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In the cloud-envelop'd sky
Ruin showed his awful form,
While the seaman's fearful cry
Mingled with the raging storm.
Then fair woman's dying wail

Echoed on the foaming surge,
Mingling with the midnight gale,

By Hibernia's rocky verge-
Then the chief* who stood the fight
By thy side Napoleon,
Trembled as the tempest's might

Shook the fated Albion.

Hark! that shout of wild dismay-
That death-groan of agony,
As the grave receives its prey

In the deep devouring sea:-
See the mountain billows swell

O'er the reeling Albion
Hark! that loud and last farewell,
She is heaving-she is gone!
New York, 1 June, 1822.


By Sir Robert Ayton, 1650.

I did pronounce thee sweet, yet find
Thee so regardless of thy sweets,
Thy favours are too like the wind

That kisseth every thing it meets;
And since thou rovest with more than one,
Thou art worthy to be loved by none.


I do confess thee sweet and fair,

And near I might have gone to love thee,

Had I not found the slighest prayer

That lips could speak, had power to move thee;

But I can let thee now alone

As worthy to be loved by none.

The morning rose, that untouched stands,

Armed with her briars, how sweetly smells;
But, plucked and soiled by vulgar hands,

Her sweet no longer with her dwells,
But scent and beauty both are gone,
And leaves fall from her one by one.

*General Desnouettes.

Such fate ere long will thee betide,
When thou hast handled been awhile,
Like withered blossoms cast aside,

And I shall sigh, while some will smile
To see thy love to every one
Hath brought thee to be loved by none.


Written on the death of Professor Fisher, by Dr. James G. Percival.

From the (New Haven) National Pilot.
We ask no flowers to deck thy tomb,
Thy name in purer light shall bloom;
When every flower on earth is dead,
And all that bloom below are fled.

To thee, the light of mind was given,
The centre of thy soul was heaven;
In early youth the spirit came,
And wrapped thee in its wings of fame.

The lambent light that round thee flowed,
Rose to its high and bright abode;
And bore thy restless eye afar,

To read the fate of sun and star.

Fain would we think the chain is broke,
That bound thy spirit to its yoke;
That now no mist of earth can blind
Thy bright, thy pure and perfect mind.

Thy grave is on a foreign strand,
Thy tomb is in a foreign land;
No kinsman came, no friend was near,
To close thine eye and deck thy bier.

But friends shall gather round thy tomb
And long lament thy early doom;
And thither science oft repair,
To plant thy choicest laurels there.


Of the Carrier of the Illinois Gazette to his Patrons on the first day of January, 1822.

The following jeu d'esprit was banded about on New Year's Morning, by a merry wight in our Office, who doubles the characters of Carrier and Printer's Devil.

As our Presidents, Governors, and other great men, fail not to have their speeches published for the amusement and edification of the public, we think it but fair that the Printer's Devil, who " only duns on New Year's Day," should enjoy the same immunity; particularly as he labours all the rest of the year for the benefit of others:-Let us always give the Devil his due.—ILL. GAZ.

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Who knows if Alexander reigns-
If France has burst her British chains-
If Andalusia's sunny plains

Glow with the light of liberty?
When Brougham spoke, or Byron wrote,
Or Wellington had got the gout,
How would the matter have come out,
Except through his civility?

John told you when Imperial Nap
Slept in Helena's flinty lap;
Disclos'd, at large, the sad mishap
In England's Royal Family.


Nor failed the glorious news to bring,
When George looked every inch a king,"
Royal "from chine to chitterling,"
The pink of modern chivalry!

How London's Mayor was made a knight,
And Scotia's bard described the sight,
And Erin's goblets sparkled bright,
With Erin's hospitality.

Erin the land of love and song!
Forgot her chains, and joined the throng,
That sealed with praises loud and long,
The downfal of her liberty!

Erin! the land of love and wine!
Like Israel's flock, forsook her shrine,
And bade the holy shamrock twine
The calf of base idolatry!

Nor this alone-his weekly round,
The CARRIER went with look profound,
Though torrents pour'd and tempests frowned;
His paper, passing currently.

And Shawnee's sons have read the lore,
That ne'er had beam'd on Shawnee's shore,
Had John been sick, or John been sore,
Or slept too late on Saturday.
Such are his toils through heat and cold,
Nor need his patrons now be told,
That 'tis a custom sage and old,
TO PAY for his fidelity.

How oft our Editors display,
Their talents in the dunning way!
John only duns on NEW YEAR's DAY,
And then with meek humility.

My song is o'er. Aproach ye brave,
Nor seek your paper cash to save!
Wave, Shawnee, all your purses wave,
That John may join your revelry.

Few days until again we meet,
Fresh news shall fill my spreading sheet;
To every door the CARRIER's feet,

Again shall bear him willingly.


In evil hour, and with unhallow'd voice
Profaning the pure gift of Poesy,
Did he begin to sing, he first who sung
Of arms, and combats, and the proud array
Of warriors on the embattled plain, and rais'd
The aspiring spirit to hopes of fair renown
By deeds of violence. For since that time
The imperious Victor, oft, unsatisfied
With bloody spoil and tyrannous conquest, dares
To challenge fame and honour; and too oft
The Poet bending low to lawless power
Hath paid unseemly reverence, yea, and brought
Streams, clearest of the Aonian fount, to wash
Blood-stain'd Ambition. If the stroke of War
Fell certain on the guilty head, none else;
If they that make the cause might taste the effect,
And drink themselves the bitter cup they mix,
Then might the Bard, (though child of Peace) delight
To twine fresh wreaths around the Conqueror's brow,
Or haply strike his high-toned harp to swell
The trumpet's martial sound, and bid them on,
Whom Justice arms for vengeance: but alas!
That undistinguishing and deathful storm
Beats heaviest on the exposed innocent;
And they that stir its fury, while it raves,
Stand at safe distance; send their mandate forth
Unto the mortal ministers that wait

To do their bidding; - Ah, who then regards
The widow's tears, the friendless orphan's cry,

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