Lo! his amorous, wanton beams
Dance on yonder crystal streams;
In soft dalliance pass the hours,
Kissing dew-drops from the flowers,
While soft music through the grove,
Sweetly tunes the soul to love.
And the hills harmonious round
Echo with responsive sound;
There the turtle-dove alone,
Makes his soft, melodious moan;
While from yonder bough 't is heard,
Sweetly chirps the yellow-bird :
There the linnet's downy throat
Warbles the responsive note;
And to all the neighboring groves,
Robin Redbreast tells his loves.
There, Amanda, we might walk,
And of soft endearments talk;
Or anon we 'd listen, love,
To the gently-cooing dove.
In some sweet, embowering shade,
Some fair seat by nature made,
I my love would gently place,
On the tender woven grass:
Seated by thy lovely side,

Oh, how great would be my pride!
While my soul should fix on thine,
Oh the joy to call thee mine!

For why should doves have more delight,
Than we, my sweet Amanda, might?
And why should larks and linnets be
More happy, lovely maid, than we?

There the pride of genius blooms,
There sweet contemplation comes:
There is science, heavenly fair,
Sweet philosophy is there;
With each author valued most,
Ancient glory, modern boast.
There the mind may revel o'er
Doughty deeds of days of yore;
How the mighty warriors stood,
How the field was dyed in blood,
How the shores were heap'd with dead,
And the rivers stream'd with red;
While the heroes' souls on flame,
Urged them on to deathless fame.

Or we view a different age
Pictured in the historic page-
Kings, descending from a throne;
Tyrants, making kingdoms groan,
With each care to state allied,
And all the scenery of pride.
Or perhaps we'll study o'er
Books of philosophic lore;
Read what Socrates has thought,
And how godlike Plato wrote;
View the earth with Bacon's eyes;
Or, with Newton, read the skies;
See each planetary ball,
One great sun attracting all:
All by gravitation held,
Self-attracted, self-repelled:
We shall cheat away old time,
Passing moments so sublime.

Hail, sweet retirement, hail!
Best state of man below,

To smooth the tide of passions frail,
And bear the soul away from scenery of wo.

WHAT IS HAPPINESS?

"T is an empty, fleeting shade, By imagination made:

"T is a bubble, straw, or worse

"T is a baby's hobby-horse:

"T is two hundred shillings clear;

"T is ten thousand pounds a year: "T is a title, 't is a name;

"T is a puff of empty fame;
Fickle as the breezes blow;
'T is a lady's yes or no!

And when the description's crown'd,
"T is just no where to be found.
Arouet shows, I must confess,
Says Delia, what is happiness;
I wish he now would tell us what
This self-same happiness is not.

What happiness is not? I vow,
That, Delia, you have posed me now:
What it is not-stay, let me see-
I think, dear maid, 't is not for me.

EDWARD CHURCH.

EDWARD CHURCH was a native of Boston, and brother to Dr Benjamin Church already spoken of. He was graduated at Harvard College in 1759. He became known as a writer in the early part of the revolutionary contest, and at a period before this had exercised his pen to some effect; for we have been informed that he assisted his brother in the composition of many of his poems. When the federal constitution was adopted, Church, as we are given to understand, expected an office, in which hope being disappointed, he gave vent to his spleen in a satirical poem called The Dangerous Vice

*, meaning the Vice President John Adams, the person whom he imagined had hindered his advancement. His philippics however were not confined to a single object, but branched out into a harsh and bitter invective against the of ficers of the government generally, and the members of the Order of Cincinnati. Some years afterward he obtained the appointment of Consul for the United States at Lisbon. More of his history we are not acquainted with.

The satire above referred to, is the only considerable work which he is known to have published. It shows no mean talent in that species of writing, and if we could sympathise with the excited feelings of the satirist, we should involunta rily pay him the credit of our adıniration for his eloquence. But from the motives which prompted his indignation, he fails to arouse us to any feeling correspondent with his own. His individual pique is too apparent. The satire is pointed, caus tic, and spirited, but we never forget that it is vindictive and exaggerated.

THE DANGEROUS VICE

BEHOLD the Merchant! once with plenty bless'd,
Whom fortune favor'd, and whom friends caress'd;
Who with rich dainties his loved offspring fed,

And quaff'd enjoyments from the fountain head;
Whose stores were full, whose flagons running o'er,
And every smiling year was adding more;
Yet nobly all for liberty resign'd,

For equal liberty with all mankind.

Behold him now! from his possessions hurl'd,
Stripp'd by a faithless and ungrateful world;
Reluctant forced from clume to clime to roam,
To earn a pittance for his starving home;
Or-if at home- to want and misery driven,
Looks round-and wonders at the ways of Heaven.
By foes, by country robb'd-by treaty sold-
A poor, dependent slave when he is old-
Of credit, prospects, friends, and hope bereft,
And nought but family, and feelings left;
Beggar'd, forgotten, and despondent grown,
He lives a stranger, and he dies unknown.

See the poor soldier! maim'd and seam'd with scars, His hard-earn'd wages in his country's wars,

His crazy carcase tott ring to a fall,

Propt by a crutch, or by some friendly wall,
Or hobbling on to some sequester'd spot,
Muses in vain on man's unequal lot;
Arrived-he rests him on the humble ground,
To soothe the anguish of a sinarting wound:
When lo! a witness of his toils appears,
Who on his breast the pendent eagle* bears;
The houseless vet'ran lifts his misty eyes,
Descries the badge-then mutters to the skies-
"Scars are the badges which poor soldiers wear,
Who for their thankless country bravely dare."

Ape not the fashions of the foreign great
Nor make your betters at your levees wait,
Resign your awkward pomp, parade and pride,
And lay that useless etiquette aside;

The unthinking laugh, but all the thinking hate
Such vile, abortive mimicry of state;

Those idle lackeys, sauntering at your door,
But ill become poor servants of the poor;

Retrench your board, for e'en the guests who dine,
Have cause to murmur at your floods of wine;
Think not to bribe the wise with their own gold,
Though fools by flimsy lures should be cajoled;
Places on places multiply to view,

*The badge of the order of the Cincinnati.

Creation on creation, ever new;
Therefore in decent competence to live,
Is all that you can ask, or justice give:

An humbler roof-could Madam condescend-
But heaven forbid I should the sex offend!
The chariot, too-pray who can live without,
And keep distinguished from the rabble rout?
All genteel people deem it a reproach

To

go to plays, balls, routs, in hackney coach; And as to walking 't is so vulgar now— Ladies have left it off, and scarce know how. Women, I grant, are frequent in the street, But real ladies, Sir, you'll rarely meet.

But who art thou, who durst advice intrude,
So very prudent, and so very rude?

Take back thy niggard counsel, nor presume
O'er our bright sunshine to diffuse thy gloom;
Heads of Departments should be amply paid:
Places for this sole purpose have been made:
All are not like old Cincinnatus now,

To take up their old trades, or dirty plough.

*

*

*

*

Ye would-be titled! whom, in evil hour—
The rash, unthinking people clothed with power,
Who, drunk with pride, of foreign baubles dream,
And rave of a COLUMBIAN DIADEM-

Be prudent, modest, moderate, grateful, wise,
Nor on your country's ruin strive to rise,
Lest great Columbia's awful god should frown,
And to your native dunghills hurl you down.

Ye faithful guardians of your country's weal,
Whose honest breasts still glow with patriot zeal!
The lawless lust of power in embryo quell,
The germe of mischief and first spawn of hell.
Within your sacred walls let virtue reign,
And greedy Mammon spread his snares in vain.
With unlick'd lordlings sully not your fame,
Nor daub our patriot with a lacker'd name.
O Washington! thy country's hope and trust!
Alas perhaps her last, as thou wert first;
Successors we can find-but tell us where
Of all thy virtues we shall find the heir?

But if which heaven avert !—we must have kings,
With all the curses the tiara brings,

Let us not frame the idol we adore,

But own the monster of some distant shore,

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