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The following elegant Address to THE ECHO, was received by the

Mail from Boston, and printed in the American Mercury of Feb. 4, 1793 : It is stated to have been from the pen of a gentleman, who ranks high in the scale of literary and ficlitical eminence.

EPISTLE TO THE ECHO.

ENCHANTING nymph, whose imitative tongue,
Returns so sweet whate'er is said or sung;
Accept the tribute of my plausive lays,
For even Echo loves deserved praise.
With thee, sweet maid, the Muses all rejoice,
To hear the vast improvements of thy voice ;
Oft have I woo'd thee, at the midnight hour,
When my fond bosom own’d Miranda's power ;
Oft call'd on thee to fan my tender flame,
And thou, indulgent, didst repeat her name.
But, lovely maid, thy powers were then confin'd
To speak the language of thy prompter's mind;
Thy voice as each successive speaker taught,
With wit and dullness was alternate fraught :
But now no more thy mimic arts are found
Contracted to the shadow of a sound.
To nobler faculties thy voice aspires,
And lends to dullness all the Muse's fires.
Where, beauteous nymph, didst thou the talent get;
To hear rank nonsense, and return it wit ?
Where learn the art, like Phrygia's king of old,
To turn the vilest substances to Gold ?
From Folly's brow to tear the mask away ;
Make Vice himself his dirty face display-
The petty monarch's strutting state deride,
And laugh to scorn the pedant's paltry pride.
Yet, peerless nymph, thy new acquired art
Gives not the same delight to every heart;
The knave and fool, by thee to shame consign'd,
Nor wit, nor music, in thy voice can find;
And made the theme of laughter and disdain,
Feel not the charms of thy responsive strain.

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Still gentle nymph, the tuneful verse prolong,
Still taste and virtue shall approve thy song.

THE ECHO.

NUMBER 1.

Boston, July 14th, 1791.

On Tuesday last, about 4 o'clock, P. M. came on a smart shower of rain attended with lightning and thunder, no ways remarkable. The clouds soon dissipated, and the appearance of the azure vault, left trivial hopes of further needful supplies from the uncorked bottles of heaven. In a few moments the horizon was again overshadowed, and an almost impenetrable gloom mantled the face of the skies. The wind frequently shifting from one point to another, wafted the clouds in various directions, until at last they united in one common centre and shrouded the visible globe in thick darkness. The attendant lightning, with the accompanying thunder, brought forth from the treasures that embattled elements to awful conflict, were extremely vivid, and amazing loud. Those buildings that were defended by electric rods, appeared to be wrapped in sheets of livid flame, and a flood of the pure fire rolled its burning torrents down them with alarming violence. The majestic roar of disploding thunders, now bursting with a sudden crash, and now wasting the rumlling Echo of their sounds in other lands, added indescribable grandeur to the sublime scene. The windows of the upper regions appeared as thrown wide open, and the trembling cataract poured impetuous down. More salutary showers, and more needed, have not been experienced this summer. Several previous weeks had exhibited a melancholy sight: the verdure of fields was nearly destroyed; and the patient husbandman almost experienced despair. Two beautiful rainbows, the one existing in its native

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glories, and the other a splendid reflection of primitive colours, closed the magnificent picture, and presented to the contemplative mind, the angel of mercy, cloathed with the brilliance of this irradiated arch, and dispensing felicity to assembled worlds.

“ It is not unnatural to expect that the thunder storm would be attended with some damage. We hear a barn belonging to Mr. Wythe of Cambridge caught fire from the lightning, which entirely consumed the same, together with several tons of hay, &c.”

HARTFORD, AUGUST 8, 1791..

Those mighty tales which great events rehearse,
« To fame we consecrate in deathless verse."

On Tuesday last great Sol, with piercing eye,
Pursued his journey thro' the vaulted sky,
And in his car effulgent rollid his way
Four hours beyond the burning zone of day;
When lo! a cloud, o'ershadowing all the plain,
From countless pores perspir'd a liquid rain,
While from its cracks the lightnings made a peep,
And chit-chat thunders rock'd our fears asleep.
But soon the vapoury fog dispers’d in air,
And left the azure blue-eyed concave bare:
Even the last drop of hope, which dripping skies
Gave for a moment to our straining eyes,
Like Boston Rum, from heaven's junk bottles broke,
Lost all the corks, and vanish’d into smoke.

But swift from worlds unknown, a fresh supply Of vapour dimm'd the great horizon's eye;

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