A RHAPSODY.

Life's busy scene I sing! Its countenance, and form, and varied hue, drawn within the compass of the eye. No tedious voyage, or weary pilgrimage o'er burning deserts, or tempestuous seas, my progress marks, to trace great nature's sources to the fount, and bare her secrets to the common view.

Life's a theatre, man the chief actor, and the source from which the dramatist must cull his choicest beauties, painting up to nature the varied scenes which mark the changeful courses of her motley groups. Here she opes her volume to the view of contemplative minds, and spreads her treasures forth, decked in all the variegated tints that Flora, goddess of the flowery mead and silvery dell, with many coloured hue, besprinkles the luxuriant land.

Here, reader, will we travel forth, and in our journey make survey of all that's interesting and instructive. Man's but the creature of a little hour, the phantom of a transitory life; prone to every ill, subject to every woe; and oft the more eccentric in his sphere, as rare abilities may gild his brow, setting form, law, and order at defiance. His glass a third decayed 'fore reason shines, and ere perfection crowns maturity, he sinks forgotten in his parent dust. Such then is man, uncertain as the wind, by nature formed the creature of caprice, and as Atropos wills, day by day, we number to our loss some mirth-enlivening soul, whose talents gave a lustre to the scene.-Serious and solemn, thoughts be hence away! imagination wills that playful satire reign:—by sportive fancy led, we take the field.