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ON THE DEATH OF A SPENDTHRIFT.
His last great debt is paid-poor Tom's no more! Last debt! Tom never paid a debt before.
AN INDIAN WAR-SONG.
By Mrs. Morton.
Rear'd 'midst the war empurpled plain
What Illinois submits to pain!
How can the glory darting fire
The coward chill of death inspire!
The Sun a blazing heat bestows,
The Moon 'midst pensive evening glows,
The Stars in sparkling beauty shine,
And own their flaming source divine.
Then let me hai! the immortal fire
And in the sacred flame expire;
Nor yet those uron hands restrain:
This bosom scorns the throb of pain.
No griefs this warrior soul can bow,
No pangs contract this even brow,
Not all your threats excite a fear,
Not all your force can start a tear.
Think not with me my tribe decays,
More glorious chiefs the hatchet raise;
Not unaveng'd their Sachem dies,
Not unattended greets the skies.
LATELY at afternoon, the sun hot-shining,
Flush'd with the grape and in poetics deep;
On a soft sopha carelessly reclining,
Tuning new sonnets, lo! I fell asleep.
Through the vine-bower'd windows then inclining,
My mistress from the garden chanc'd to peep;
And left her lilies with the heat repining,
On tip-toe to my cool recess to creep.
She read the verse for her sweet self intended:
We must indeed, she said, those lips salute,
Which blushingly do use such modest suit,
That maiden meekness may not be offended,
She kiss'd, I wak'd--how eloquently mute
Her eyes, her blushes, the sweet fault defended.
With lengthen'd face and drawling chin,
One ask'd "is friend Ow-en within?"
When John, who dearly lov'd a joke,
In tone like that the Quaker spoke,
With face and body bent full low,
As drawlingly replied No!
TO THE MEMORY OF ALEXANDER M. FISHER,
Professor of Mathematics and Natural Philosophy, who perished
in the Albion.
FROM THE NATIONAL ADVOCATE.
FROM the plain of Olympus the coursers of day
Had circled Apollo in glory away;
The Queen of the Crescent was low o'er the west,
And bright were the gems on the blue of her vest.
Where Erin lies green, 'mid the surges that roar
In merciless rage round the rocks of her shore,
The breath of the ocean came fresh o'er the sail,
And proudly the ALBION rode with the gale.
The land was in view, and the mariner's eye
Beam'd bright that the home of the Briton was nigh;
The sea-weary passenger banish'd his sorrow,
And thought with delight on the bliss of to-morrow.
To-morrow! Ah yes, that to-morrow shall come,
But never the day that shall give thee thy home;
To-morrow thy form shall be rock'd by the wave,
The coral thy pillow, and ocean thy grave!
A cloud o'er the east spread its mantle of gloom,
Like Dispair as she raves round the Infidel's tomb;
Then slowly ascends till she wraps from the eye
The last star of night on the robe of the sky.
The seaman to quarters the master commands,
The cordage plays warm through the mariner's hands,
But ere to the ship they can safety afford,
The main and the foremast are swept by the board.
The seas roll in mountains and deluge the deck,
The vessel, ungovern'd, drives swiftly a wreck;
The sufferers call but the effort is vain,
For ruin and death have the rule of the main.
O FISHER! I knew thee when childhood's sweet charms,
Were fondly caress'd in a mother's soft arms:
I knew thee in youth; for how oft did we rove
Through the shade of some distant and sheltering grove.
Fair science our theme, and distinction our aim,
We dream'd of the bays that our merit might claim;
But death has forbid thee to honour us more,
And merg'd thee in ocean, far, far from our shore.
Thy virtue was pure as the breath of that morn,
When man on the bosom of Eden was born:
Thy genius was bright as the first vermeil ray
That sheds on the hill-tops the splendour of day.
May pinions of light to thy spirit be given,
With Newton to range through the science of heaven;
There sorrow and darkness no longer control,
But fountains of knowledge spring fresh in the soul.
By W. B. TAPPAN.
THE storm is weathered, and the fiend Dispair,
Who the long weary day stood sullen by,
Hath fled. And now is heard the frequent prayer
From grateful altars wafted; in each eye
Hope lights her beacon,-busy fancy now
Sketches fond scenes of bliss, for port is near;—
"Pierre" is the signature of Solyman Brown, formerly a resident of this state.-Eds. Herald.
The proud ship cleaves the foam with steady prow,
The sea-boy sings of home, by peril made more dear.
"Tis deathly slumber, sure, not calm repose,-
The sleep of agony hath seized them; why
Else this deep lethargy? O, can ye close
Your lids, when Desolation marches by?
Or quiet dream, when horror waits ye soon?-
Waken, ye tempest tost? Wherefore?-the wave,
Whose altitude mocks heaven, rolling on,
Will soon receive ye,-ready is your coral grave.
The morning smiles, the breeze is fraught with balm,
Hibernia seems freshly from the main
To spring, beauteous and young. Nature is calın.
Far, far, unruffled, spreads the billowy plain,
God's handy work, the world of waters, where
The elements disport, and He is seen
In strength pavilioned, on His cloudy car,
Riding the wild night storm, and humbling this terrene.
The morning smiles, the ocean billow sleeps,-
But where the tall ship that late ploughed its breast,
The gallant ALBION?-Pity, shuddering, weeps;
No more, only, that on the dark wave's crest
That night at times, were dimly seen, 'tis said,
Some forms of misery, whose hands in vain
Were lift imploring, they sunk with the dead,-
And piteous cries and shrieks were heard,-'twas still again.
Yet THOU,* the child of feeling, shalt receive
The tribute of warm tears. Around thy name
Mercy will twine her never fading wreath,
Fairer than trophies won by heirs of fame;
Thou gavest, what ocean had denied, a shroud,
With rites of sepulture. I am yet proud
Of mankind, for thy sake, God's benizon
On thee!-the deed shall live when thy sand, too, hath run.
ON THE MELANCHOLY SHIPWRECK OF THE ALBION.
From the Liverpool Courier.
Ir ever sorrow moved the manly breast,
Or grief distill'd did proof of pity speak;
Jacob Mark, Esq. U. S. Consul at Kinsale.
Those pearly symbols now will stand confest, And roll in silence down the seaman's cheek.
The gallant ship no more! O bitter truth,
The lady fair, and her protectors brave, The rich, the poor, the aged, and the youth, Have found alike a gloomy deep sea grave.
The Albion's lost, and Williams is no more,
The kind, the brave, the seaman and the friend; Ev'n holy men, who do their God adore,
Will, o'er the news, in silent anguish bend.
Mourn, friendship mourn, and pay a tribute there, A big tear drop to blend with ocean's wave; Then tell the stoic, Nature can't forbear
To think of Williams and his deep sea grave.
Columbia's seamen will the loss deplore,
Whilst Britons mourn the glass so quickly run; Responding grief resounds from shore to shore, And owns, in point of love, they are but one. Mysterious Providence had veil'd the woe
In shades impervious to sense or pride; All we or monarchs are allowed to know,
Is that a man hath lived and then hath died.
O God! behold, with pitying eye the flood,
And cause the gloom to beam a moral ray; O consecrate the loss for public good,
Till countless ages shall have rolled away.
From the New York Commercial Advertiser.
SWIFT across the Atlantic's breast,
Speed the gallant Albion,
When the sun set in the west,
And the blush of day was gone-
Proudly o'er the billows blue,
Spread each wide expanded sail,
Then all hearts beat high, nor knew
Death was lurking in the gale!
Night her raven mantle threw
O'er the waters, dark and wild-
And the tempest-spirit flew
Where so late the sun had smil'd