Thou hears't my prayer--I feel thy holy flame-- And future joys in bright succession rise, And mutual love and friendship--sacred name! And home and all the blessings that I prize. Thou, Memory, lendst thy aid, and to my view Each friend I love, and every scene most dear, In forms more bright than ever painter drew, Fresh from thy pencil's magic tint appear. Roll on, ye lingering hours, that lie between, Till Truth shall realize, and Virtue bless, the scene. --R. _N. E. Quarterly Mag._, No. III-271, Oct.-Dec. 1802, Boston. ALBERT OF WERDENDORFF. OR, THE MIDNIGHT EMBRACE. A German Romance. Nocturnus occurram furor. Hor. _Port Folio_, IV-334, Oct. 20, 1804, Phila. [M. G. Lewis, _Tales of Terror_, 1799, Kelso.] ON THE DEATH OF MR. HANDEL. In the midst of the performance of his Lent Oratorio, (1759) of the Messiah, nature exhausted, he dropt his head upon the keys of the organ he was playing upon, and with difficulty raised up again. He recovered his spirits, and went on with the performance until the whole was finished. He was carried home, and died. To melt the soul, to captivate the ear, (Angels such melody might deign to hear,) To anticipate on earth the joys of heav'n, 'Twas Handel's task: to him that pow'r was giv'n. Ah, when he late attuned Messiah's praise, With sound celestial, with melodious lays: A last farewell, his languid looks express'd, And thus, methinks, th' enraptur'd crowd addrest. "Adieu, my dearest friend, and also you, "Joint sons of sacred harmony, adieu! "Apollo whispering, prompts me to retire, "And bids me join the bright seraphic choir: "Oh! for Elijah's car!" great Handel cry'd: Messiah heard his voice, and Handel died. _Boston Weekly Mag._, II-208, Oct. 20, 1804, Boston. WRITTEN IN GERMANY, ON ONE OF THE COLDEST DAYS OF THE CENTURY, BY W. WORDSWORTH. _Port Folio_, IV-342, Oct. 27, 1804, Phila. [William Wordsworth, _idem_. "The Reader must be apprised, that the stoves in North Germany generally have the impression of a galloping horse upon them, this being part of the Brunswick arms."] A HUMBLE IMITATION OF SOME STANZAS, WRITTEN BY W. WORDSWORTH, IN GERMANY, ON ONE OF THE COLDEST DAYS OF THE CENTURY. 'A fig for your languages, German and Norse, Let me have the song of the _kettle_ And the _tongs_ and the _poker_.'--W. W. [The poem, which contains no references to Germany, follows.] _Port Folio_, IV-342, Oct. 27, 1804, Phila. AGAINST FAUSTUS.