gay From night to morn can dance away As if you ne’er could tire, Can beauty only warm your heels? What, is there not one beau that feels Her flame a little higher? Have Phœbus and the sacred Nine Been banished from their wonted shrine Where Love his tribute paid? Unaided by Apollo’s rays Will hymeneal altars blaze Though sacrifice be made? Gods! shall Amanda pass unsung? Shall Stella fair and gay and young Not swell the note of praise? Shall blythe Cassandra’s art and fire, Her tuneful voice and tuneful lyre No kindred effort raise? Shall gentle Mira’s sparkling eyes, In ambuscade where Cupid lies, Still sparkle on in vain, As if, instead of lambent fire, Like Leoparda’s filled with ire Or clouded with disdain? Shall twenty other Nymphs beside Unnoticed pass adown the tide Of Time so swiftly flowing, Without one stanza to their praise To tell the folks of future days That they were worth the knowing? Should Valentine’s once blythesome day Thus quite neglected pass away, Like some dull Sunday morning, Narcissa may begin to frown, Nay, Flora with disdain look down, So Beaux, I give you warning. BEAUTY. _Idalian Grove, 14th February 1799_. PHILOSOPHY OF ANTIQUITY. NO. I.