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publick notice their design and their objects of inquiry. We can think of no method, by which this would, more probably, be effected, than by an annual discourse in Boston, on the anniversary of the landing of our forefathers; an anniversary which has been long celebrated in this honourable manner at Plymouth, but in Boston only by the less respectable, though more expensive tribute of a publick dinner.

If the experiment of an anniversary discourse were made, we are confident of its success, and, if unsuccessful, it would be easy to drop it. Different subjects of inquiry, relating to our early history, might be assigned to the different men of learning, of which that society is composed, to be treated in the manner, of which Dr. Belknap has already given a valuable specimen in his introductory discourse. If the subjects of discussion were previously announced or assigned, and sufficient time given for the writer to prepare to treat them with accuracy and learning, we are confident, that every man of learning, invited to this office, would labour to produce something, which the American publick would not easily suffer to perish. In this way too, the curiosity of a large audience would be excited, and considerable contributions raised for the funds of the society, which almost every one knows, have long remained most disgracefully low.

We do not presume to suggest to the society, any topicks proper for this kind of discussion; but we throw out these hints to excite the attention of the gentlemen who compose the society, and from a sincere desire to promote its valuable objects. Surely, when every society for religious or charitable purposes is obliged to hear an annual discourse, which is hardly remembered beyond the day when it is delivered, the society most deserving of encouragement among us, for its exertions and its literary eminence, ought to have something, which might, at the same time, awaken the publick attention, and add to the literary treasures of New England; for however short or popular the discourse itself might be, the author would have an opportunity of enriching it with inquiries, discussions, and notes, in the form of an appendix; and if the whole were too learned to meet with an immediate sale, might make a portion of the historical collection.

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To those who have admired the singular poems of Lewis, Walter Scott, and others, under the whimsical titles of "The Cloud-King," "The Fire-King," &c. the following burlesque ballad may afford some

amusement.

THE PAINT-KING.

FAIR Ellen was once the delight of the young;

No damsel could with her compare;

Her charms were the theme of the heart and the tongue,
And bards without number in extacies sung

The beauty of Ellen, the Fair.

But Ellen, though lovers in regiments threw
The darts of their eyes at her heart,
From sorrow no pitying sympathy knew ;
For, cold as an icicle-shower, they drew
Not a drop from that petrified part.

Yet still did the heart of fair Ellen implore
A something that could not be found;

Like a sailor it seem'd on a desolate shore,

With nor house, nor a tree, nor a sound, but the roar
Of breakers high-dashing around.

From object to object, still, still would she stray,
Yet nothing, alas! could she find ; :
Through Novelty's mazes she rambled all day,
And even at midnight, so restless, they say,
In sleep would run after the wind.

Nay, rather than sit like a statue so still,

When the rain made her mansion a pound,
Up and down would she go, like the sails of a mill,
And pat every stair, like a wood-pecker's bill,
From the tiles of the roof to the ground.

One morn, as the maid from her casement reclin'd,
Pass'd a youth, with a frame in his hand.
The casement she clos'd; not the eye of her mind;
For do all she could, no, she could not be blind;
Still before her she saw the youth stand.

"And what can he do," said the maid with a sigh,
"Ah! what with that frame can he do?

I wish I could know it:" When suddenly by
The youth pass'd again; and again did her eye
The frame, and a sweet picture view.

"Oh! sweet, lovely picture!" the fair Ellen sigh'd,
"I must see thee again or I die;"

Then under her white chin her bonnet she tied,
And after the youth, and the picture she hied,

Till the youth, looking back, met her eye.

"Fair damsel,” said he, (and he chuckled the while),
"This picture, I see, you admire ;

Then take it, I beg you, perhaps 'twill beguile
Some moments of sorrow: (pray pardon my smile)
Or, at least, keep you home by the fire."

Then Ellen the gift, with delight and surprise,

From the cunning young stripling receiv'd.

But she knew not the poison that enter'd her eyes,
When beaming with rapture, they gaz'd on her prize:
Yet thus was fair Ellen deceiv'd!

'Twas a youth, o'er the form of a statue inclin'd;
And the sculptor he seem'd of the stone;
Yet he languish'd, as though for its beauty he pin'd,
And gaz'd, as the eyes of the statue so blind
Reflected the beams of his own.

'Twas the tale of the sculptor, Pygmalion of old; Fair Ellen remember'd and sigh'd,

"Ah! could'st thou but lift from that marble so cold,
Thine eyes so enchanting, thy arms should enfold,
And press me this day as thy bride."

She said when, behold, from the canvass arose
The youth....and he stepp'd from the frame;
With a furious joy, his arms did enclose
The love-plighted Ellen; and, clasping, he froze
The blood of the maid with his flame!

She turn'd, and beheld on each shoulder a wing.
"Oh! heaven!" cried she, "who art thou?"
From the roof to the ground did his fierce answer ring,
When frowning, he thunder'd, "I am the Paint-King!
And mine, lovely maid, thou art now!"

Then high from the ground did the grim monster lift
The loud-screaming maid, like a blast;

And he sped through the air, like a meteor swift,
While the clouds, wand'ring by him, did fearfully drift
To the right and the left as he pass'd.

Now, suddenly sloping his hurricane flight,
With an eddying whirl he descends;

The air all below him becomes black as night,

And the ground where he treads, as if mov'd with affright, Like the surge of the Caspian bends.

"I am here!" said the fiend, and he thundering knock'd

At the gates of a mountainous cave:

The gates open'd wide, as by magick unlock'd,

While the peaks of the mount, reeling to and fro, rock'd, Like an island of ice on the wave.

"Oh! mercy!" cried Ellen, and swoon'd in his arms.

But the Paint-King, he scoff'd at her pain.

Prithee, love," said the monster, "what mean these alarms ?” She hears not, she sees not the terrible charms

That wake her to horrour again.

She opens her lids; but no longer her eyes
Behold the fair youth she would woo:
Now appears the Paint-King in his natural guise;
His face, like a palette of villainous dies,

Black and white, red and yellow, and blue.

On a bright polish'd throne, of *prismatical spar,
Sat the mosaick fiend like a clod;

While he rear'd in his mouth a gigantick cigarr
Twice as big as the light-house, though seen from afar,
On the coast of the stormy Cape-Cod.

And anon, as he puff'd the vast volumes, were seen,

In horrid festoons on the wall,

Legs and arms, heads and bodies, emerging between ;
Like the drawing-room grim of the Scotch Sawney Beane,
By the Devil dress'd out for a ball.

"Ah me!" cried the damsel, and fell at his feet,

"Must I hang on these walls to be dried ?"

"Oh, no!" said the fiend, while he sprung from his seat,
"A far nobler fortune thy person shall meet ;

Into paint will I grind thee, my

bride!"

Then, seizing the maid by her dark auburn hair,
An oil-jug he plung'd her within.

Seven days, seven nights, with the shrieks of despair
Did Ellen in torment convulse the dun air,

All cover'd with oil to the chin.

On the morn of the eighth on a huge sable stone
Then Ellen, all reeking, he laid;

With a rock for his muller, he crush'd every bone;
But though ground to jelly, still, still did she groan
For life had forsook not the maid,

Now reaching his palette, with masterly care,
Each tint on its surface he spread;
The blue of her eyes, and the brown of her hair,
The pearl and the white of her forehead so fair,
And her lips' and her cheeks' rosy red.

This being a free country, I have taken the liberty, for the sake of the metre, to alter the word prismatick, as above!