By praising up the plaister's merits.—
Quoth he, "The roots now scarcely stick-
I'll fetch her out like crab or tick;
And make it rendezvous, next trial,
With six more plagues, in my old vial."
Then purged him pale with jalap drastic,
And next applied the infernal caustic.
But yet, this semblance bright of hell
Served but to make the patient yell;
And, gnawing on with fiery pace,
Devour'd one broadside of his face-
"Courage, 'tis done," the doctor cried,
And quick the incision knife applied :
That with three cuts made such a hole,
Out flew the patient's tortured soul!
Go, readers, gentle, eke and simple,
If
you have wart, or corn, or pimple;
To quack infallible apply;

Here's room enough for you to lie.
His skill triumphant still prevails,
For death 's a cure that never fails.

THE HYPOCRITE'S HOPE.

BLEST is the man, who from the womb,
To saintship him betakes,

And when too soon his child shall come,
A long confession makes,

When next in Broad Church-alley, he

Shall take his former place,

Relates his past iniquity,

And consequential grace;

Declares how long by Satan vex'd,
From truth he did depart,

And tells the time, and tells the text,
That smote his flinty heart.

He stands in half-way-covenant sure;
Full five long years or more,
One foot in church's pale secure,

The other out of door.

Then riper grown in gifts and grace,

With every rite complies,

And deeper lengthens down his face,
And higher rolls his eyes.

He tones like Pharisee sublime,
Two lengthy prayers a day,
The same that he from early prime,
Has heard his father say.

Each Sunday perch'd on bench of pew,
To passing priest he bows,

Then loudly 'mid the quavering crew,
Attunes his vocal nose.

With awful look then rises slow,
And prayerful visage sour,
More fit to fright the apostate foe,
Then seek a pardoning power.

Then nodding hears the sermon next,
From priest haranguing loud;
And doubles down each quoted text,
From Genesis to Jude.

And when the priest holds forth address,

To old ones born anew,

With holy pride and wrinkled face,

He rises in his pew.

Good works he careth nought about,
But faith alone will seek,
While Sunday's pieties blot out
The knaveries of the week.

He makes the poor his daily prayer,
Yet drives them from his board:
And though to his own good he swear,
Through habit breaks his word.

This man advancing fresh and fair,
Shall all his race complete;
And wave at last his hoary hair,
Arrived in deacon's seat.

There shall he all church honors have,
By joyous brethren given—
Till priest in funeral sermon grave,
Shall send him straight to heaven.

PHILIP FRENEAU.

MR FRENEAU is, we believe, a descendant of the French protestants who came to this country upon the revocation of the Edict of Nantes. Of the precise period and place of his birth we are ignorant. He received his education at Princeton College, in New Jersey, where he was graduated in 1771, and was associated with Hopkinson in certain political writings published in Philadelphia during the revolution. After the federal government was established, he occupied a station in the Secretary of State's office, and also conducted a newspaper in Philadelphia for several years. These employments he finally relinquished for commercial pursuits, in the course of which, he made voyages to several parts of the world.

We had always been accustomed to hear this gentleman spoken of as deceased, and a late writer in one of our most distinguished literary journals has classed him among the departed poets. But on making inquiries respecting him a few months since, we learned that he was still living near Middletown Point in New Jersey. We hope he regrets the very splenetic tone of the letter which he took the trouble to write about us on the occasion.

The principal part of Mr Freneau's poetical effusions were published in a large volume in 1795. This book contains a greater variety than any volume of poetry by a single hand which we have ever seen. Many of the pieces have uncommon merit, and exhibit a degree of talent which would have enabled the author to take a high rank among our native bards. Mr Freneau's poetry however, has been neglected. Had he published less, he would have found more readers. His volume presented a miscellany of about three hundred different pieces, and a miscellany of such a size is apt to discourage a common reader. He has not managed all the subjects he has undertaken with an equal degree of success, but he writes in general with an unaffected ease and sprightliness, and displays a truly poetical warmth and exuberance of fancy.

THE DYING INDIAN.

"ON yonder lake I spread the sail no more!
Vigor, and youth, and active days are past-
Relentless demons urge me to that shore

On whose black forests all the dead are cast:
Ye solemn train, prepare the funeral song,
For I must go to shades below,
Where all is strange, and all is new;
Companion to the airy throng,

What solitary streams,

In dull and dreary dreams,
All melancholy, must I rove along!

To what strange lands must Shalum take his way!
Groves of the dead departed mortals trace;
No deer along those gloomy forests stray,
No huntsmen there take pleasure in the chase,
But all are empty unsubstantial shades,
That ramble through those visionary glades;
No spongy fruits from verdant trees depend:
But sickly orchards there

Do fruits as sickly bear,

And apples a consumptive visage shew,
And wither'd hangs the whortle-berry blue.
Ah me! what mischiefs on the dead attend!
Wandering a stranger to the shores below,
Where shall I brook or real fountain find?
Lazy and sad deluding waters flow-
Such is the picture in my boding mind!
Fine tales indeed, they tell
Of shades and purling rills,

Where our dead fathers dwell
Beyond the western hills,

But when did ghost return his state to shew;
Or who can promise half the tale is true?

I too must be a fleeting ghost-no more-
None, none but shadows to those mansions go;
I leave my woods, I leave the Huron shore,
For emptier groves below!

Ye charming solitudes,
Ye tall ascending woods,

Ye glassy lakes and prattling streams,
Whose aspect still was sweet,
Whether the sun did greet,

Or the pale moon embraced you with her beams—
Adieu to all!

To all, that charm'd me where I stray'd,

The winding stream, the dark sequester'd shade;

Adieu all triumphs here!

Adieu the mountain's lofty swell,
Adieu, thou little verdant hill,

And seas, and stars, and skies-farewell,

For some remoter sphere!

Perplex'd with doubts, and tortured with despair,

Why so dejected at this hopeless sleep?

Nature at last these ruins may repair,

When fate's long dream is o'er, and she forgets to weep.
Some real world once more may be assign'd,

Some new born mansion for th' immortal mind!
Farewell, sweet lake; farewell surrounding woods,
To other groves, through midnight glooms, I stray,
Beyond the mountains, and beyond the floods,
Beyond the Huron bay!

Prepare the hollow tomb, and place me low,
My trusty bow and arrows by my side,
The cheerful bottle, and the ven'son store;
For long the journey is that I must go,
Without a partner, and without a guide."

He spoke, and bid the attending mourners weep:
Then closed his eyes, and sunk to endless sleep!

THE WILD HONEYSUCKLE.

FAIR flower, that dost so comely grow,
Hid in this silent, dull retreat,

Untouch'd thy honey'd blossoms blow,
Unseen thy little branches greet:

No roving foot shall find thee here,
No busy hand provoke a tear.

By Nature's self in white array'd,
She bade thee shun the vulgar eye,
And planted here the guardian shade,
And sent soft waters murmuring by;