SCENE VI. PRINCE. CECILIA. Prince. Good morning to you, dear Cecilia-sit down by my side. Cecilia. Permit me, honoured father, to congratulate you first upon your birth-day. (she kisses his hand.) Prince. I thank you, dear daughter-Sit down-But do you consider that you congratulate me upon my progress in weakness? I am deeply sensible of my increasing age. The roseate light in which all objects appear to your eyes makes no impression on mine-I have ceased to live; I only breathe; life has no more charms for me, and existence remains the only tie that unites me with this world. Cecilia. Surely you imagine yourself feebler than you actually are. Prince. Alas! I am but too sensible of my weakness-My children are the only remaining channel by means of which pleasure and pain can still reach my heart. Cecilia. How then can you say that you have ceased to live? Why are the rich so apt to pretend being poor?-Your children might be called paragons of manly perfection. The gentle character of your Julius Prince. Are you serious, dear Cecilia?-You too are a child of mine, and as such afford me likewise a parent's delight, when I contemplate your accomplishments. Cecilia. If you do not flatter me, you display with regard to myself both a parent's love and a father's vanity. Prince. Now as my children are the only channel by means of which pleasure can find access to my heart, is it not natural then that I should make every effort in my power to direct those pleasures, still within my reach, into that course, and is not love the richest source of earthly bliss?-It is not, like glory and wealth, a gift bestowed by the too often niggard hands of man; no, it is no gift intrusted by nature to mortals with the power of dispensing it; it is conferred by herself on every individual. Do you hear, Cecilia, how warmly an old man speaks of love on his seventy-sixth birth day? Cecilia. A proof that your love was the offspring of virtue. Prince. But I am wandering from my subject-The ray of love itself is too glaring for my weak heart; only its reflection from my children suits my feeble age-Dearest girl, my Julius has an heart-not his glorious actions, but his deviations, shall be the test of its excellency. Cecilia. Cecilia. I know how to value it. Prince. Do you really know? Ah, if he could become happy by love! if he were to lead a daughter to my arms! Is there any thing that can make an old man happier than the affectionate care of a daughter! ah! if Julius had a wife! Cecilia. I would esteem her my dearest friend. Prince. How supremely blissful might she render the remainder of my life, at the close of which I then should quit her arms for those of a sister-angel!-Cecilia, you must become that wife! Cecilia. I conjure you, dear uncle Prince. No objection at present-I know what your virgin modesty would urge you to say, and--do you hear! no objection! 1 Cecilia. Am I not already your daughter? I shall continue to love you as a father, never leave you, anticipate your most secret wishes, always keep you company, unless I should be called away in order to procure you pleasure, but Prince. No objection now!-but if you should congratu late me upon my next birth-day, perhaps in the name of a grandson, then, dear Cecilia, think of this conversation. Do you hear, Cecilia? you are to think of this conversation!Come now, the breakfast is waiting-Give me your hand— P. W. [Exeunt. (To be continued.) THRASYBULUS AND BONAPARTE. EXTRACTED FROM ARCHENHOLZ's MINERVA. TRA RAVELLERS of every nation, that return from France, assure us, that the number of the partizans and admirers of Bonaparte daily increases in that country. In the present situation of affairs, it is not to be wondered at, if flatterers of every description emulously strive to outdo each other in their praises of the first consul. One of these, who calls himself Tavel, has (whether for the sake of flattery, or impelled by real admiration, we do not pretend to decide) writ ten an historical poem, entitled, "Thrasibule, poeme imité du Latin de Cornelius Nepos, par M. C., D. Tavel." It is doubted doubted whether this be the real name of the author, as no such person is known among the cultivators of the French Parnassus, though the verses, it is said, declare the author to be an excellent poet. The whole life of the celebrated Grecian is here depicted, and every trait in his history conveys strong allusions to Bonaparte, and the dethroned rulers of the French nation. In fact, the principal events in the history of Athens bear a striking resemblance to those which have lately taken place in Paris. Thrasybulus expelled the thirty tyrants from Athens, and effected this great revolution with the aid of but a small number of troops. He had served under Alcibiades, and in the execution of his projects he consulted with the sages of Greece. After subduing the enemies of his country, he banished none of its citizens, confiscated no one's property, and, in order to heal the wounds of the state, he commanded a general amnesty, or decree of oblivion, to be proclaimed. In this poem Bonaparte is evidently meant by Thrasybulus; in Alcibiades we recognize Barras; in the sanguinary Draco, the monster Robespierre; and in the assembly of sages, with whom Thrasybulus consults, the council of ancients in France. The law concerning hostages, and other nefarious decrees issued by the French Directory, recur to our recollection, when we read of the measures pursued by the thirty tyrants in Athens. In short, the poem exhibits a concise delineation of the revolution of the 18th Brumaire; it offends no one; and it bestows delicate praise upon living personages, by suppressing their names. M. S. LIBERTY. WHEREFORE constraint?-thought Till; Liberty for ever!-he tore down the garden fences,-let the trees grow-rooted not out the weeds, and gave the garden perfect freedom-It lasted but a short time ere it became a highway; the flowers were trodden down, the trees were either spoilt, or they grew wild, the weeds gained the upper hand and choked up the useful plants; the whole garden went to ruin.-What a pity for that garden! said the neighbours. Ah! what a pity! retorted Till; I am for liberty! M. G. ORIGINAL ORIGINAL COMMUNICATIONS. Die Kürze der deutschen Sprache von Klopstock. THE CONCISENESS OF THE GERMAN LANGUAGE PROVED BY EXAMPLES. Communicated by Klopstock. HOMER. 11. III. v. 212-215. Doch da sie alles mit Red', und mit Rath' uns umwebten, da sagte Eitendes mir Menelaos, und Weniges, aber mit Scharfsinn, Sparte die Worte, nicht weichend vom Pfad'; und er war doch der Jimgere. II. XXIV. 629-634. Da bewundert der Dardanid' Achilleus, wie hoch er Sey, und wie schön! denn Unsterblichen glich er. Achitteus be wundert Dardanos Sohn, anschauend das gute Gesicht, und die Rede Il. III. v. 212-215. Αλλ ̓ ὅτε δὴ μύθες καὶ μήδεα πᾶσιν ὕφαινον, CK's KLOPSTOCK's KLOPSTOCK's EXAMPLES OF THE CONCISENESS OF THE GERMAN LANGUAGE COMPARED. A. POPE's ILIAD OF HOMER. WHEN Atreus' son harangu'd the list'ning train, They bore as heroes, but they felt as man. Homeri Ilias ex Edit. S. Clarke. Il. III. v. 212-215. Sed cum jam verba et consilia omnibus texebant, Pauca quidem, sed valde argute; quoniam non, multiloquus erat; Neque verbis errans, quamvis ætate posterior erat. II. XXIV. v. 629-634. Dardanides quidem Priamus admirabatur Achillem VOL. II. R DRYDEN's |