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Yet are those youthful glowing lays of thine
The emanations of a soul divine;
Who heard thee sing, but felt sweet music's dart
In thrilling transports pierce his captive heart?
Whether soft melting airs attuned thy song,
Or pleased to pour the thundering verse along,
Still nobly great, true offspring of the Nine,
Alas! how blasted in thy glorious prime !
So when first ope the eyelids of the morn,
A radiant purple does the heavens adorn,
Fresh smiling glory streaks the skies around,
And gaily silvers each enameld mound,
Till some black storm o'erclouds the ether fair,
And all its beauties vanish into air.

Stranger, whoe'er thou art, by fortune's hand
Toss'd on the baleful Carolinian strand,
Oh! if thou seest perchance the poet's grave,
The sacred spot with tears of sorrow lave ;
Oh! shade it, shade it with ne'er fading bays.
Hallow'd's the place where gentle Godfrey lays.
(So may no sudden dart from death's dread bow,
Far froin the friends thou lov'st, e'er lay thee low,)
There may the weeping morn its tribute bring,
And angels shield it with their golden wing,
Till the last trump shall burst the womb of night,
And the purged atoms to their soul unite !


John Osborn was born in the year 1713, at Sandwich, Massachusetts. His father, an educated Scotchman, was then a schoolmaster, but was afterward settled in the ministry at Eastham, where he devoted as much time to the education of his son as could be spared from his agricultural occupations, and his labors for the welfare of his little church. The destitute state of the section of the country in which he lived, rendered manual employment absolutely necessary for the support of every individual, and the worthy divine used alternately to ply his pen in the study, and his spade in the field. His counsel, we are told, was valued quite as highly in

secular, as in spiritual affairs,

for he taught his parishioners the art of cutting and preparing peat for fuel; and under his instruction they were enabled to supply a necessity that had often been severely felt, in a region where a tree of spontaneous growth might be sought for with as little success as in the desert of Zahara. His pupil, the poet, meanwhile, was busy one week with his Latin and Greek, and the next is the clam and cod fishery ; revelling today among the treasures of classic lore, and storing up the wealth of mighty minds, and digging tomorrow in a sand-bank for the shelly prey that was to be his sustenance during the ensuing winter. In his aquatic excursions, he imbibed those ideas which he has thrown into his celebrated whaling song,-once on the tongue of every Cape Cod sailor. At the age of nineteen, young Osborn entered Harvard College, where he was noticed as a lively and eccentric genius. When his collegiate term was expired, he repaired to his father's house, at Eastham, and while yet undecided what profession to select, devoted a portion of his time to the study of divinity, though the levity of his disposition was such as to preclude all hopes 0:his prospering in a vocation that would require much gravit.* and self-denial. After two years spent in turning over the folios in his father's library, he submitted himself to the examination of the neighboring clergy, assembled in solemn conclave, and read a sermon of his composition before them. They praised the ingenuity of his arguments, and the elegance of his composition, but ventured to surmise that his sentiments, as developed in his discourse, were not exactly orthodox.* From their scruples on this head, they refused to grant him a recommendation as a suitable candidate for the ministry. Thus debarred from the pulpit, he turned his thoughts in another direction, and began a course of reading on medicine and surgery. He was afterwards invited to accept

* Osborn's father had been dismissed from his church, for having embraced the doctrines of Arminius. Perhaps the young man's mind was too much distorted by the heresics of his sire, to entitle him to the approbation of the examining committee.

a tutorship at Harvard College, but he declined the honor, on account of his intended matrimonial alliance, which would disqualify him for the station. He married a Miss Doane of Chatham, and removed to Middletown, Connecticut, where he commenced practice as a physician. In a letter to his sister, dated March 1753, he says, “Our family at present are in usual plight, except myself. I am confined chiefly to the house, am weak, lame, and uneasy, and never expect to be hearty and strong again. I have lingered along, almost two years, a life not worth having ; and how much longer it will last, I cannot tell. We have six children; the eldest fourteen years old last November—the youngest two years, last January—the eldest a daughter, the next a son, and so on to the end of the chapter.”—He died soon after writing the above, at the age of forty.

Mr Osborn possessed that cheerfulness of disposition, and those frank and agreeable manners which palliate many aberrations, and in some degree reconcile us to a volatile temperament. His morals were unimpeached, and his scholastic acquisitions respectable.

His poetic style is rather polished, and his diction quite correct, considering the time and circumstances in which he wrote. It is believed that he never gave but two poems to the world, but his popularity among the people of a soil that has never been remarkably fruitful in poets, entitles him to a place in our collection.


WHEN spring returns with western gales,

And gentle breezes sweep
The ruffling seas, we spread our sails

To plough the wat’ry deep.

For killing northern whales prepared,

Our nimble boats on board,
With craft and rum (our chief regard)

And good provisions stored,

Cape Cod, our dearest, native land,

We leave astern, and lose
Its sinking cliffs and lessening sands,

While Zephyr gently blows.

Bold, hardy men, with blooming age,

Our sandy shores produce ;
With monstrous fish they dare engage,

And dangerous callings choose.

Now towards the early dawning east

We speed our course away,
With eager minds, and joyful hearts,

To meet the rising day.

Then as we turn our wondering eyes,

We view one constant show;
Above, around, the circling skies,

The rolling seas below.

When eastward, clear of Newfoundland,

We stem the frozen pole.
We see the icy islands stand,

The northern billows roll.

As to the north we make our way,

Surprising scenes we find;
We lengthen out the tedious day,

And leave the night behind.

Now see the northern regions, where

Eternal winter reigns ;
One day and night fills up the year,

And endless cold maintains.

We view the monsters of the deep,

Great whales in numerous swarms; And creatures there, that play and leap,

Of strange, unusual forms.

When'in our station we are placed,

And whales around us play,
We launch our boats into the main,
And swiftly chase our prey.



In haste we ply our nimble oars,

For an assault design’d;
The sea beneath us foams and roars,

And leaves a wake behind.

A mighty whale we rush upon,

And in our irons throw :
She sinks her monstrous body down

Among the waves below.

And when she rises out again,

We soon renew the fight;
Thrust our sharp lances in amain,

And all her rage excite.
Enraged, she makes a mighty bound;

Thick foams the whiten'd sea;
The waves in circles rise around,

And widening roll away.
She thrashes with her tail around,

And blows her redd’ning breath ;
She breaks the air, a deafʼning sound,

While ocean groans beneath.
From numerous wounds, with crimson flood

She stains the frothy seas,
And gasps, and blows her latest blood,

While quivering life decays.

With joyful hearts we see her die,

And on the surface lay;
While all with eager haste apply,

To save our deathful prey.



DEAR sister, see the smiling spring

In all its beauties here;
The groves a thousand pleasures bring,

A thousand grateful scenes appear.
With tender leaves the trees are crown'd,
And scatter'd blossoms all around,

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