The Spirit of the Farmers' Museum, and Lay Preacher's Gazette; Being a Judicious Selection of the Fugitive and Valuable Productions, Which Have Occasionally Appeared in That Paper, Since the Commencement of Its Establishment. Consisting of a Part of the Essays (Paperback)

This historic book may have numerous typos or missing text. Not indexed. Purchasers can download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. 1801. Not illustrated. Excerpt: ... And lib'ral arts their lib'ral patrons meet, The soul's effufions warm our colder clime- Smooth as Ohio flow the polifh'd rhyme; Or, Erie like, in copious torrents fall, On Faction's sire, and daring Vice appal, . Then while the lamp inspired pedants toil, . To hide with pilsered lore a barren soil; The flowers of tafte shall bloom on 's page And Tyler's Drama grace Columbia's stage; Aonian harps repeat Philenia's strain, And Europe's Genius yield the palm to Paine, "Arcadej. ambo, Etcantare pares, ct relpondere parati." One of the-Worcester wits, in Thomas's Majsachu setts Spy, has lately addrijfed certain lovesick ver/est in the name of Phelim 0 Flanagan, to Henrietta.--They contain much Hibernian humour, and pungently fatyrize those despairing swains, who make wosul ballads to a mistress's eye brow. Some CortnetJicut River nymph is supposed to answtr the forlorn Phelim; and we print this amourous correspondence, for the amusement of our readers. E. PHELIM O'FLANAGAN To His HENRIETTA. AS a lock of fresh hay to cow, Who all day has been chewing the cud;. As a pailsull of swill to a sow; To a boar as a puddle of mud: Far sweeter to me is thy face, Where chalk and red ochre appear; Where the lily is robb'd of each grace, And the rose is in bloom the whole year. How fair, Henrietta, thy mane, Which, alas all comparison mocks; The The eel may attempt, but in vain, To rival the twist ol thy locks. The notes of thy songs far excel The bray of the musical jack; Or Orpheus, when tripping to hell, To coax his Eurydice back. While lovers their destiny moan, That their lafsts are colder than clay, That their bosoms are harder than stone, Mine is softer than butter or whey. Should 'Retta poor Phelim forsake, The world into mourning would go; And bullfrogs ...