The contents of the magazine corresponded with the contents of the _Port Folio_; there were the same abuse of Wordsworth, criticisms of Milton and Shakespeare, and articles upon "literary resemblances." In November, 1803, Brown began to publish in the magazine his "Memoirs of Carwin, the Biloquist." The following poem, written during the prevalence of the yellow fever, in 1797, appeared in the _Literary Magazine_ for September, 1806.
Written during the prevalence of the Yellow Fever in 1797.
Imperial daughter of the West, Why thus in widow'd weeds recline? With every gift of nature blest, The empire of a world was thine.
Late brighter than the star that beams When the soft morning carol flows: Now mournful as the maniac's dreams, When melancholy veils his woes.
What foe, with more than Gallic ire, Has thinned thy city's thronging way, Bade the sweet breath of youth expire, And manhood's powerful pulse decay?
No Gallic foe's ferocious band, Fearful as fate, as death severe, But the destroying angel's hand, With hotter rage, with fiercer fear.
I saw thee in thy prime of days, In glory rich, in beauty fair, When many a patriot shar'd thy praise, And nurs'd thee with maternal care.
Columbia's genius, veil thy brow, Guardian of freedom, hither bend: The prayer of mercy meets thee now, With healing energy descend.
Chase far the fiend whose burning tread Consumes the fairest flower that blows; Bends the sweet lily's bashful head, And fades the blushes of the rose.
E'en now ill-omened birds of prey Through the unpeopled mansions rove: Quench'd is that eye's inspiring ray, And lost the breezy lip of love.
Yet guard the FRIEND, who wandering near Haunts which the loitering Schuylkill laves, Bestows the tributary tear, Or fans with sighs the drowsy waves.
And while his mercy-dealing hand Feeds many a famished child of care, Wave round his brow thy saving wand, And breathe thy sweetness through the air;
'Till borne on Health's elastic wing, Aloft the rapid whirlwind flies; The coldest gale of Zembla bring, And brace with frost the dripping skies.
Yet bring the naiads, bring their urns, Haste, and the marble fount unclose, Through streets where Syrian summer burns, 'Till all the cool libation flows