Who from that fort the French did drive,
Shall he so soon be slain?
While they, alas! remain alive,
Who gave it back again.
From house to house, and place to place, In paper doublet clad,
He pass'd, and where he show'd his face,
He made the heart full glad.
But cruel death, that spareth none,
Hath robbed us of him too;
Who through the land so long hath gone,
No longer now must go.
In senate he, like Cæsar, fell,
Pierced through with many a wound,
He sunk, ah, doleful tale to tell!
The members sitting round;
And ever since that fatal day,
Oh! had it never been,
Closely confined at home he lay,
And scarce was ever seen,
Until the last of March, when he
Submitted unto fate;
In anno regis twentythree,
Etatis fortyeight.
For ever gloomy be that day,
When he gave up the ghost;
For by his death, oh! who can say,
What hath New England lost?
Then, good Old Tenor, fare thee well,
Since thou art dead and gone;
We mourn thy fate, e'en while we tell
The good things thou hast done.
Since the bright beams of yonder sun,
Did on New England shine,
In all the land, there ne'er was known
A death so mourn'd as thine.
Of every rank are many seen,
Thy downfal to deplore;
For 't is well known that thou hast been A friend to rich and poor.
We'll o'er thee raise a silver tomb,
Long may that tomb remain,
To bless our eyes for years to come,
But wishes, ah! are vain.
And so God bless our noble state,
And save us all from harm,
And grant us food enough to eat,
And clothes to keep us warm.
Send us a lasting peace, and keep
The times from growing worse;
And let us all in safety sleep,
With silver in our purse.
LAW bears the name, but money has the power. The cause is bad whene'er the client's poor. Those strict-lived men, who seem above our world, Are oft too modest to resist our gold;
So judgment like our other wares is sold.
And the grave knight, that nods upon the laws,
Waked by a fee, hems and approves the cause.
EXTEMPORE ON THE FOURTH LATIN SCHOOL BEING TAKEN
DOWN TO MAKE ROOM FOR ENLARGING THE CHAPEL
CHURCH.
A FIG for your learning, I tell you the town,
To make the church larger must pull the school down. "Unluckily spoken," replied Master Birch,
"Then learning, I fear, stops the growth of the church."
WILLIAM LIVINGSTON, governor of New Jersey, was descended from a Scotch family which settled in New York. He was born in New York about the year 1723, and studied at Yale college, where he received a degree in 1741. He afterwards became a distinguished lawyer, and upon his re
moval to New Jersey, was chosen a member of the first Congress in 1774, having previously signalized himself by his public writings against the encroachments of Britain. In 1776 the inhabitants of New Jersey deposed their colonial governor, and formed a new constitution, under which Livingston was chosen first chief magistrate, and continued to be re-elected to the office till his death. He was a delegate in 1787 to the grand convention which formed the constitution of the United States. He died at his seat near Elizabethtown July 25th, 1790, aged 67.
Governor Livingston, besides his political writings, was the author of various essays upon miscellaneous topics: a poem entitled "Philosophic Solitude, or the choice of a Rural Life," published in 1747, when he was about 24 years of age; and a few short poetical effusions of a subsequent date.
LET ardent heroes seek renown in arms,
Pant after fame, and rush to war's alarms;
To shining palaces let fools resort,
And dunces cringe to be esteem'd at court:
Mine be the pleasure of a rural life,
From noise remote, and ignorant of strife;
Far from the painted belle, and white-gloved beau,
The lawless masquerade, and midnight show,
From ladies, lap-dogs, courtiers, garters, stars,
Fops, fiddlers, tyrants, emperors, and czars.
Full in the centre of some shady grove,
By nature form'd for solitude and love;
On banks array'd with ever blooming flowers,
Near beauteous landscapes, or by roseate bowers;
My neat, but simple mansion I would raise,
Unlike the sumptuous domes of modern days;
Devoid of pomp, with rural plainness form'd,
With savage game, and glossy shells adorn'd.
No costly furniture should grace my hall;
But curling vines ascend against the wall,
Whose pliant branches should luxuriant twine,
While purple clusters swell'd with future wine:
To slake my thirst a liquid lapse distil
From craggy rocks, and spread a limpid rill.
Along my mansion spiry firs should grow,
And gloomy yews extend the shady row;
The cedars flourish, and the poplars rise
Sublimely tall, and shoot into the skies;
Among the leaves refreshing zephyrs play,
And crowding trees exclude the noon-tide ray;
Whereon the birds their downy nests should form,
Securely shelter'd from the battering storm;
And to melodious notes their choir apply,
Soon as Aurora blush'd along the sky;
While all along the enchanting music rings,
And every vocal grove responsive sings.
Me to sequester'd scenes, ye muses, guide,
Where nature wantons in her virgin pride;
To mossy banks edged round with opening flowers,
Elysian fields, and amaranthine bowers,
Tambrosial founts, and sleep-inspiring rills,
To herbaged vales, gay lawns, and sunny hills.
Welcome, ye shades! all hail, ye vernal blooms! Ye bowery thickets, and prophetic glooms! Ye forests, hail! ye solitary woods!
Love-whispering groves, and silver-streaming floods!
Ye meads, that aromatic sweets exhale!
Ye birds, and all ye sylvan beauties, hail !
Oh how I long with you to spend my days,
Invoke the muse, and try the rural lays!
No trumpets there with martial clangor sound,
No prostrate heroes strew the crimson'd ground;
No groves of lances glitter in the air,
Nor thundering drums provoke the sanguine war:
But white-robed peace, and universal love,
Smile in the field, and brighten every grove.
There all the beauties of the circling year,
In native ornamental pride appear.
Gay, rosy-bosom'd spring, and April showers
Wake from the womb of earth the rising flowers:
In deeper verdure summer clothes the plain,
And autumn bends beneath the golden grain;
The trees weep amber, and the whispering gales
Breeze o'er the lawn, or murmur through the vales.
The flowery tribes'in gay confusion bloom,
Profuse of sweets, and fragrant with perfume.
On blossoms blossoms, fruits on fruits arise,
And varied prospects glad the wand'ring eyes.
In these fair seats I'd pass the joyous day,
Where meadows flourish and where fields look gay;
From bliss to bliss with endless pleasure rove,
Seek crystal streams, or haunt the vernal grove,
Woods, fountains, lakes, the fertile fields, or shades,
Aerial mountains, or subjacent glades.
When rising Phoebus ushers in the morn,
And golden beams the impurpled skies adorn;
Waked by the gentle murmur of the floods;
Or the soft music of the waving woods,
Rising from sleep with the melodious choir,
To solemn sounds I'd tune the hallow'd lyre.
Thy name, O God! should tremble on my tongue,
Till every grove proved vocal to my song:
(Delightful task! with dawning light to sing
Triumphant hymns to heaven's eternal King.)
Some courteous angel should my breast inspire,
Attune my lips, and guide the warbled wire,
While sportive echoes catch the sacred sound,
Swell every note, and bear the music round;
While mazy streams meandering to the main,
Hang in suspense to hear the heavenly strain,
And hush'd to silence all the feather'd throng,
Attentive listen to the tuneful song,
Father of Light! exhaustless source of good!
Supreme, eternal, self-existent God!
Before the beamy sun dispensed a ray,
Flamed in the azure vault, and gave the day;
Before the glimmering moon with borrow'd light
Shone queen amid the silver host of night,
High in the heavens, thou reign'dst superior Lord,
By suppliant angels worshipp'd and adored.
With the celestial choir then let me join
In cheerful praises to the power divine.
To sing thy praise, do thou, O God! inspire
A mortal breast with more than mortal fire.
In dreadful majesty thou sitt'st enthroned,
With light encircled, and with glory crown'd:
Through all infinitude extends thy reign,
For thee, nor heaven, nor heaven of heavens contain;
But though thy throne is fix'd above the sky
Thy omnipresence fills immensity.
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