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And she, the while, with merry laugh lets fall
Upon his awkwardness some lively joke,
Not pitying the blush her bantering has woke..

And there the grandam sits, in placid ease,
A gentle brightness o'er her features spread:
Her children's children cluster round her knees,
Or on her bosom fondly rest their head.
Oh, happy sight, to see such blossoms shed
Their sweet young fragrance o'er such aged tree!
How vain to say, that, when short youth has fled,
Our dearest of enjoyments cease to be;
When hoary eld is loved but the more tenderly.

And there the manly farmers scan the news;
(Strong is their sense, though plain the garb it wears ; )
Or, while their pipes a lulling smoke diffuse,
They look important from their elbow chairs,
And gravely ponder on the nation's cares.

The matrons of the morning sermon speak,

And each its passing excellence declares;

While tears of pious rapture, pure and meek,

Course in soft beauty down the christian mother's cheek..

Then, just at one, the full thanksgiving feast,
Rich with the bounties of the closing year,
Is spread; and, from the greatest to the least,
All crowd the table, and enjoy the cheer.
The list of dainties will not now appear;
Save one I cannot pass unheeded by,
One dish, already to the muses dear,

One dish, that wakens memory's longing sigh-
The genuine far famed Yankee pumpkin pie.

Who e'er has seen thee in thy flaky crust
Display the yellow richness of thy breast,
But, as the sight awoke his keenest gust,
Has own'd thee of all cates the choicest, best?
Ambrosia were a fool, to thee compared,
Even by the ruby hand of Hebe drest;

Thee, pumpkin pie, by country maids prepared,

With their white rounded arms above the elbow bared.

Now to the kitchen come a vagrant train,

The plenteous fragments of the feast to share.
The old lame fiddler wakes a merry strain,

For his mull'd cider and his pleasant fare,—
Reclining in that ancient wicker chair.

A veteran soldier he, of those proud times
When first our freedom's banner kiss'd the air:
His battles oft he sings in untaught rhymes,
When wakening memory his aged heart sublimes.

But who is this, whose scarlet cloak has known
Full oft the pelting of the winter storm?
Through its fringed hood a strong wild face is shown,—
Tall, gaunt, and bent with years, the beldam's form ;-
There's none of all these youth with vigor warm,
Who dare by slightest word her anger stir.

So dark the frown that does her face deform,
That half the frighted villagers aver
The very de'il himself incarnate is in her.

Yet now the sybil wears her mildest mood;
And round her see the anxious silent band.
Falls from her straggling locks the antique hood,
As close she peers in that fair maiden's hand,
Who scarce the struggles in her heart can stand;
Affection's strength has made her nature weak;
She of her lovely looks hath lost command;
The flecker'd red and white within her cheek-
Oh, all her love it doth most eloquently speak!

Thy doting faith, fond maid, may envied be,
And half excused the superstitious art.
Now, when the sybil's mystic words to thee
The happier fortunes of thy love impart,
Thrilling thy soul in its most vital part,
How does the throb of inward ecstacy
Send the luxuriant blushes from thy heart
All o'er thy varying cheek, like some clear sea

Where the red morning-glow falls full but tremblingly

Tis evening; and the rural ball begins:

The fairy call of music all obey;

The circles round domestic hearths grow thin;

All, at the joyful signal, hie away

To yonder hall with lights and garlands gay.
There, with elastic step, young belles are seen
Entering, all conscious of their coming sway:
Not oft their fancies underrate, I ween,
The spoils and glories of this festal scene,

New England's daughters need not envy those
Who in a monarch's court their jewels wear;
More lovely they, when but a simple rose
Glows through the golden clusters of their hair.
Could light of diamonds make her look more fair,
Who moves in beauty through the mazy dance,
With buoyant feet that seem'd to skim the air,
And eyes that speak, in each impassion'd glance,
The poetry of youth, love's sweet and short romance?

He thinks not so, that young enamor'd boy

Who through the dance her graceful steps doth guide,
While his heart swells with the deep pulse of joy.
Oh, no; by nature taught, unlearnt in pride,
He sees her in her loveliness array'd,

All blushing for the love she cannot hide;
And feels that gaudy art could only shade

The brightness nature gave to his unrivall'd maid.

Gay bands, move on; your draught of pleasure quaff;
I love to listen to your joyous din;

The lad's light joke, the maiden's mellow laugh,
And the brisk music of the violin.

How blithe to see the sprightly dance begin!
Entwining hands, they seem to float along,
With native rustic grace that well might win
The happiest praises of a sweeter song,
From a more gifted lyre than doth to me belong.

While these enjoy the mirth that suits their years,
Round the home-fires their peaceful elders meet.
A gentler mirth their friendly converse cheers ;
And yet, though calm their pleaures, they are sweet
Through the cold shadows of the autumn day
Oft breaks the sunshine with as genial heat,
As o'er the soft and sapphire skies of May,
Though nature then be young and exquisitely gay.

On the white wings of peace their days have flown;
Nor wholly were they thrall'd by earthly cares;
But from their hearts to heaven's paternal throne
Arose the daily incense of their prayers.
And now, as low the sun of being wears,
The God to whom their morning vows were paid,
Each grateful offering in remembrance bears;-
And cheering beams of mercy are display'd,

To gild with heavenly hopes their evening's pensive shade

But now, farewell to thee, thanksgiving day!
Thou angel of the year! one bounteous hand
The horn of deep abundance doth display,
Raining its rich profusion o'er the land;
The other arm, outstretch'd with gesture grand,
Pointing its upraised finger to the sky,

Doth the warm tribute of our thanks demand
For Him, the Father God, who from on high
Sheds gleams of purest joy o'er man's dark destiny.

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK,

Is a native of Guilford, Connecticut, where he was born in 1795. Here he lived till his eighteenth year, when he went to New York, where he has since resided, having been occupied generally in pursuits of a mercantile character.

Mr Halleck has been a writer of poetry from an early period of his life; but he first attracted public attention in 1819, by a series of Pindaric Odes, published in the New York Evening Post, under the signature of "Croaker & Co." These were generally of a light and playful character, seasoned with occasional touches of keen satire, and racy humor. They produced a considerable sensation at the time, and curiosity was busy to detect the authors. It was at length discovered that Mr Halleck was the principal writer, and that his friend Dr Drake, now deceased, was his associate.

The first work which Mr Halleck published in a volume, was "Fanny;" it appeared in 1819, and although its principal topics are of a local nature, and its allusions, many of them, refer to passing incidents of the day, yet it has been read with interest in every part of the country, and has been twice reprinted in Great Britain. It was written in haste, (it having been only three weeks from the commencement of the work to the day of its publication) and was doubtless looked upon by the author as an ephemeral affair. Yet it not

unfrequently happens, that the least elaborated performances of a man of real talent, outlive those which are constructed with more serious effort, and finished with more anxious care. We are by no means certain, that this may not be the fact in respect to the poem under consideration.

In 1827, a small volume, entitled "Alnwick Castle and other poems," appeared in New York, and is Mr Halleck's last publication. It seems to comprise such of the author's works as he is willing to have preserved, and we suspect was intended rather to make his other productions forgotten, than to perpetuate those it embraced. We do not believe, however little the author may wish to hear about them, that he has succeeded in casting either the "Croakers" or "Fanny," into oblivion; and "Alnwick Castle, and other poems," would have lived, if the author had not collected and published them in a volume. If a man wishes to be quiet and unnoticed, he should not write like this author.

We cannot better close our observations than by an extract from an article which appeared some time since in New York, from the pen, we believe, of Mr Leggett.

"As a poet, Mr Halleck ranks very high. He has not written much, but what he has written is almost faultless. If tenderness and wamth of feeling, playfulness of fancy, imagery not abundant, but appropriate, and great copiousness, and invariable euphony of language, constitute a claim to excellence, his effusions are excellent. There is one censure*-we have already named it—in which all concur; and we most cordially hope that Mr Halleck will speedily amend the fault that occasions it. But whether he write more or not, as the poet is to be estimated by the quality, and not the quantity of his works, he is entitled to a place which but few can hope to attain.

"There have been loftier themes than his,

And longer scrolls, and louder lyres,

And lays lit up with poesy's

Purer and holier fires:

That he writes too little: