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Was born in Philadelphia. He was liberally educated, but did not pursue any regular profession, and though he wrote much, it was to him little more than an amusement. His writings are in general hasty and careless, but show considerable talent for light literature. In 1819, he published a satirical work called The Hermit in Philadelphia; this was well received, and soon came to a second edition. Shortly after appeared The American Bards, a poem in imitation of Lord Byron's satire. In 1820, was published Sisyphi Opus, or Touches at the Times, with other poems. This was followed by a second series of the Hermit in Philadelphia, which succeeded as well as the first. Mr Waln after this, made a voyage to Canton as a supercargo, and on his return, he projected a History of China; this work he published in quarto numbers. After the publication of the third volume of the Biography of the signers of the Declaration of Independence, Mr Waln undertook to conduct the work, and wrote several of the lives. In 1824, he published a life of La Fayette, in one volume octavo. Besides these performances, he wrote much for the periodicals, among other things a series of papers in the American Monthly Magazine, entitled A Voyage on Wings. He was also the author of a pamphlet, giving an account of the Quaker Hospital at Frankford, near Philadelphia. He died in 1824, at the age of thirtyone.


THE bright tear of beauty, in sadness, is stealing,-
The gems of the east are less sparkling than these ;-
Her cheek is all flush'd with the anguish of feeling,-
Her white bosom carelessly bared to the breeze.

"T is the bride of the Soldier,-and Fancy had flourish'd In day dreams that circle the phantom of Love,

For the visions of bliss that the maiden had nourish'd, Her soul, in the warmth of its tenderness, wove.

But hark!—'t is the rush and the roaring of battle
That rolls on the lingering wings of the wind;
The sabres gleam bright; and the cannon's loud rattle
Speaks death to the maiden, left weeping behind.

The turf is his pillow ;-his mantle is heaven;-
The warrior is sleeping the sleep of the brave!
The chains of affection are awfully riven,
And moulder away in the gloom of the grave.


You said, dear girl, the other night,
That love was all a fond illusion!-
But why, my dear, with eyes so bright,
And cheeks so blooming with confusion?

And when I gravely own'd the truth,

In prayers that love should ne'er entrance thee. And blamed the wanton dreams of youth,

I saw thee frown ;-perhaps 't was fancy.

And as I press'd thy burning hand,
And breathed the vow of never loving,
Why did thy heaving breast expand,
With sighs so sweet,-yet so reproving?

But when I talk'd of friendship, dear,
Of Plato, and his stoic pleasure,
I long'd to kiss the starting tear,
And steal away the pearly treasure.

"T was love that sparkled in thine eye,

And gemm'd thy cheek with wavering flushes 'Twas love that breathed the chiding sigh, And mingled its tear with rosy blushes.

Then call it friendship;-what you will;-
The heart disowns what the lips are naming;

It lives in the joy of the holy thrill,

And the altar of love is brightly flaming.


'Tis the break of day, and cloudless weather,
The eager dogs are all roaming together,
The moor-cock is flitting across the heather,
Up, rouse from your slumbers,

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The wild-boar is shaking his dewy bristle,
The partridge is sounding his morning whistle,
The red-deer is bounding o'er the thistle,
Up, rouse from your slumbers,

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Is a native of Boston, and was graduated at Cambridge. He is at present the editor of The Emerald, a weekly paper published at Baltimore. His poems mostly appeared in the United States Literary Gazette, and have deservedly given the writer a very respectable rank among our native authors. We understand he contemplates the publication of a volume of poetry, which will, no doubt, be very favorably received.


THE Spirit of Beauty unfurls her light,
And wheels her course in a joyous flight:
I know her track through the balmy air,
By the blossoms that cluster and whiten there;
She leaves the tops of the mountains green,
And gems the valley with crystal sheen.

At morn, I know where she rested at night,
For the roses are gushing with dewy delight;
Then she mounts again, and around her flings
A shower of light from her purple wings,
Till the spirit is drunk with the music on high
That silently fills it with ecstacy!

At noon she hies to a cool retreat,

Where bowering elms over waters meet;

She dimples the wave, where the green leaves dip,
That smiles, as it curls, like a maiden's lip,
When her tremulous bosom would hide, in vain,
From her lover, the hope that she loves again.

At eve, she hangs o'er the western sky
Dark clouds for a glorious canopy;
And round the skirts of each sweeping fold,
She paints a border of crimson and gold,
Where the lingering sunbeams love to stay,
When their god in his glory has pass'd away.

She hovers around us at twilight hour,
When her presence is felt with the deepest power;
She mellows the landscape, and crowds the stream
With shadows that flit like a fairy dream :-
Still wheeling her flight through the gladsome air,
The Spirit of Beauty is every where !


THE laughing hours have chased away the night,
Plucking the stars out from her diadem;
And now the blue-eyed morn with modest grace,

Looks through her half-drawn curtains in the East
Blushing in smiles—and glad as infancy.
And see! the foolish Moon, but now so vain
Of borrow'd beauty, how she yields her charms,
And, pale with envy, steals herself away!
The clouds have put their gorgeous livery on,
Attendant on the day. The mountain tops
Have lit their beacons,-and the vales below
Send up a welcoming. No song of birds,
Warbling to charm the air with melody,
Floats on the frosty breeze; yet Nature hath
The very soul of music in her looks,-
The sunshine and the shade of poetry!
I stand upon thy loftiest pinnacle,

Temple of Nature! and look down with awe
On the wide world beneath me, dimly seen.
Around me crowd the giant sons of earth,
Fix'd on their old foundations, unsubdued,—
Firm as when first rebellion bade them rise,
Unrifted to the Thunderer ;-now they seem
A family of mountains, clustering round
Their hoary patriarch,-emulously watching
To meet the partial glances of the day.
Far in the glowing East, the flecking light,
Mellow'd by distance,--with the blue sky blending,-
Questions the eye with ever-varying forms.
The sun is up; away the shadows fling
From the broad hills, and hurrying to the west,
Sport in the sunshine, till they die away.

The many beauteous mountain-streams leap down,
Out-welling from the clouds,-and sparkling light
Dances along with their perennial flow.
And there is beauty in yon river's path-
The glad Connecticut. I know her well
By the white veil she mantles o'er her charms.
At times, she loiters by a ridge of hills,
Sportfully hiding; then again with glee
Out-rushes from her wild-wood lurking-place.
Far as the eye can bound, the ocean-waves
And lakes and rivers, mountains, vales and woods,
And all that holds the faculty entranced,
Bathed in a flood of glory, float in air,
And sleep in the deep quietude of joy!
There is a fearful stillness in this place-
A presence that forbids to break the spell,
Till the heart pours its agony in tears.

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