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The last, the sweetest boon he gave to man,
Was Love. In Eden's bowers the cherub first
Was found. What hour uncoffin'd ghosts steal out,
To sit by new-made graves, or stand behind
The village matron's chair, to counterfeit
The clicking of the clock, or, yet more rude,
Tap at the window of the dreaming maid,
Or glide in winding-sheet across the room,
Borrowing the form that late her lover wore;
Upon a moon-beam, at such silent hour,
The boy descended, and, alighting soft,
Chose for his throne the mild blue eye of Eve.
On either pinion sat a fairy form
To guide the arrows, that, in wanton mood
The boy would hazard—This Romance was named,
And Fancy, that-One pluck’d, with busy hand,
Soft down from doves, and, artful, twined it round
The arrow's head, to hide from mortal eyes
The scorpion sting that barb'd the weapon's point.
While that, with syren sniile, a mirror show'à
On whose smooth surface danced, in angel robes,
Perfection's form. And ever from that night,
The sportful twins attend the train of Love.
Thus was the garden, first by Adam's voice,
Call’d Paradise. And now what spot the boy
His transient visit pays, in wilderness
Or bower, or palace, or the lowly shed,
Man names it Paradise, nor errs he much
In such a name.

Though oft the side-long look,
The heavy sigh, that speaks the anxious doubt;
The flitting blush that lights the virgin's cheek;
The mind, abstracted from the present scene;
Eyes, idly fix'd unconscious on the hearth;
The trembling lip, and melancholy mien;
Though these, no dubious signs, proclaim the boy
The city's visitor, he yet prefers
To hold his court by moon-light, in the grove,
Or where the babbling brook winds through the wood,
Or where on shady side of sloping hill,
The green vine crawls, or where innum'rous boughs,
Raising each other's leaves just over head,
Keep the rude sun-beam from the lover's couch,

The grassy bank. Here Love his revels keeps,
While every breeze blows health, and every wind,
That sweeps the maiden's locks, and shows new charms,
Makes music sweeter than Apollo's lyre.
Sweet is the landscape, wild and picturesque,
To him, the youth, whose glowing fancy paints
The love-crown'd cottage as the seat of bliss !
Sweet is the forest's twilight gloom, and sweet
The May-morn ramble! Sweet to pace along
The farm-boy's path, that, winding through the wood,
Leads to variety, within whose bounds
Alone is found the food that never cloys !
But sweeter far than brook, or walk, or wood,
Or May-morn ramble, or the evening stroll,
Far sweeter than imagination's stores,
The stolen interview with her he loves !
Sweet is the voice of Nature to his ear,
Long pain'd with list’ning to the tale of vice!
Sweet is the mock-bird's counterfeited note !
And sweet the murm'ring of the busy bee !
Sweet is the distant bell, at silent eve,
That guides the cow-boy where the cattle stray !
Sweet is the lengthen’d, still increasing sound,
Of horn that calls from meadows, wood, or field,
The weary lab’rer to his healthful meal!
The flute may cheat his melancholy mind
Of many a fancied ill, and as its strains
Float on the evening breeze, may gather mild
And mellowing influence to his greedy ear,
By mingling with the moonbeams! Yet to him
No note so musical-no strain so sweet
As sighs that tell his fond-his doubting heart,
The love she would, but cannot hide from him!

ST GEORGE TUCKER.

The Hon. St George Tucker was, we think, a Virginian.

STANZAS.

Days of my youth,

Ye have glided away:
Hairs of my youth,

Ye are frosted and gray:
Eyes of my youth,
Your keen sight is no more:

30*

VOL. I.

Cheeks of my youth,

Ye are furrow'd all o'er:
Strength of my youth,

All your vigor is gone:
Thoughts of my youth,
Your
gay

visions are flown.

Days of my youth,
I wish not

your

recall:
Hairs of my youth,

I’m content ye should fall:
Eyes of my youth,

You much evil have seen:
Cheeks of my youth,

Bathed in tears have you been:
Thoughts of my youth,

You have led me astray:
Strength of my youth,

Why lament your decay?

Days of my age,

Ye will shortly be past :
Pains of my age,

Yet awhile ye can last:
Joys of my age,

În true wisdom delight:
Eyes of my age,

Be religion your light:
Thoughts of my age,

Dread ye not the cold sod:
Hopes of my age,
Be
ye

fix'd on your God.

J. HOPKINSON.

We have no knowledge of this author. The popular national ode which follows, appeared first, we believe, in Philadelphia.

HAIL COLUMBIA.

Hail Columbia ! happy land !

Hail ye heroes! heaven born band !
Who fought and bled in freedom's cause,

And when the storm of war was gone,

Enjoy'd the peace your valor won.

Let independence be our boast,
Ever mindful what it cost;
Ever grateful for the prize,
Let its altar reach the skies.

Firm-united—let us be,
Rallying round our liberty;
As a band of brothers join'd,
Peace and safety we shall find.

Immortal patriots! rise once more;

Defend your rights, defend your shore:
Let no rude foe, with impious hand

Invade the shrine where sacred lies,
Of toil and blood the well-earn’d prize.

While offering peace, sincere and just,
In Heaven we place a manly trust,
That truth and justice will prevail,

And every scheme of bondage fail.
Sound, sound the trump of fame,

Let WASHINGTON's great name
Ring through the world with loud applause,

Let ev'ry clime to freedom dear,
Listen with a joyful ear.

With equal skill, and god-like power,
He govern'd in the fearful hour
Of horrid war; or guides, with ease,

The happier times of honest peace.
Behold the Chief, who now commands,

Once more to serve his country stands-
The rock on which the storm will beat,

But arm'd in virtue, firm and true,
His hopes are fix'd on Heaven and you.

While hope was sinking in dismay,
And glooms obscured Columbia's day,
His steady mind, from changes free,
Resolved on Death or Liberty.

RICHARD B. DAVIS

Was born in New York, August 21st, 1771. He studied at Columbia College, but was too diffident to attempt any

learned profession, and chose the trade of his father, who was a car

ver.

In 1796 however, he was prevailed upon to become editor of The Diary, a daily paper in New York. He soon grew dissatisfied with the occupation, and gave it up at the end of the year. After this, he engaged in trade. In the autumn of 1799, the yellow fever prevailing in the city, he removed with his family to New Brunswick in New Jersey, but not before he had imbibed the disease. He died in his twentyeighth year. His poems were collected and published with a memoir in 1807.

TO A SLEEPING INFANT.

Sweet are thy slumbers, innocence, reclined

On the fond bosom of maternal love;

Calm as the lake whose waters gently move,
Wafting the spirit of the dying wind.
For thee affection wakes with pleasing care,
Delighted smiles, and breathes the fervent prayer.
Far different is sleep, when labor faints

On his hard couch, when restless avarice quakes ;
When from the scene of dread that conscience paints,

Affrighted guilt with sudden horror wakes ; When from the eye of day misfortune shrinks, And on his bed of thorns despondent sinks. When night recalls the toilsome day of care,

When hopeless love catches in short repose
Scenes that alike his aching bosom tear,

Visions of shadowy bliss or real woes.
For dreams like these, and nights of anxious pain,

Manhood thy peaceful slumbers must resign,
And all his boasted wisdom sigh in vain

For the calm blessings of a sleep like thine.

THOU ART THE MUSE.

No genius lends its sacred fire

To animate my song ;
To me no heaven-presented lyre

Or muse-taught verse belong.

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