University of Virginia Library

1. VOL. I.

PREFACE.

The following work is the result of an attempt to do something for the cause of American literature, by calling into notice and preserving a portion of what is valuable and characteristic in the writings of our native poets. As a pursuit of mere literary curiosity, there exist no ordinary inducements to the prosecution of such an enterprise, but when we take into view the influence which an endeavor like this, to rescue from oblivion the efforts of native genius must necessarily have upon the state of letters among us, we shall have occasion to wonder that an undertaking of the kind has not sooner been entered upon. The truth is, that our neglect upon this point is in some degree a matter of reproach to us. The literary productions of our fathers have been held in unwarrantable disesteem by their descendants, who have reason to pride themselves upon the monuments of genius and learning left them by preceding generations. What though our early literature cannot boast of a Dante or a Chaucer, it can furnish such testimonials of talent and mental cultivation as are highly creditable

to the country, and of sufficient interest to call upon the attention of those who are desirous of tracing the general history of letters, and their connexion with the development of the moral and intellectual character of a people; while to us, as Americans, they possess a double value, and deserve to be cherished, as the inheritance of a race whose virtues have consecrated whatever they have left behind them. Again, everything published among us must have some value, if not on account of its intrinsic merits, at least as affording some insight into the spirit and temper of the times, and illustrating the degree of social and mental improvement in the community. Hitherto we have paid too little regard to our native literature in this last relation, and while the polite letters of foreign countries have been studied in such a philosophical view by the most accomplished scholars of our land, the same interesting field of observation at home has been overlooked. We have known men familiar with the details of Tiraboschi, Bouterwek and Sismondi, who had hardly bestowed a thought upon the most gifted spirits of the soil where they were born and bred: as if the poets of the western world could not bear some characteristic traits of their day and generation as well as the Minnesingers and Trouvéres; or as if a lay of the pilgrim fathers of New England could not illustrate a point of national or individual character as effectually as the Gongorism of the Castilian rhymesters of old. This is surely a preposterous state of things. What has been produced in the shape of literature among us merits regard. It must furnish something worthy of note in respect to the intellectual character of our nation. If it exhibit no marks of originality, it must show something of imitation, and it cannot but interest us to know the fact, for even that must have its significance.

The object, therefore, of the work which I here present to the public, is to answer, so far as my opportunities would enable me to do it, the demand which has already been manifested, to know in a general and comprehensive view, what has been done in the department of poetry by American writers. Thus far we have seen no such thing as a collection of American poetry designed for such a purpose, nor a treatise designating with fulness and accuracy, the character of the various performances in verse of our native authors, nor even a tolerably complete list of their names. We are now becoming a literary people, and are already inquisitive upon all matters connected with our character and prospects in that relation. We begin to show a national spirit in letters, and deem it important not only to exhibit to the world what manner of men we are, but to cast an eye upon those who preceded us in the career of literary improvement, and look seriously into the grounds of the insinuation thrown out some years ago by our neighbors across the ocean, that there was no such thing as an American book worthy of being read. Our countrymen have done sufficient since that period to free us from the apprehension that the charge will be repeated; still it is a matter of interest to inquire whether nothing had been

achieved before the days of Irving and Cooper and Pierpont and Percival, or whether, on the contrary, there were brave men living before Agamemnon.

I have endeavored to perform the task of supplying what seemed a desideratum. Whatever may be the estimation set upon my labors, I have the pleasure of presenting my countrymen with a collection of matter which no one can deny to be highly honorable to the land of our birth. The American reader will learn with surprise and gratification that a body of literature so respectable under all circumstances, as that contained in the following pages, can be gathered from the writings of our native authors. If, as I flatter myself, they may succeed so far as to make us better acquainted with the master spirits of our literature, and of consequence lead us to a more exalted appreciation of the intellectual capabilities of our countrymen, I shall reap a full reward for my exertions, in the reflection of having assisted in fostering a national spirit in a department, where, until such a spirit prevails, neither ourselves, nor the world will do full credit to the principles of our institutions, or the genius of our people.

That I have done entire justice to my task, I will not pretend. Were it allowed an author to go into a detail of the disadvantages under which he sets about his work, for the purpose of excusing its faults, I could furnish without difficulty in the present instance, a catalogue sufficient to account for the imperfections which I cannot help foreseeing, will be charged against these volumes. But with the greater part of a writer's disabilities or disadvantages, the world has no

concern, and very properly will not suffer them to be pleaded in excuse for the defects which mar his productions. I shall therefore speak only of the difficulties inseparable from the present undertaking. I allude chiefly to the collection of the materials for the work. When it is considered, that nothing similar to this enterprise has ever before been attempted, the reader must be aware of the laborious nature of the researches necessary to be made. The whole collection of American literature was to be explored minutely without guide or direction, and the difficulty of such a task can be estimated only by those who have attempted something similar. There was no where, as I before remarked, even a tolerably accurate list of American authors. Their works were scattered as diversely as the leaves of the Sybil, and many of them were about as easily to be procured. We have no collections of them in public libraries, and some had become so completely forgotten that I was indebted in many cases to accident for their discovery. The ommissions therefore which may be discerned in these volumes the reader I trust will ascribe to the right cause. For inaccuracies in the biographical department, should any be discovered, I must plead for a similar indulgence. The best authorities however have been applied to for this species of information, and I feel confident in asserting that it may in general be relied upon. In the case of many of the most important subjects, the facts have been furnished by the authors themselves, in others, by their relations, or intimate associates. The additions thus made to the stock of biography by this original matter, forms not the least valuable portion of the work.

The plan upon which the latter part has been executed, will, it is hoped, meet the general approbation, although, perhaps, somewhat different from what the public had been led to expect. It was thought best upon mature consideration, to extend the work down to the present day, and embrace within it every one who had written with credit. On account of the rapid extension of literature among us within a short period, a fair representation could not in any other way be given of what we are likely to accomplish.

It will be perceived that I have left out the drama. It was originally intended to include all the dramatic productions in verse, but having learnt that a History of the American Stage was preparing by one who has been long conversant with the subject, and who possesses peculiar advantages for such a business, I deemed it most advisable to leave that part of the field untouched.

It remains for me to speak of the assistance which I have received in the course of my labors, and of the obligations due from me to those gentlemen who have so kindly lent me their aid in various shapes. Some of the biography and criticism, has been furnished by other hands. This will account for those slight discrepancies of opinion, which may be detected in two or three different pieces. To Mr Frederic S. Hill,

who in the outset took the editorial charge of the work, I am indebted for all which relates to Mather, Wolcott, Wigglesworth, Colman, Mrs Turell, Adams and J. Osborn. A few other articles are also the contributions of my friends. For the general character of these portions of the work, however, I hold myself responsible.

In selecting the specimens it will be observed that I have extracted pretty liberally from the volumes of some of our most distinguished writers. It seemed the most eligible method to give entire pieces of some length, when this could be done advantageously, rather than short and detached portions of different poems. I have in all cases where it was practicable, applied to the authors for permission to make such an appropriation of their writings, and this they have in every instance been so obliging as to grant.

Under the persuasion that the American public will look with indulgence upon the effort here shown to turn their attention to the literature and talent of their own countyr, I now submit these volumes to their inspection. The undertaking is one which I think they cannot but contemplate with interest. With what degree of credit I have aquitted myself of the charge, it remains for them to determine.

INTRODUCTION.

The early settlers of New England were no less distinguished for their attachment to letters than for their strong religious character; and although their taste and partialities lay rather toward the substantial than the ornamental parts of literature, yet the commune vinculum, the natural and intimate connexion of all liberal pursuits, unavoidably turned their studies in some degree in the latter direction. A great number of the earliest emigrants were men of the first attainments in the principal sciences held in repute at that period, and their writings reflect no small honor on their character for learning and ability. Their earliest attempts in the department of polite literature, must certainly be considered rude and feeble, when compared with the contemporaneous productions of Europe, but they deserve attention from the influence which they undoubtedly exercised upon the writers who succeeded them, no less than from the light they throw upon the character of the writers and the state of society. They also possess an interest arising from the curiosity we naturally feel to view the most ancient memorials of literary effort on record among us. We shall proceed therefore to enumerate such of the first settlers of the country as were known for any productions in verse which have remained to the present day, and give a brief historical sketch of the early poetical literature of the English Colonies.

It was hardly three years from the arrival of the pilgrims that the first essay of this kind was made by William Morell, an episcopal clergyman, who wrote a description of New England in Latin hexameter verse. Morell came to this country in 1623 and remained about a year. Except therefore, as being the earliest attempt at versification within the present limits of the country, his performance can hardly claim any remark here. It was published in England with a translation by the author. Both have been reprinted in the collections of the Massachusetts Historical Society.

The next poetical production which offers itself to our notice is the version of the Psalms published at Cambridge in 1640, and which was the first book printed in the United States. About the year 1639 the clergymen of New England considering that in their new residence they had been enabled to enjoy most of the ordinances of christian worship in all desirable purity, were induced to extend the reform they had thus effected, to the ordinance of the singing of psalms. The common metrical translation of the psalms was considered to deviate so far from the original as to be an unsatisfactory help to their devotions. A new version was therefore resolved upon, and the several portions of the work were assigned to the most eminent divines of the country. The principal of these whom we find mentioned were John Eliot of Roxbury, the celebrated Indian Apostle, Thomas Welde of Roxbury, and Richard Mather of Dorchester. The work thus produced was such as might have been expected from the plan. The main object of the translators was of course to make the version as literal as possible. An extract from their preface may serve to give the reader the views which they entertained of the nature of their task.

“If therefore the verses are not always so smooth and elegant as some may desire and expect, let them consider that God's altar needs not our polishings; for wee have respected rather a plain translation, than to smooth our verses with the sweetness of any paraphrase, and so have attended to conscience rather than elegance, fidelity rather than poetry, in translating the Hebrew words into English language, and David's poetry into English meetre.”

This book was called The Bay Psalm Book. The version is exact enough in respect of adherence to the original to satisfy the scruples of the most rigid critic. But the versification is harsh and unmusical to the last degree, and it was soon found expedient to give it a little more polish. The following extract will convey some idea of the rest of the work.

1. The rivers on of Babilon,
there when wee did sit downe,
Yea even then wee mourned when
wee remembered Sion.
2. Our harp wee did hang it amid,
Upon the willow tree,
3. Because there they that us away
led in captivitee
Requir'd of us a song, and thus
ask't mirth us waste who laid,
Sing us among a Sion's song,
unto us then they said.
4. The Lord's song sing can wee? being
in strangers land, then let
5. loose her skill my right hand if I
Jerusalem forget.
6. Let cleave my tongue my pallate on
if minde thee doe not I,
if chiefe joyes o're I prize not more
Jerusalem my joy.
7. Remember Lord, Edoms sons' word,
unto the ground said they,
it rase it rase, when as it was
Jerusalem her day.
8. Blest shall hee bee that payeth thee
daughter of Babilon,
who must be waste, that which thou hast
rewarded us upon.
9. O happie hee shall surely bee
that taketh up, that eke
thy little ones against the stones
doth into pieces breake.

After two editions had been printed, an improvement of the language was declared necessary. It was therefore put into the hands of the Rev. Henry Dunster, President of Harvard College and Mr Richard Lyon, a tutor to a young student at Cambridge. These editors gave the work a revision “with a special eye,” as they inform us, “both to the gravity of the phrase of sacred writ, and sweetness of the verse.” They added versifications of some other portions of scripture, entitling them The Spiritual Songs of the Old and New Testament. This “improved version” has gone through more than thirty editions in this country, and has been often reprinted in Scotland and England, and used in many of the English dissenting congregations.

The earliest poet of New England, however, was Anne Bradstreet, the wife of Simon Bradstreet, Governor of the Massachusetts colony, and daughter of Thomas Dudley, also Governor. She was born in 1612, probably at Northampton or Boston in England. She was married to Mr Bradstreet at the age of sixteen, and came the next year, 1630, with her husband to this country. The preface to the second edition of her poems published after her death, declares the volume to be “the work of a woman honored and esteemed, where she lives, for her gracious demeanor, her eminent parts, her pious conversation, her courteous disposition, her exact diligence in her place, and discreet managing of her family occasions; and more than so these poems are the fruit but of some few hours, curtailed from her sleep and other refreshments.” She died September

16th, 1672. One of the pieces in her volume bears the date of 1632, Ætatis suæ 19.

Her writings gained her great celebrity among her contemporaries. Cotton Mather is warm in her praise and declares that “her poems, divers times printed, have afforded a grateful entertainment unto the ingenious, and a monument for her memory beyond the stateliest marbles.” The learned and excellent John Norton of Ipswich calls her the “mirror of her age and glory of her sex.” He wrote a funeral eulogy in which he did not scruple to pun upon her name according to the fashion of the time.

“Her breast was a brave pallace, a broad street,
Where all heroic, ample thoughts did meet,
Where nature such a tenement had tane
That other souls to hers dwelt in a lane.”

Many others wrote verses in her commendation, and it is much to their credit that they so justly appreciated her talents; for we must come down to a late period in the literary annals of the country before we find her equal, although her productions are not without the marks of the barbarous taste of the age. Her first essays in polite composition had but an untoward guidance from the authors most esteemed at that time. The models they presented were not adapted to promote either good taste or excellence of any sort, in writing. Du Bartas was the favorite poet of the day, and his conceits seem to have been, in particular, the admiration of our author. She appears also to have caught something of his spirit.

The contents of her volume are a poem upon the Four Elements, upon the Four Humors in Man's Constitution, upon the Four Ages of Man, and the Four Seasons of the Year. In these we are presented with personifications of Fire, Air, Earth and Water; Choler, Blood, Melancholy and Phlegm; and Childhood, Youth, Middle Age and Old Age, each of whom comes forward with an address in which its peculiar excellences are set forth. Then follows a versified history of the Four Monarchies of the World, and some shorter pieces, one of which, for its great merit, we shall extract; it shows Mrs Bradstreet to have possessed genuine poetical feeling. This poem is entitled

The sister of Mrs Bradstreet, Mrs Woodbridge, the wife of John Woodbridge, minister at Andover and

Newbury, was likewise an adventurer in verse. An epistle which she addressed to her sister upon the subject of her volume, is still extant. The poetry is respectable, but has no striking passages.

Governor Dudley, the father of Mrs Bradstreet, was a versifier. He wrote an epitaph on himself which was found in his pocket after his death; it is hardly worth quoting, and we know not whether any other of his rhymes have been preserved. William Bradford, the second Gove nor of Plymouth Colony, who came over in the first ship in 1620, figured also as a poet. He died in 1657. His Descriptive and Historical Account of New England in verse, containing about three hundred lines, may be found in the Historical Collections. He is commended by the author of the Magnalia for his great learning and particularly for his skill in various languages. His verses however have little to recommend them.

John Cotton, the minister of Boston, must be recorded among those who attempted poetry. Some of his verses upon the death of two of his children have been preserved, written in Greek letters upon the blank leaves of his Almanack. His elegy upon the death of Thomas Hooker, the first minister of Hartford, Connecticut, who died in 1647, has been commended as sensible and correct. We give a short extract.

Ezekiel Rogers the minister of Rowley, who gave that town its name, and died in 1660, also ‘embalmed’ the memory of Hooker in the following epitaph, every

line of which, in the judgment of Cotton Mather, deserved a reward equal to that which Virgil received for his verses upon Marcellus in the Æneid.

America, although she do not boast
Of all the gold and silver from that coast,
Lent to her sister Europe's need and pride;
(For that repaid her with much gain beside,
In one rich pearl which heaven did thence afford,
As pious Herbert gave his honest word;)
Yet thinks she in the catalogue may come
With Europe, Africk, Asia, for one tomb.

The same event was lamented in an elegy by Peter Bulkly, the first minister of Concord, whose latin verses written at the age of seventy-six, are preserved in the Magnalia, along with the latin poetry of Elijah Corlet of Cambridge upon the character of Hooker.

The death of any noted divine in those days seems to have been very certain to arouse the muse of our ancestors. Scarcely one of any eminence closed his mortal career without drawing forth a profusion of elegiac strains. When John Cotton died in 1652, the event afforded a theme to Benjamin Woodbridge for a poem which contains a somewhat remarkable passage, as it has been conjectured that it suggested to Franklin the hint for his celebrated epitaph upon himself. Benjamin Woodbridge was educated partly at Oxford in England, and coming to this country finished his studies at Harvard College, of which he had the honor of being the first graduate. He afterwards returned to England and became one of the chaplains of Charles II. The passage referred to is this.

A living breathing bible; tables where
Both covenants at large engraven were;
Gospel and law in 's heart had each its column,
His head an index to the Sacred volume,
His very name a title-page, and next
His life a commentary on the text.
O what a monument of glorious worth,
When in a new edition he comes forth,
Without erratas, may we think he'll be,
In leaves and covers of eternity!

Joseph Capen, minister of Topsfield, wrote some lines upon the death of Mr John Foster, a mathematician and printer, which have a still more remarkable similarity to the epitaph of Franklin.

Thy body which no activeness did lack,
Now 's laid aside like an old almanack;
But for the present only 's out of date,
'T will have at length a far more active state:
Yea, though with dust thy body soiled be,
Yet at the resurrection we shall see
A fair edition, and of matchless worth,
Free from erratas, new in heaven set forth;
Tis but a word from God the great Creator,
It shall be done when he saith Imprimatur.

John Norton also commemorated the death of Cotton by an elegy; his verses in praise of Mrs Bradsheet have already been mentioned. Nathaniel Ward, the Simple Cobler of Agawam, wrote poetry in his facetious way Edward Johnson the author of the Wonder Working Providence, interspersed his history with a multitude of verses, laudatory of the several worthy and eminent men of whom he had occasion to speak. His poetry is to be found in the records of Woburn, the town where he passed the latter part of his life.

Roger Williams wrote verses among his other works during his banishment; some of them have been preserved in his Key to the Indian Languages. We offer a short specimen.

Jonathan Mitchel, Pastor of the church in Cambridge, deserves some notice for his attempts at poetry. Upon the death of Henry Dunster, one of the translators of the Bay Psalm Book, who was dismissed from his office as President of Harvard College for his heterodox opinions upon the subject of baptism, Mitchel wrote an elegy, some stanzas of which deserve transcribing for the strain of liberal sentiment which they breathe on the subject of the President's religious notions.

John Wilson, the Paul of New England, who is celebrated by Cotton Mather as the greatest “anagrammatizer” since the days of Lycophron, and who even uttered anagrams by improvisation, has also left specimens of his verse behind him; they may be found in the Magnalia. Thomas Shepard of Charlestown, who died in 1677, has left similar relics. He is better known by the Elegy which Urian Oakes, the President of Harvard College wrote upon his death. President Oakes was styled the Lactantius of New England; his fame as a scholar was widely extended, and his character pre-eminent for piety and benevolence. His elegy on Shepard's death was printed in 1677; a good authority has pronounced it a highly meritorious performance. We give a few stanzas taken from different parts of the poem.

The successor of President Oakes at Harvard was John Rogers. He came in his youth to New England and was educated at the College over which he was called to preside. Before he was chosen to the presidency he had been first a preacher and then a physician. He died suddenly in 1684, having been President but two years. His verses addressed to Mrs Bradstreet merit an insertion here. They have more correctness and elegance than are to be found in any we have yet noticed except those of the writer to whom they are addressed.

Peter Folger, who settled at Nantucket, where he kept a school, was the author of a poetical work entitled “A Looking Glass for the Times.” This was published in 1675 or 1676. Folger's daughter was the mother of Benjamin Franklin, and Franklin in his own life has given a description of the poem. We have not been able to obtain a sight of this performance. The only copy we have yet heard of, was in the possession of a friend a year or two since but is now lost. A few extracts have been published in one of our literary journals. We will quote the words of Franklin in describing the poem. “The author addresses himself to the governors for the time being; speaks for liberty of conscience, and in favor of the Anabaptist Quakers, and other sectaries who had suffered persecution. To this persecution he attributes the war with the natives and other calamities which afflicted the country, regarding them as the judgments of God in punishment of so odious an offence; and he exhorts the government to the repeal of laws so contrary to charity. The poem appeared to be written with a manly freedom and a pleasing simplicity.” Folger's book we understand is accurately described in the above paragraph, and a short extract which we have at hand will give an idea of the poetry.

The rulers in the country I
do own them in the Lord!
And such as are for government,
with them I do accord.
But that which I intend hereby
is that they would keep bound,
And meddle not with God's worship
for which they have no ground.
And I am not alone herein,
there many hundreds more,
That have for many years ago
spoke much upon that score.
Indeed I really believe
it 's not your business,
To meddle with the church of Christ
in matters more or less.

The Rev. Samuel Danforth, of Roxbury, was a writer of verse. He was more celebrated, however, as a mathematician and astronomer. He calculated the trajectory of the great comet which appeared in 1664, and published a treatise on it entitled, “An astronomical description of the late comet with a brief theological description thereof.”

John Danforth, of Dorchester, son of the above, claims to be mentioned for his verses; he wrote against religious controversy in the following strains.

In the following verses written in 1690, he attempted to point out the best method of christianizing the Indians.

Address I pray, your Senate for good orders
To civilize the heathen in our borders.
Virtue must turn into necessity,
Or this brave work will in its turn still lie.
Till agriculture and cohabitation
Come under full restrain and regulation,
Much you would do you'll find impracticable,
And much you do will prove unprofitable.
In common lands that lie unfenced, you know,
The husbandman in vain doth plough and sow.
We hope in vain the plant of grace will thrive
In forests where civility can't live.

The next poet that offers himself to our notice is Benjamin Tompson the “learned schoolmaster and physician.” By the Boston Records it appears that he was master of the public school in Boston from 1667 to 1670, when having had and accepted a call to Charlestown, he removed thither and was succeeded by Cheever. He was the son of William Thompson or Tompson, the minister of Braintree, and was born at that place within the limits of the present town of Quincy, in 1640, and received a degree at Cambridge in 1662. To Benjamin Tompson must therefore be awarded all distinction of being the first native American poet. All his poetry hitherto known, was thought to be comprised in an Elegy upon the Rev. Samuel Whiting of Lynn, a poem addressed to Hubbard, and a few lines upon Cotton Mather. But we have lately discovered another work of his, which we consider the greatest curiosity as an antiquarian relic, that the early writings of New England present to us. It is a Poem on Philip's War, written and published, according to undoubted internal evidence, during that desperate struggle with the natives in which the very existence of the New England colonies was at stake. The poem is entitled New England's Crisis. We shall offer the reader one or two extracts of some length, no less to set in a fair light the merits of Tompson's poetry, than to gratify the curious with an exhibition of the strains

in which our first native bard sung the wars which threatened the extinction of his nation.

The author begins with a “Prologue,” in which he complains seriously of the great increase of luxurious habits in the country! One would think the land of the Pilgrims stood hardly in danger from this cause in 1675, when the females personally assisted to build a fortification on Boston neck for a protection against the savages.

The times wherein old Pompion was a saint,
When men fared hardly yet without complaint,
On vilest cates; the dainty indian maize
Was eat with clamp-shells out of wooden trayes,
Under thatch'd hutts without the cry of rent,
And the best sawce to every dish, content.
When flesh was food and hairy skins made coats,
And men as wel as birds had chirping notes.
When Cimnels were accounted noble bloud;
Among the tribes of common herbage food.
Of Ceres' bounty form'd was many a knack,
Enough to fill poor Robin's Almanack.
These golden times (too fortunate to hold,)
Were quickly sin'd away for love of gold.
'T was then among the bushes, not the street,
If one in place did an inferior meet,
“Good morrow brother, is there aught you want?
“Take freely of me, what I have you ha'nt.”
Plain Tom and Dick would pass as currant now,
As ever since “Your Servant Sir,” and bow.
Deep-skirted doublets, puritanick capes,
Which now would render men like upright apes,
Was comlier wear, our wiser fathers thought,
Than the cast fashions from all Europe brought.
'T was in those dayes an honest grace would hold
Till an hot pudding grew at heart a cold.
And men had better stomachs at religion,
Than I to capon, turkey-cock, or pigeon;
When honest sisters met to pray, not prate,
About their own and not their neighbour's state.
During Plain Dealing's reign, that worthy stud
Of the ancient planters' race before the flood,
Then times were good, merchants car'd not a rush
For other fare than Jonakin and Mush.
Although men far'd and lodged very hard,
Yet innocence was better than a guard.
'T was long before spiders and worms had drawn
Their dungy webs, or hid with cheating lawne
New England's beautyes, which stil seem'd to me
Illustrious in their own simplicity.
'T was ere the neighbouring Virgin-Land had broke
The hogsheads of her worse than hellish smoak.
'T was ere the Islands sent their presents in,
Which but to use was counted next to sin.
'T was ere a barge had made so rich a fraight
As chocolate, dust-gold and bitts of eight.
Ere wines from France and Moscovadoe to,
Without the which the drink will scarsly doe.
From western isles ere fruits and delicacies
Did rot maid's teeth and spoil their handsome faces.
Or ere these times did chance, the noise of war
Was from our towns and hearts removed far.
No bugbear comets in the chyrstal air
Did drive our christian planters to despair.
No sooner pagan malice peeped forth
But valour snib'd it. Then were men of worth
Who by their prayers slew thousands, angel-like;
Their weapons are unseen with which they strike.
Then had the churches rest; as yet the coales
Were covered up in most contentious souls:
Freeness in judgment, union in affection,
Dear love, sound truth, they were our grand protection.
Then were the times in which our councells sate,
These gave prognosticks of our future fate.
If these be longer liv'd our hopes increase,
These warrs will usher in a longer peace.
But if New England's love die in its youth,
The grave will open next for blessed truth.
This theame is out of date, the peacefull hours
When castles needed not, but pleasant bowers.
Not ink, but bloud and tears now serve the turn
To draw the figure of New England's urne.
New England's hour of passion is at hand;
No power except divine can it withstand.
Scarce hath her glass of fifty years run out,
But her old prosperous steeds turn heads about,
Tracking themselves back to their poor beginnings,
To fear and fare upon their fruits of sinnings.
So that the mirror of the christian world
Lyes burnt to heaps in part, her streamers furl'd.
Grief sighs, joyes flee, and dismal fears surprize
Not dastard spirits only, but the wise.
Thus have the fairest hopes deceiv'd the eye
Of the big-swoln expectant standing by:
Thus the proud ship after a little turn,
Sinks into Neptune's arms to find its urne:
Thus hath the heir to many thousands born
Been in an instant from the mother torn:
Even thus thine infant cheeks begin to pale,
And thy supporters through great losses fail.
This is the Prologue to thy future woe,
The Epilogue no mortal yet can know.

Having despatched his preliminaries the author plunges in medias res and gives us a representation of King Philip, who calls his warriors around him and makes to them a speech in choice Indian. We next have the incidents of the campaign, the marches of the troops, and the storming of an Indian fort. Then follow detached portions, celebrating battles, and the burning of towns, which items of intelligence appear to have come to hand while the author was writing his poem. In this manner we are presented with Marlburye's Fate; the Town called Providence, its Fate; Seaconk Plain Engagement; Seaconk or Rehoboth's Fate; Chelmsford's Fate, and lastly Lines On a Fortification at Boston begun by women. The subjoined extract will give an idea of his general manner.

Many how welcomes from the natives' arms
Hid in their sculking holes, many alarms
Our brethren had, and many weary trants:
Sometimes in melting heat and pinching wants.
Sometimes the clouds with sympathizing tears
Ready to burst, discharged about their ears.
Sometimes on craggy hills, anon in bogs,
And miry swamps, better befitting hogs;
And after tedious marches, little boast
Is to be heard of stew'd, or bakt, or roast.
Their beds are hurdles, open house they keep,
Through shady boughs the stars upon them peep:
Their chrystal drink drawn from the mother's breast,
Disposes not to mirth, but sleep and rest.
Thus many dayes and weeks some months run out,
To find and quell the vagabonding rout,
Who like enchanted castles fair appear,
But all is vanisht if you come but near.
Just so we might the pagan archers track,
With towns and merchandize upon their back:
And thousands in the South who settled down,
To all the points and winds are quickly blown.
At many meetings of their fleeting crew,
From whom like haile, arrows and bullets flew,
The English courage with whole swarms dispute,
Hundreds they hack in pieces in pursuit:
Sed haud impuné, English sides do feel
As well as tawny skins, the lead and steel;
And some such gallant sparks by bullets fell
As might have curst the powder back to hell.
Had only swords these skirmishes decided,
All pagan sculls had been long since divided.
The ling'ring war outlives the summer sun,
Who hence departs hoping it might be done
Ere his return at spring; but ah! hee'l find
The sword still drawn, men of unchanged mind.
Cold winter now nibbles at hands and toes,
And shrewdly pinches both our friends and foes.
Fierce Boreas whips the pagan tribe together,
Advising them to fit for foes and weather.
The axe which late had tasted christian bloud,
Now sets its steely teeth to feast on wood.
The forests suffer now, by waight constrain'd
To kiss the earth with soldiers lately brain'd.
The lofty oakes and ashe doe wagge the head
To see so many of their neighbours dead.
Their fallen carcases are carried thence
To stand our enemies in their defence.
Their Myrmidons inclosed with clefts of trees,
And busie like the ants or nimble bees.
And first they limber poles fix in the ground,
In figure of the heavens convex: all round
They draw their arras-matts and skins of beasts,
And under these the elves do make their nests.
Rome took more time to grow than twice six hours,
But half that time will serve for indian bowers;
A citty shall be rear'd in one daye's space,
As shall an hundred Englishmen out face.
Canonicus' precints these swarmes unite,
Rather to keep a winter guard than fight.
A dern and dismal swamp some scout had found,
Whose bosom was a spot of rising ground
Hedg'd up with mighty oakes, maples and ashes,
Nurst up with springs, quick boggs and miery plashes;
A place which nature coyn'd on very nonce,
For tygers, not for men to be a sconce;
Twas here these monsters shapt and fac'd like men
Took up their Rendezvouz and brumal den.

On the whole, Tompson must be allowed considerable praise; he is exceeded by none of his contemporaries for correct and smooth versification.

Nicholas Noyes is another native poet; he was the nephew of James Noyes, the first minister of Newbury, and was born in that town December 22d, 1647. He was graduated at Cambridge in 1667, and settled in the ministry at Salem. His poem on the death of the Rev. Joseph Green, of Salem village, we have not seen. He

wrote a prefatory poem to the Magnalia, from which we take the following lines complimentary of the author.

Heads of our tribes whose corps are under ground,
Their names and fames in chronicles renown'd,
Begemm'd on golden ouches he hath set
Past envy's teeth and time's corroding fret.
Of death and malice he 's brush'd off the dust,
And made a resurrection of the just.
[OMITTED]
This well instructed scribe brings new and old,
And from his mines digs richer things than gold;
Yet freely gives, as fountains do their streams,
Nor more than they, himself, by giving, drains.
He 's all design, and by his craftier wiles
Locks fast his reader, and the time beguiles;
Whilst wit and learning move themselves aright,
Through every line and colour in our sight,
So interweaving profit with delight,
And curiously inlaying both together
That he must needs find both who looks for either.
His preaching, writing, and his pastoral care
Are very much to fall to one man's share.
This added to the rest is admirable,
And proves the author indefatigable.
Play is his toyl, and work his recreation,
And his inventions next to inspiration.
His pen was taken from some bird of light,
Addicted to a swift and lofty flight.
Dearly it loves art, air, and eloquence,
And hates confinement, save to truth and sense.
[OMITTED]
The stuff is true, the trimming neat and spruce,
The workman 's good, the work of public use;
Most piously design'd, a Public Store,
And well deserves the public thanks and more.

Timothy Woodbridge, minister of Hartford, brother of Benjamin Woodbridge, already quoted, also complimented Mather and his book in a poetical address.

Whether he was a native of this country or England we know not. We extract a few lines from his poem.

Let the remotest parts of earth behold
New England's crowns excelling Spanish gold.
Here be rare lessons set for us to read,
That offsprings are of such a goodly breed.
The dead ones here so much alive are made,
We think them speaking from blest Eden's shade.
Hark how they check the madness of this age,
The growth of pride, fierce lust and worldly rage;
They tell we shall to clam-banks come again,
If heaven still doth scourge us all in vain.
But Sir, upon your merits heap'd will be
The blessings of all those that here shall see
Virtue embalm'd: this hand seems to put on
The laurel on your brow, so justly won.

The death of Urian Oakes in 1681 was lamented in an Elegy by Daniel Gookin, jr. son of Daniel Gookin who made the valuable Historical Collections respecting the Indians of New England. Daniel Gookin, jr. was born, as we have reason to think, at Cambridge. He was ordained as a minister there, and was afterwards a missionary among the Indians. We have never met with any mention of him as a poet. The elegy above-mentioned exists only in a single manuscript, the autograph perhaps of the author. We have a quotation of two stanzas at hand.

We know not whether John Hawkins, of Boston, has left any other specimen of his metre behind him, but we will introduce here his

Lord are not ravens daily fed by thee?
And wilt thou clothe the lilies and not me?
Begone distrust, I shall have clothes and bread
While lilies flourish and the birds are fed.

Samuel Sewall, who came to America in his youth, was educated at Harvard College and afterwards became Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of Massachusetts, was also a poet. His Hymn for the New Year, written Jan. 1st, 1701, “a little before break a day, at Boston of the Massachusetts,” we will cite as the earliest specimen we have of that sort of occasional composition.

Of the poetry of William Wetherell, of Scituate, we can offer no specimen. The same must be said of Joseph Rowlandson, of Lancaster, whose verses exist in some ancient manuscript files. There was an Indian youth by the name of Eleazar, who studied at Harvard College in 1678. He wrote Latin and Greek poetry, which has been preserved, but we have seen no verses in English from his pen.

The Rev. Nathaniel Pitcher, of Scituate, was also a versifier. An anonymous poem on his death, compares him to Pindar, Horace and Casimir. How well he deserved this praise we have no means of knowing. The Elegy just mentioned is a curiosity. It is entitled Pitchero Threnodia; it is written in an odd metre, and with a great display of classical learning. Of the poetry nothing need be said. It was published at Bostonin 1724.

An anonymous performance of contemporary date and greater merit, is the Gloria Britannorum, or the British Worthies, which appeared also at Boston. In this work the political and military events of the time are sung in the manner of Addison's Campaign, from which production the design was evidently borrowed. The versification is quite spirited and correct for the period.

We must notice in this place, although a little in anticipation of the chronological order of persons, John Seccomb. He was esteemed a wit, and wrote the ballad entitled Father Abdy's Will. It is rather of the doggerel species, but was popular in the author's day, and pleased

Governor Belcher so much that he sent it to England, where it was first published in the Gentleman's Magazine, in 1732. Seccomb was also considered the author of an Eclogue on the death of Dr Colman, and some other anonymous pieces.

From a review of the character of these early and imperfect endeavours in the rhyming art, and of our literature generally, down to a very recent date, we perceive the perfectly spontaneous growth to every branch of polite letters among us. The common incitements to literary exertion, rivalry and the prospect of fame and emolument, cannot be said to have exerted any material influence in prompting the efforts of American writers. Authors have been too few to create competition, and the public, to whom they addressed themselves, too much occupied with matters of direct practical interest to bestow any high consideration upon the talents which are exerted only in the embellishment of life. Hence we have never known till the present day such a thing as a professed author. All the talent and industry of the people have been called into the field of active employment, and the most of what has been written among us consists of such productions as were executed in the early days of our authors, before the serious business of life was entered upon; or in such leisure moments as were snatched from constant and laborious occupations. We have obtained therefore only the unripe fruits of their youth, or the imperfect performances of casual moments. The cultivation of literary talent has moreover been retarded by the state of dependence as to literature, in which we have continued, to the writers of Great Britain. Without searching for causes which lie deep in the character of our nation, we may assert that the“bales and hogsheads” of learning which our friends beyond the ocean speak of having supplied

us with, have been dealt to us in such abundance that the great stimulus to exertion has been wanting, and no pressing necessity has thrown us upon our own resources. Still the feeling of patriotism must prompt the desire that native genius should be conspicuous in every high career of human intellect, and that a national spirit in the liberal arts should be encouraged, as instruments to nourish the civic virtues and give scope to the energies of mind among our countrymen. That this has not hitherto been effected, can hardly excite surprise in any one acquainted with our history. While we have been filling this wide land with people, it is not remarkable that as a nation, we should have found little leisure to cultivate the refinements of intellectual taste,

The present state and future prospects of literature among us offer a theme for fond anctipation and sagacious conjecture, but hardly for certain calculation. There is a vast amount of intellect daily developing in the community, and again absorbed in the great purposes to which the ingenuity and enterprise of our busy population are constantly giving birth. The precise effect of this power, when settled into regular channels of action in the various departments of literature cannot be foreseen. In the twilight of the morning of letters which now dawns upon us, the general outline of the view is indistinct and wavering, and the eye meets with hardly a point upon which to rest with steadiness. But nothing lingers; every moment some new element is unfolding, the shadows flee, and the hour cometh, we doubt not, which shall usher in a new scene, and englighten us with the fulness and splendor of a brighter day.

COTTON MATHER.

ON THE DEATH OF HIS SON.

ON THE DEATH OF HIS DAUGHTER.

Some offers to Embalm the Memory of the truly reverend and renowned John Wilson; the first Pastor of Boston, in New England; Interr'd (and a great part of his Country's Glory with him) August 11, 1667. Aged 79.

REMARKS

On the bright and the dark side of that American pillar, the Reverend Mr William Thompson; Pastor of the Church at Braintree. Who triumphed on Dec. 10, 1666.

When reverend Knowles and he sail'd hand in hand,
To Christ espousing the Virginian land,
Upon a ledge of craggy rocks near stav'd,
His Bible in his bosom thrusting sav'd;
The Bible, the best of cordial of his heart,
“Come floods, come flames, (cried he) we'll never part.”
A constellation of great converts there,
Shone round him, and his heavenly glory were.
Gookins was one of these; by Thompson's pains,
Christ and New England, a dear Gookins gains.
With a rare skill in hearts, this doctor could
Steal into them words that should do them good.
His balsams, from the tree of life distill'd,
Hearts cleans'd and heal'd, and with rich comforts fill'd.
But here 's the wo! balsams which others cur'd.
Would in his own turn hardly be endur'd.
Apollyon owing him a cursed spleen
Who an Apollos in the church had been,
Dreading his traffic here would be undone
By num'rous proselytes he daily won,
Accus'd him of imaginary faults,
And push'd him down so into dismal vaults:
Vaults, where he kept long ember-weeks of grief,
Till heaven alarmed sent him a relief.
Then was a Daniel in the lion's den,
A man, oh, how belov'd of God and men!
By his bed side an Hebrew sword there lay,
With which at last he drove the devil away.
Quakers too durst not bear his keen replies,
But fearing it half drawn the trembler flies,
Like Lazarus, new rais'd from death, appears
The saint that had been dead for many years.
Our Nehemiah said, “shall such as I
Desert my flock, and like a coward fly!”
Long had the churches begg'd the saint's release;
Releas'd at last, he dies in glorious peace.
The night is not so long, but Phosphor's ray
Approaching glories doth on high display.
Faith's eye in him discern'd the morning star,
His heart leap'd; sure the sun cannot be far.
In extacies of joy, he ravish'd cries,
“Love, love the Lamb, the Lamb!” In whom he dies.

ROGER WOLCOTT.

[Brief Account of the Agency of the Honorable John Winthrop, Esq. in the Court of King Charles the Second, Anno Dom. 1662; when he obtained a Charter for the Colony of Connecticut.]

“Rise up,” quoth Charles; “my liberal hand supplies
All needful help to every one that cries;
Nor shall I be illiberal to you:
But, prithee, Winthrop, please to let me know
By whom it was your place did first commence,
Your patriarchs that led your tribes from hence?”
Thus far he said; Then said his majesty,
“Methinks, I have a curiosity
To know this country, that for ages past
Lay hid, and you have now found out at last;
This new found river, is it fresh and fair?
What land adjoins to it? Has 't a pleasant air?”
[OMITTED] Then to his god and fathers' ghosts he pray'd,
‘Hear, O immortal powers, hear me,’ he said;
‘And pity Mistick, save the tottering town,
And on our foes hurl dreadful vengeance down.
Will you forsake your altars and abodes,
To those contemners of immortal gods?
Will those pay hecatombs unto your shrine,
Who have deny'd your powers to be divine?
O favor us; our hopes on you are built;
But if you are mindful of our former guilt,
Determine final ruin on us all;
Yet let us not quite unrevenged fall.
Here I devote this of our enemies
His precious life to you a sacrifice.
Nor shall I covet long to be alive,
If such a mischief I might once survive.
But, O indulgent, hearken to my prayer;
Try us once more; this once the city spare:
And take my gift, let your acceptance be
An omen we shall gain the victory.’
[OMITTED]

MICHAEL WIGGLESWORTH.

VANITY OF VANITIES.

THE DAY OF DOOM.

BENJAMIN COLMAN.

ON ELIJAH'S TRANSLATION,

Occasioned by the death of the reverend and learned Mr Samuel Willard.

I sing the man, by heaven's peculiar grace,
The prince of prophets, of the chosen race,
Rais'd and accomplish'd for degenerate times,
To stem the ebb with faith and zeal sublime;
T' assert forsaken truth, to check the rage
Of rampant vice, and cure a wicked age.
Such times need such a prophet,—in his death
Is quench'd the light of Israel, and their breath.
Plain was the saint, his soul by grace refin'd,
His girdle mean, but much adorn'd his mind:
In face, as well as mind, above the toys
Of this vain world, and all its sensual joys:
Simple in diet, negligent of dress,
Hairy and rough his robe, meet to express
One mortify'd to things of time and sense,
To truth and things divine a love intense.
Jealous for Israel and the Lord of hosts,
Disdain'd to see Him rival'd by a post,
Mourn'd his forsaken covenant, and worship lost.
Courageous, dar'd alone to stand the shock,
Of numerous priests of Baal and to deride their stock.
Fac'd fierce tyrannous powers, told their crimes
And shames deserv'd the judgments of their times.
His and truth's triumphs glorious: strange to say!
A debauch'd nation convert in a day,
And sham'd, enrag'd imposters fled away!
A wondrous saint; inspir'd, employ'd and led
By heavenly love; by many wonders fed.
The care of heaven, the darling of his God,
Signally sav'd, cheer'd by His staff and rod.
Voracious ravens yield him up their prey:
Glad angels to his succor wing away:
And heaven, to show its empire more, commands
Hopeless relief from famishing widow's hands.
He pray'd, the sealed heavens withheld their rain;
He pray'd, the open'd clouds discharge again.
Provok'd he ask'd; strange blazing showers of flame
Stream down, and Sodom's day renewed came.
He struck the floods,—the refluent waves divide;
His mantle's breath drove back the flowing tide.
What ail'd thee, O astonish'd sea, to fly?
Jordan! from Joshua's days thy banks not dry!
Yet greater wonders view: he spake,—the dead
In sin, or grave, lift up their fallen head:
Witness the happy mother, fully won
To heaven as she receiv'd her raised son:
Blest work of grace! the mercy of the mean
Illustrious, as the saving change is seen.
Not less miraculous the prophet's fast,
Labors and travels gloriously surpass'd:
His strength and application, as his trust,
Noble and vast, angelic and august:
In public toils consum'd, of life profuse,
Exhausted in retired holy muse,
On the deep things of God, and mysteries abstruse.
Such labors bounteous heaven is wont to crown
With heavenly visions, light and joys unknown.
So heavenly glories dazzled Moses' eyes,
And laboring Paul was caught to paradise.
No less Elijah to his Saviour dear,
No less his cares and toils, his prayers and tears;
Nor less would heaven his suff'ring soul to cheer.
The God of Israel pass'd before the cave,
In majesty, as erst the law he gave,
And frighten'd nature seem'd to seek a grave.
Tempests, and flames, and earthquakes march'd before,
Speaking the terrors of almighty power;
These usher'd in the small still voice of grace;
His soul grew calm, serene the troubled place;
Hush'd as the winds were all his boisterous fears,
The humble saint, call'd forth by God, appears;
With mantle wrapt about his face he stood,
Afraid to hear, nor wish'd to see his God.
Yet lest the hero as his God we show,
Or he elate with visions, vain should grow,
At times his passions did the man betray,
That saints have sin, and prophets are but clay.
Too timorous, 'midst his triumphs; left to fly
A woman's rage and threats, and wish to die.
Desponding moan'd Christ of his church bereft,
And not a single saint in Israel left.
All to hide pride from man, to show how vain
We are at best, and undue thoughts restrain.
God is the light, in whom's no shade at all,
To him in prostrate adorations fall.
Created brightness ever has its blots,
And even Persia's idol has its spots.
Yet admiration, reverence and love
Are due to saints on earth, or those above.
Sure the curst spirit that hates is born of hell,
Nor is less monster then foul Jezebel:
She murd'rous sought his blood: Ahab his name
(Dearer than life) with slanderous lies defames:
And both invet'rate hate, and deadly war proclaim.
Yet spite of envy, spite of malice curst,
Virtue shall live: see, bloated fiend, and burst!
See the fair name immortal in my verse!
See the strew'd glories on the hero's hearse!
A name embalm'd shall be the just man's lot,
While vicious teeth shall gnash, and names shall rot.
Return, my muse, and sing his faithful care,
And noblest trust, in happy Bethel's chair.
Hail, venerable seat! from Jacob's days
Sacred to Israel's God, and to his praise!
Blest evermore with visions! the resort
Of holy angels! heaven's inferior court!
Hail dreadful place! the Eternal's blest abode!
The gate of heaven, and the house of God!
Here stood the spacious college, Israel's pride:
And here the illustrious seer did preside.
Stately the dome, worthy the beauteous train,
Religion pure devoted to maintain,
And to the age to come the laws divine explain.
Richly endow'd by every pious zeal,
Studious of Zion's glory and her weal:
Blest tribute! dear to heaven: a pious aid
Given to Christ, and liberally repaid
In richer blessings to the church and state;
So he returns us what we consecrate.
Hence Israel's chiefs, and hence our teachers came;
Hence truth and grace, hence issued light and flame;
Hence men renown'd, and of celebrious fame.
Micaiah one: from foul illusion free,
Faithful to God, and Ahab true to thee!
Kings trembled as he spake, and homage paid,
Of truth and the superior man afraid.
Elisha too, to greater glories born,
Was hence: and high exalted is his horn!
These beauteous sons were the blest prophet's pride,
Under his wing they bloom'd, and flourish'd by his side;
Paid him a reverence profound and true,
To heaven's election, Israel's suffrage due.
Them, as by office bound, he did inspect,
Taught heavenly truth, and errors did correct:
Cherish'd the good, and form'd their manners well,
But search'd out vice, th' infection to expel.
Meek and majestic, affable and grave,
Lowly and good; and all that's great and brave,
He overaw'd and charm'd: base hearts he won,
And perfected where goodness was begun.
To them, his lectures on the holy law,
Sublime they were, new mysteries they saw:
Like him with heavenly light and joys inspir'd,
Their ravish'd minds the sacred deeps admir'd.
They saw the promised Messiah's days,
And the glad schools resounded with his praise.
They sang the Baptist in their prophet's spirit,
And bless'd the saint elect that should inherit.
They sang of the transfigur'd Saviour's rays,
What favorite saints from heaven itself to gaze
On glories yet unknown; and talk of high
Mysterious truths; into which angels pry,
And pass in transports immortality.
They sang his high ascent, and gifts ineffable,
The cloven tongues of fire on Pentecost that fell,
And what great type should all these wonders figure and foretel.
Thus taught, they waited long the great event,
Foresaw the day, amaz'd at the portent:
Stupendous grace and power they view'd, ador'd
The sov'reign God, and pry'd into his word.
And now the saint had his last visit made,
His solemn charge, and final blessing said.
His weeping sons receiv'd his last adieu,
With eager eyes their breath departing view,
And following far behind to Jordan's brink they drew.
Each emulous to succeed, but well prepar'd
To welcome him whom heaven had heir declar'd.
Elisha he! The wisdom of the choice
Applauded with united hearts and voice.
Unenvy'd in the schools, had long outshone
In gifts divine, and rival there was none.
Glorious the seer's fidelity was here,
And heaven's good conduct splendid did appear.
Nor blood, nor name, his upright zeal retard,
God's choice and will he simply did regard;
Whom heaven accomplishes it will reward.
The happy youth cleav'd to his father's feet,
Minist'ring to him with a duty meet;
From his oraculous lips ask'd counsel sage,
And had the prayers and blessings of his age.
Yet there remain'd the last and dying bequest,
And the wise son had ready his request.
“Say, now at parting, what I shall bequeath!”
Trembling he fell the prophet's feet beneath,
Grieved to part, afraid to speak his thought,
Conscious how vast the blessing was he sought:
With mouth in dust he said,—“May I inherit
A double portion of thy blessed spirit!
O might my last and highest wish have place,
An em'nent measure of thy gifts and grace!”
Divine ambition! to be wise and good!
So he his fame and interest understood.
Modest his wish, he only ask'd a part,
And heaven gave all, even an equal heart:
Obvious the truth from sacred record known,
None came so near Elijah as his wondrous son.
'T was at high noon, the day serene and fair,
Mountains of lum'nous clouds roll'd in the air,
When on a sudden, from the radiant skies,
Superior light flash'd in Elisha's eyes:
The heavens were cleft, and from th' imperial throne
A stream of glory, dazzling splendor shone:
Beams of ten thousand suns shot round about,
The sun and every blazon'd cloud went out:
Bright hosts of angels lin'd the heavenly way,
To guard the saint up to eternal day.
Then down the steep descent, a chariot bright,
And steeds of fire, swift as the beams of light.
Wing'd seraphs ready stood, bow'd low to greet
The fav'rite saint, and hand him to his seat.
Enthron'd he sat, transform'd with joys his mein,
Calm his gay soul, and like his face serene.
His eye and burning wishes to his God,
Forward he bow'd, and on the triumph rode.
Saluted, as he pass'd the heavenly cloud,
With shouts of joy, and hallelujahs loud.
Ten thousand thousand angel-trumpets sound,
And the vast realms of heaven all echo'd round.
They sang of greater triumphs yet to come,
Their next descent to wait the Saviour home:
And the glad errand of the final day,
The raised dust of saints to bring away
In equal triumph, and in like array.
Thus 'midst inspir'd, sublime, prophetic songs,
(Sweet melody,) the vision pass'd along.
The prince of air accurs'd fled swift the light,
And heavenly sounds, more grating than the sight;
Blasphem'd, and rag'd, and gnash'd in furious spite,
Elisha saw: “My father,” loud he cried,
“My father! Israel's safety! and her pride!
More wert thou our defence and glory far,
Than all our chariots and strong troops of war.
Thy prayers and power with God did more secure
Our tott'ring state, and naked coasts immure,
Than all our arms.”—
He said: nor more could see: immense the space!
The flying glory now had gain'd the place
Of light, ne'er to be seen by mortal eye:
No longer gaz'd he on the closing sky.
With anguish seiz'd his goodly robes he rent,
Himself, the church, and schools did sore lament.
The prophet's bliss could not his tears restrain,
He wept their loss, in his eternal gain.
Nor yet in useless tears stay'd he to vent
His mighty griefs, on greater things intent:
The mantle fall'n with joy surprising spy'd,
Laid the dear pledge close to his panting side;
Sovereign receipt! his fainting heart reviv'd,
By it install'd in the blest Prophet's place!
With it receiv'd his spirit and his grace!
The sacred banner flying in his hand,
Display'd his empire, on the distant strand;
Nature obsequious, to his dread command.
Triumphant-wise, the pensive conqueror stood,
The precious relic wav'd, and smote the flood:
“Where is the Lord, Elijah's God?” he cry'd.
Th' obedient waves again in haste divide.
He pass'd: the ravish'd Prophets saw: confess'd
The miracle of grace, and thankful bless'd
Th' Eternal Spirit, and his glorious rest.
O'erjoy'd they ran the saint elect to meet,
And bow beneath the bright successor's feet.
They breathe their prayers and blessings in his arms,
Cheer his sad soul, and their own passions charm.
Their hearts within 'em glow, their graces burn;
Each speak mysterious oracles in their turn:
Inspired their mind, transform'd their very mien,
In both superior grace and beauty seen.
In holiness and truth sweet their accord,
And faith their consolation did afford,
Elijah's more illustrious second coming with his Lord.

JANE TURELL.

A PARAPHRASE OF THE ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-FOURTH PSALM.

TO MY MUSE.

Come, gentle muse, and once more lend thine aid,
O bring thy succor to a humble maid!
How often dost thou liberally dispense
To our dull breast thy quick'ning influence!
By thee inspired, I'll cheerful tune my voice,
And love and sacred friendship make my choice.
In my pleased bosom you can freely pour,
A greater treasure than Jove's golden shower.
Come now, fair muse, and fill my empty mind,
With rich ideas, great and unconfin'd.
Instruct me in those secret arts that lie
Unseen to all but to a poet's eye.
O let me burn with Sappho's noble fire,
But not like her for faithless man expire.
And let me rival great Orinda's fame,
Or like sweet Philomela's be my name.
Go lead the way, my muse, nor must you stop
Till we have gain'd Parnassus' shady top:
Till I have view'd those fragrant soft retreats,
Those fields of bliss, the muses' sacred seats.
I'll then devote thee to fair virtue's fame,
And so be worthy of a poet's name.

ON THE POEMS OF SIR RICHARD BLACKMORE.

AN INVITATION INTO THE COUNTRY, IN IMITATION OF HORACE.

JOHN ADAMS.

ADDRESS TO THE SUPREME BEING,

For his assistance in my Poetical Compositions.

[Version of the Apocalypse]

[Translation of an Ode of Horace]

Mæcenas, whose ennobled veins
The blood of ancient monarchs stains;
My safeguard, beauty and delight.
Some love the chariot's rapid flight,
To whirl along the dusty ground,
Till with Olympic honors crown'd:
And if their fiery coursers tend
Beyond the goal, they shall ascend
In merit, equal to the gods,
Who people the sublime abodes;
Others, if mingled shouts proclaim
Of jarring citizens their name,
Exalted to some higher post,
Are in the clouds of rapture lost.
This, if his granary contain
In crowded heaps the ripen'd grain,
Rejoicing his paternal field
To plough, a future crop to yield;
In vain his timorous soul you'd move
Though endless sums his choice should prove,
To leave the safety of the land,
And trust him to the wind's command.
The trembling sailor, when the blue
And boisterous deep his thoughts pursue,
Fearful of tempests, dreads his gain
To venture o'er the threatening main:
But loves the shades and peaceful town
Where joy and quiet dwell alone.
But when impatient to be poor,
His flying vessels leave the shore.
Others the present hour will seize,
And less for business are than ease;
But flowing cups of wine desire,
Which scatter grief, and joy inspire;
Joyful they quaff, and spread their limbs
Along the banks of murm'ring streams,
While trees which shoot their tow'ring heads,
Protect them with their cooling shades.
Some love the camp and furious war,
Where nations, met with nations, jar;
The noise of victors, and the cries
Of vanquish'd, which assault the skies,
While at the trumpet's piercing ring
Their mounting spirits vigorous spring;
When fainting matrons in a swound,
Receive the martial music's sound.
The morning hunter seeks his prey,
Though chill'd by heaven's inclemency
Forgets his house: with dogs pursues
The flying stag in her purlieus.
Or his entangling net contains
The foaming boar in ropy chains.
But me the ivy wreaths which spread
Their blooming honors round the head
Of learned bards, in raptures raise,
And with the gods unite in praise.
The coolness of the rural scenes,
The smiling flowers and evergreens,
And sportful dances, all inspire
My soul with more than vulgar fire.
If sweet Euterpe give her flute,
And Polyhymnia lend her lute—
If you the deathless bays bestow,
And by applauses make them grow,
Toward the stars my winged fame
Shall fly, and strike the heavenly frame.

JAMES RALPH.

ZEUMA, OR THE LOVE OF LIBERTY.

FROM THE FIRST BOOK.

[OMITTED] [OMITTED]

FROM THE THIRD BOOK.

[OMITTED] [OMITTED]

JOHN MAYLEM.

THE CONQUEST OF LOUISBOURG.

[OMITTED] [OMITTED] [OMITTED] [OMITTED]

THOMAS GODFREY.

THE COURT OF FANCY.

EPISTLE TO A FRIEND.

FROM FORT HENRY.

NATHANIEL EVANS.

EPISTOLARY ODE TO A FRIEND.

ODE ON THE PROSPECT OF PEACE. 1761.

ODE TO MY INGENIOUS FRIEND, MR THOMAS GODFREY.

HYMN TO MAY.

VERSES FOR THE NEW YEAR, 1762.

ELEGY TO THE MEMORY OF MR THOMAS GODFREY.

JOHN OSBORN.

A WHALING SONG.

ELEGIAC EPISTLE,

ADDRESSED TO ONE OF HIS SISTERS ON THE DEATH OF ANOTHER.

MATHER BYLES.

THE CONFLAGRATION.

THE GOD OF TEMPEST AND EARTHQUAKE.

ELEGY,

ADDRESSED TO GOVERNOR BELCHER ON THE DEATH OF HIS LADY.

HYMN WRITTEN DURING A VOYAGE.

JOSEPH GREEN.

[Lines on Byle's Voyage]

A MOURNFUL LAMENTATION FOR THE DEATH OF MR OLD TENOR.

[Law bears the name, but money has the power]

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.

PHILOSOPHIC SOLITUDE.

[OMITTED]

BENJAMIN CHURCH.

THE TIMES.

LINES ON THE ACCESSION OF GEORGE II.

JAMES ALLEN.

LINES ON THE MASSACRE.

THE RETROSPECT.

[OMITTED] [OMITTED] [OMITTED] [OMITTED] [OMITTED] [OMITTED]

AN INTENDED INSCRIPTION FOR THE MONUMENT ON BEACON-HILL, IN BOSTON.

ON WASHINGTON'S VISIT TO BOSTON. 1789.

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.

PAPER.

JOHN TRUMBULL.

M'FINGAL.

CANTO III.

JONATHAN MITCHELL SEWALL

WAR AND WASHINGTON.

FRANCIS HOPKINSON.

THE BATTLE OF THE KEGS.

SONG.

SONG.

SONG.

O'er the hills far away, at the birth of the morn,
I hear the full tone of the sweet sounding horn;
The sportsmen with shoutings all hail the new day,
And swift run the hounds o'er the hills far away.
Across the deep valley their course they pursue,
And rush through the thickets yet silver'd with dew;
Nor hedges nor ditches their speed can delay—
Still sounds the sweet horn o'er the hills far away.

SONG.

LINES ON THE QUARREL AMONG THE STUDENTS IN ANATOMY IN PHILADELPHIA.

ANN ELIZA BLEECKER.

TO MISS TEN EYCK.

TO MR BLEECKER, ON HIS PASSAGE TO NEW YORK.

AN EVENING PROSPECT.

PEACE.

RETURN TO TOMHANICK.

MARGARETTA V. FAUGERES.

THE HUDSON.

ON A PAINTER.

When Laura appear'd, poor Apelles complain'd,
That his sight was bedimm'd, and his optics much pain'd;
So his pallet and pencil the artist resign'd,
Lest the blaze of her beauty should make him quite blind.
But when fair Anne enter'd the prospect was changed,
The paints and the brushes in order were ranged;
The artist resumed his employment again,
Forgetful of labor, and blindness, and pain;
And the strokes were so lively that all were assured
What the brunette had injured the fair one had cured.
Let the candid decide which the chaplet should wear,
The charms which destroy, or the charms which repair.

TIMOTHY DWIGHT.

THE DESTRUCTION OF THE PEQUODS.

THE FARMER'S ADVICE TO THE VILLAGERS.

[OMITTED] [OMITTED] [OMITTED] [OMITTED] [OMITTED] [OMITTED] [OMITTED] [OMITTED]

COLUMBIA.

THE CRITICS.

A FABLE.

THE WORSHIP OF THE GIBEONITES.

BATTLE BEFORE THE WALLS OF AI.

EVENING AFTER A BATTLE.

PROCESSION OF ISRAELITISH VIRGINS TO MEET THE RETURNING ARMY.

LAMENTATION OF SELIMA FOR THE DEATH OF IRAD.

DAVID HUMPHREYS.

ADDRESS TO THE ARMIES OF THE UNITED STATES.

THE MONKEY WHO SHAVED HIMSELF AND HIS FRIENDS.

A FABLE.

LEMUEL HOPKINS.

[The Anarchiad]

[OMITTED] [OMITTED]

ON A PATIENT KILLED BY A CANCER QUACK.

THE HYPOCRITE'S HOPE.

PHILIP FRENEAU.

THE DYING INDIAN.

THE WILD HONEYSUCKLE.

THE MAN OF NINETY.

THE INDIAN STUDENT: OR, FORCE OF NATURE.

THE HURRICANE.

THE FIVE AGES.

EPISTLE TO A GAY YOUNG LADY WHO WAS MARRIED TO A DOATING OLD DEACON.

THE INDIAN BURYING GROUND.

TO THE MEMORY OF THE BRAVE AMERICANS UNDER GENERAL GREENE, IN SOUTH CAROLINA, WHO FELL IN THE ACTION OF SEPTEMBER 8, 1781.

PORT ROYAL.

ELIJAH FITCH.

THE BEAUTIES OF RELIGION.

The pencil dipp'd in various hues, to paint
Great nature's works, affords a sweet repast.
The mind with pleasing views of God is fill'd,
His beauteous works more beautiful appear,
Which captivate the heart the more they 're view'd,
And imitation gives more perfect charms.
On fancy's wings ascend the Aonian mount,
And let thy pencil sketch the landscape wide;
Paint the Castalian fount, rising from foot,
Meandering thence through many a flowery mead,
Blooming with violet and jessamine.
On this side paint a row of lofty elms,
Waving with negligence their branching arms;
On that let rows of spruce and evergreens
Extend through country villages and towns,
With birds of every kind perch'd on their boughs.
Paint cities then extending on the banks,
Whose thousand glittering spires dazzle the morn;
And on the placid waves make boats descend
With streamers gay, and with their silken sails,
Swell'd with Favonian breeze, the breath of eve.
Fields next with growing harvests paint,
And verdant pastures, fill'd with flocks and herds;
And far beyond, a rising wood of pine,
And cedar, ash and maple, oak and fir,
With shade o'er shade, as in a theatre,
Till topmost boughs are lost among the clouds.
A lively green to southward make appear,
Sloping far distant to the ocean broad,
Where lofty ships ride on the foaming main.
Far to the north, over a valley huge,
Let the sight end abrupt, 'midst rocks and trees:
Paint nature here dress'd in her negligee,
A sylvan scene, with virgin tresses crown'd;
Nor let luxuriant fancy go behind
Luxuriant nature in her wild disports.
To westward then a winding path, with trees
Of goodliest shade, and bowers by nature form'd,
From whence a gliding stream may be discern'd;
Now roaring down a horrid crag, and then
With gentle murmurs wind along the glade.
Paint sweet-brier hedges to perfume the air,
With pinks and roses strow the eglantine,
And crown it with the lily's graceful head.
Above let golden orange, nectarine,
With cherry, plumb and peach, apple and pear,
Bend branches low, tempting the hand to pluck.
Along the ground let all the charming race
Of berries creep;—and then this motto place:
“Fair works of nature are the works of God,
And God in all his beauteous works is seen.”

SARAH PORTER

THE ROYAL PENITENT. PART II.

WILLIAM MOORE SMITH

THE FALL OF ZAMPOR.

A PERUVIAN ODE.

ODE TO MEDITATION.

LAMPOON.

JOHN D. M'KINNON

THE MOHAWK.

[OMITTED]

SAMUEL LOW

WINTER.

TO A VIOLET.

Though not the gaudy Tulip's drap'ry fine,
Yet thou, fair plant, canst Tyre's rich purple boast;
The beauty of the Amethyst is thine;
Thy neat and simple garb delights me most;
Unseen and shadowy forms, of tiny size,
Delicious dew-drops from thy surface sip,
Feast on thy charms their microscopic eyes,
And breathe thy sweets, as o'er thy leaves they trip.
Emblem of innocence and modest worth,
Who lov'st the eye of rude remark to shun,
Whose lovely, lowly form still tends to earth,
Unlike the flower which courts the mid-day sun;
Thou seem'st, sweet flow'ret, of his beam afraid;—
Thus merit ever loves and seeks the shade.

TO A SEGAR.

Sweet antidote to sorrow, toil and strife,
Charm against discontent and wrinkled care.
Who knows thy power can never know despair;
Who knows thee not, one solace lacks of life:
When cares oppress, or when the busy day
Gives place to tranquil eve, a single puff
Can drive even want and lassitude away,
And give a mourner happiness enough.
From thee when curling clouds of incense rise,
They hide each evil that in prospect lies;
But when in evanescence fades thy smoke,
Ah! what, dear sedative, my cares shall smother?
If thou evaporate, the charm is broke,
Till I, departing taper, light another.

TO THE GENIUS OF POETRY.

Genius of tuneful verse! inspired by whom,
Divine Mæonides in numbers first
Dawn'd on a world o'ercast with mental gloom,
And strains sublime to barb'rous Greece rehearsed;
Spirit of song! from whose Castalian fount
The Mantuan poet sweet instruction drew;
With piercing ken to whose Aonian mount,
Once Albion's bards on eagle pinions flew;
Though far aloof thy vot'ry stretch his wing,
That o'er no classic land presumes to soar,
Him hast thou taught in plaintive strains to sing,
To feel thy solace, and thy power adore;
And, spite of envy's futile venom, thou
Hast placed a leaf of laurel on his brow.

BENJAMIN PRATT

DEATH.

Though guilt and folly tremble o'er the grave,
No life can charm, no death affright the brave.
The wise at nature's laws will ne'er repine,
Nor think to scan or mend the grand design
That takes unbounded nature for its care,
Bids all her millions claim an equal share.
Late in a microscopic worm confined,
Then in a prison'd fetus drown'd the mind;
Now of the ape kind both for sense and size,
Man eats and drinks and propagates and dies.
Good God! if thus to live our errand here,
Is parting with life's trifles worth our fear?
Or what grim furies have us in their power,
More in the dying than the living hour.
Ills from ourselves, but none from nature flow,
And virtue's road cannot descend to wo.
What nature gives, receive, her laws obey;
If you must die tomorrow, live today.
The prior states thy mind has varied through
Are drown'd in Lethe where black waves pursue,
To roll oblivion o'er each yesterday,
And will tomorrow sweep thyself away.
But where? no more unknown in future fate
Than your own end or essence in this state.
The past, the future and our nature hid,
Now comic and now tragic scenes we tread.
Unconscious actors: with a drama run
And act a part, but for a plot unknown.
We see their shapes, we feel ten thousand things,
We reason, act and sport on fancy's wings,
While yet this agent, this percipient lies
Hid from itself and puzzles all the wise.
In vain we seek, inverted eyes are blind,
And nature form'd no mirror for the mind.
Like some close cell whence art excludes the day,
Save what through optics darts its pencil'd ray,
And paints the lively landscape to the sight,
While yet the room itself is veil'd in night.
Nor can you find with all your boasted art,
The curious touch that bids the salient heart
Send its warm purple round the venal maze,
To fill each nerve with life, with bloom the face.
How o'er the heart the numbing palsies creep
To chill the carcase to eternal sleep.
'T is ours t' improve this life, not ours to know
From whence this meteor, when or where 't will go.
As o'er a fen when heaven 's involved in night,
An ignis fatuus waves its new-born light,
Now up, now down, the mimic taper plays
As varying Auster puffs the trembling blaze;
Soon the light phantom spends its magic store,
Dies into darkness, and is seen no more.
Thus run our changes, but in this secure,
Heaven trusts no mortal's fortune in his power.
Nor hears the prayers impertinent we send
To alter fate, and providence to mend.
As well in judgment as in mercy kind,
God hath for both the fittest date design'd.
The wise on death, the fools on life depend,
From toils and pains some sweet reverse to find.
Scheme after scheme the dupe successive tries,
And never gains, but hopes to gain the prize.
From the delusion still he ne'er will wake,
But dream of bliss, and live on the mistake.
Thus Tantalus in spite the furies placed
Tortured and charm'd to wish, and yet accursed:
In every wish infatuate, dreads lest Jove
Should move him from the torments of his love
To see the tempting fruit and stream no more,
And trust his Maker on some unknown shore.
Death buries all diseases in the grave,
And gives us freedom from each fool and knave,
To worlds unknown it kindly wafts us o'er—
Come death, my guide, I'm raptured to explore.

JOSEPH LATHROP

THE EXISTENCE OF A DEITY.

STEPHEN SEWALL

ON THE DEATH OF GEORGE II.

JAMES BOWDOIN

WOMAN.

Nature, fair creature! when she form'd thy mind,
Form'd thee a fit companion for mankind:
Not merely to excite love's genial fire;
And with a flood of joy to quench desire:
Nor wantonly to sport the hours away;
Nor, like a slave, man's lawless will obey;
But to assist him in life's num'rous toils;
To cheer him in misfortune with your smiles;
To soothe his breast when troubles overbear;
And with your love to recompense his care:
To raise his drooping spirits in distress;
And with your own promote his happiness.
But who is she whom every grace surrounds;
Whom every grace with all that's lovely crowns;
By nature form'd to touch a gen'rous breast;
By nature form'd to make man amply blest?
Yonder she walks along in virgin bloom:
And where she walks the rose's sweets perfume.
See from her presence fly ill-boding fear;
And every gloom before her disappear!
See innocence with cheerfulness combine,
Sit on her brow, and in her actions shine!
See modesty adorn her lovely cheek,
And in her language and behaviour speak!
See temp'rance in due bounds restrain desire;
And give a check to passion's lawless fire!
Humility and meekness, round her head,
Are as a crown of circling glory spread:
Discretion ripens with her growing years,
And on her brow in sceptred state appears:
When scandal tarnishes a rising name,
And throws from tongue to tongue her neighbor's fame,
Her soul disdains to spread the scandal round;
And, far from wid'ning, strives to heal the wound.
Unrival'd goodness warms her gen'rous breast;
And there—its native home—takes up its rest:
O'er her it bears so uncontroll'd a sway,
She thinks all nature does its laws obey:
She harbors no suspicion in her mind;
But judges by herself of all mankind.
These virtues, with a graceful freedom crown'd,
Spread far and wide her character around.
Among her virtues prudence bears the sway,
And shines abroad with a distinguish'd ray.
In all she does, it uniformly guides;
And o'er her conduct constantly presides.
Softness and love with a majestic mien,
Speak in her eye, and in her looks are seen.
Her tongue harmonious music warbles round;
And on her lips is honey's sweetness found.
Sacred to truth, and by its laws confined,
Her lips impart the language of her mind.
With a becoming grace her words appear;
And, like her honest heart, are all sincere.
By custom and example undecoy'd,
With cheerful mind she keeps herself employ'd:
Each day's revolving sun her task renews;
Nor does her hand the welcome task refuse:
To that—her mind so uniformly bends;
To that, with so much constancy attends;
That morning visits (destined to amuse;
To talk of dress, laced waistcoats, and the news;
To spread the scandal of the night before;
And, that once done, prepare the way for more)
Ne'er interrupt the business of the day;
Nor by their levity her mind betray:
Much less shall rabbles, which the sex debase,
Or routs, or drums her character disgrace.
By wisdom sway'd, she thus her hours employs;
And thus employ'd, a tranquil mind enjoys:
A tranquil mind—that very far outweighs
The applause of crowds; and even her own just praise.
Thus fame from such a course of action springs;
And bears her high upon its rapid wings;
Thus fame, thus inward peace—so heaven ordains—
Flows from one source, and lasting strength obtains.

JOHN LOWELL

LINES.

No more let ancient times their heroes boast,
Since all their fame in George's praise is lost;
Not Greece—her Alexanders; Cæsars—Rome
For worth and virtue view our Monarch's tomb.
Restless ambition dwelt in Cæsar's mind,
He murder'd nations and enslaved mankind:
He found a gen'rous people great and free,
And gave them tyrants for their liberty.
The glorious Alexander, half divine,
Whose godlike deeds in ancient records shine,
Dropt his divinity at every feast;
And lost the god and hero in the beast.
Shall then our monarch be with these compared,
Or George's glory with a Cæsar shared:
No—we indignant spurn the unworthy claim:
George shines unrivall'd in the lists of fame:
For while he reign'd, each virtue, every grace
Beam'd from his throne, and sparkled in his face:
While justice, goodness, liberty inspired,
And Britain's freedom all his conduct fired.
His people's father was his highest boast;
And in that name was all the sovereign lost.
Justice which left the world since Saturn's reign,
In him returning blest these realms again;
Even rigid justice with compassion join'd,
Sweetly uniting in his generous mind.
But why should we on separate features dwell,
When the great picture does in each excel?
No single virtues strike us with surprise;
All come united to the admiring eyes.

PETER OLIVER

[Lines]

Cease then the rapid tear, nor vainly urge
The mournful gloom, erect the pensive eye
To where the virtuous man is rank'd above;
See there the cloudless soul, unfetter'd, free
From every terrene clog that here so late
His flight retarded to the throne of God.
See his exulting spirit, mounted high
On wings of love celestial, basking full
In the calm sunshine of the Deity.
There, every tear wiped from his eyes, he views
The rushing glories of the world of light,
He drinks the stream of pleasure, pure, unmix'd,
That flows incessant from the sacred fount:
His ears delighted with angelic harps,
He tunes his own, and joins the sacred choir:
The odors from the golden tree of life,
Which fill all heaven with fragrance, he inhales,
And feels, enraptured, all those joys that flow
From converse with the Godhead, face to face.

WILLIAM LADD.

AROUET TO AMANDA.

Once more, dear maid, the wretched Arouet writes;
His pen obedient, as his heart indites;
These lines may haply waste your precious time,
And his loathed writings may be deem'd a crime.
Thou say'st that friendship can afford a cure
To the deep wounds, the sorrows I endure;
The generous thought with rapture I pursue—
It must be lovely, for it comes from you.
But O how poor is friendship to express
“The soul-felt pang of exquisite distress.”
Once I was happy—blest with native ease,
A friend could cheer me, and a book could please;
But now no joys from books or friendship flow,
Not one poor respite to my load of wo.
Did not you, dearest, see my fond distress,
Beyond all power of language to express?
The whirling thought, the swift impassion'd kiss,
Delirium sweet and agony of bliss.
How have I listen'd when your accents broke,
And kiss'd the air that trembled as you spoke.
Death, friendly Death will soon relieve my pain,
Long sure he cannot be implored in vain.
When to my sight the monarch of the tomb
Shall rise terrific and pronounce my doom;
Will then Amanda, ah! she will, I trust,
Pay the last tribute to my clay-cold dust:
Will sighing say, here his last scene is o'er,
Who loved as mortal never loved before.
Dear, matchless maid! that kind concern display'd,
Would sweetly soothe my melancholy shade.
O'er my lone tomb O yield that sad relief;
Breathe the soft sigh and pour out all your grief;
Or shed one tear in pity as you pass,
And just remember that your Arouet was.

REMONSTRANCE OF ALMASA ALLICAWN, WIFE OF ALMAS ALLICAWN, TO WARREN HASTINGS.

[_]

It was said that Warren Hastings, having taken the husband of this lady, one of the eastern princes, prisoner, agreed to save his life for a ransom, and that he took the ransom and put the king to death.

My subjects slaughter'd, my whole kingdom spoil'd;
My treasures wasted and my husband slain.
O say, vile monster! art thou satisfied?
Hast thou, rapacious brute! sufficient wealth?
Hastings! my husband was your prisoner—
The wealth of kingdoms flew to his relief;
You took the ransom, and you broke your faith.
Almas was slain—'t was perjury to your soul;
But perjury 's a little crime with you.
In souls so black, it seem'd almost a virtue.
Say, cruel monster! art thou thirsting still
For human gore? O may'st thou ever thirst,
And may the righteous gods deny thee water
To cool thy boiling blood, inhuman wretch!
And, bloody ruffian! thou must go where Almas
Sits on a throne of state, and every hour
He stabs an Englishman, and sweetly feasts
Upon his bloody heart and trembling liver.
Yet, Hastings, tremble not, for thou art safe,
Yes, murderer! thou art safe from this repast:
A heart polluted with ten thousand crimes,
Is not a feast for Almas, he will pluck
That savage heart out of its bloody case,
And toss it to his dogs; wolves shall grow mad
By feeding on thy murderous carcase. More,
When some vile wretch, some monster of mankind,
Some brute like thee, perhaps thy relative,
Laden with horrid crimes without a name,
Shall stalk through earth, and we want curses for him,
We'll torture thought to curse the wretch, and then,
To damn him most supreme, we'll call him Hastings.

THE WAR HORSE.

PARAPHRASE FROM JOB.

RETIREMENT.

WHAT IS HAPPINESS?

EDWARD CHURCH.

THE DANGEROUS VICE *********.

[OMITTED] [OMITTED] [OMITTED] [OMITTED]

SAMUEL EWING.

REFLECTIONS IN SOLITUDE.

ST GEORGE TUCKER.

STANZAS.

J. HOPKINSON.

HAIL COLUMBIA.

RICHARD B. DAVIS

TO A SLEEPING INFANT.

THOU ART THE MUSE.

TO EMMA.