Hailing afar some happier moonlight hour;

Dear are her whispers still, though lost their early power.

In youth the cheek was crimson'd with her glow;
Her smile was loveliest then; her matin song
Was heaven's own music, and the note of wo
Was all unheard her sunny bowers among.
Life's little world of bliss was newly born;

We knew not, cared not, it was born to die.
Flush'd with the cool breeze and the dews of morn,
With dancing heart we gazed on the pure sky,
And mock'd the passing clouds that dimm'd its blue,
Like our own sorrows then-as fleeting and as few.

And manhood felt her sway too,-on the eye,
Half realized, her early dreams burst bright,
Her promised bower of happiness seem'd nigh,
Its days of joy, its vigils of delight;

And though at times might lower the thunder storm,
And the red lightnings threaten, still the air

Was balmy with her breath, and her loved form,

The rainbow of the heart, was hovering there.

"T is in life's noontide she is nearest seen,

Her wreath the summer flower, her robe of summer green.

But though less dazzling in her twilight dress,

There's more of heaven's pure beam about her now;

That angel-smile of tranquil loveliness,

Which the heart worships, glowing on her brow;

That smile shall brighten the dim evening star
That points our destined tomb, nor e'er depart

Till the faint light of life is fled afar,

And hush'd the last deep beating of the heart ; The meteor-bearer of our parting breath,

A moon-beam in the midnight cloud of death.

WEEHAWKEN.

WEEHAWKEN! In thy mountain scenery yet,
All we adore of nature, in her wild

And frolic hour of infancy, is met ;

And never has a summer's morning smiled

Upon a lovelier scene, than the full eye
Of the enthusiast revels on-when high,

Amid thy forest solitudes, he climbs

O'er crags, that proudly tower above the deep,
And knows that sense of danger, which sublimes
The breathless moment-when his daring step
Is on the verge of the cliff, and he can hear
The low dash of the wave with startled ear,

Like the death music of his coming doom,
And clings to the green turf with desperate force,
As the heart clings to life; and when resume
The currents in his veins their wonted course,
There lingers a deep feeling-like the moan
Of wearied ocean, when the storm is gone.

In such an hour he turns, and on his view,

Ocean, and earth, and heaven, burst before him Clouds slumbering at his feet, and the clear blue

Of summer's sky, in beauty bending o’er him— The city bright below; and far away

Sparkling in golden light, his own romantic bay.

Tall spire, and glittering roof, and battlement,
And banners floating in the sunny air;

And white sails o'er the calm blue waters bent,
Green isle, and circling shore, are blended there,
In wild reality. When life is old,

And many a scene forgot, the heart will hold

Its memory of this; nor lives there oné

Whose infant breath was drawn, or boyhood days
Of happiness, were pass'd beneath that sun,
That in his manhood prime can calmy gaze

Upon that bay, or on that mountain stand,
Nor feel the prouder of his native land.

JOSEPH HUTTON

Was born in Philadelphia on the 25th of February, 1787. He received a common English education in that city, and when taken from school was placed in a store. How long he remained there, we know not, but very early in life he contributed verses to the periodicals of the day. He also wrote prose, and published several romantic stories in a literary paper; their titles were Don Guiscardo, Ardennis, The Castle of Altenheim, and others. It was, we believe, in the year 1808, that he produced at the Chesnut Theatre, his first comedy, entitled The School for Prodigals; this was followed by a musical piece, entitled The Wounded Hussar, which was played at the same theatre, and printed in 1809. Mr Hutton having the cares of a family upon him, established a school in his native city, which he conducted with both credit and profit to himself, but continued to devote his leisure to the muses. He now made a collection of his fugitive poems, which he published under the title of Leisure Hours. In 1812 his comedy of Fashionable Follies was cast at the Olympic theatre in Philadelphia, but never performed, which elicited an angry preface from the author, when he printed his piece in 1815. This performance is modelled upon Colman's comedy of the Poor Gentleman. The scene is laid on the borders of Lake Champlain. It is not destitute of merit, but the imitation is too palpable His next publication was a poem entitled The Field of Orleans, written in the style of Walter Scott, and contains several spirited passages. Mr Hutton's love for the drama now induced him to try the stage as a profession, and he performed at several of the theatres in Philadelphia. In the winter of 1822 he produced a farce entitled Modern Honor, or How to Dodge a Bullet; this was founded on a ludicrous duel between two public characters which was for some time a subject of general comment throughout the country. He 16

VOL. III.

also performed at different theatres in the southern and western states, and was considered an actor of respectable talents. In 1823 he removed to Newbern, North Carolina, where he established himself as a preceptor of youth. During his residence there, he wrote a melo-drama entitled The Falls of Niagara, and a tragedy on the murder of Colonel Sharp of Kentucky, both of which are still in manuscript. He also contributed to the poetic department of the Newbern Sentinel.

He died on the 31st of January, 1828, leaving a wife and daughter. His writings seldom rise above mediocrity, but many of his productions are agreeable. His talents were rather imitative than creative.

THE FIELD OF ORLEANS.

FAREWELL, awhile, domestic charms,
My home and country urge to arms,
'Mid danger's ranks, and war's alarms,
Which stern invaders spread;
And if, perchance, a fatal bourne
Forbid the soldier's safe return,
A nation's gratitude shall mourn,
And honor crown, the dead!
Farewell the gathering of the year;
Release the share and grasp the spear;
Droop their full ears the swelling grain,
The verdant grass, the luscious cane;
The harvest of another soil

Demands each nerve in manly toil;
Where blood alone may compost yield,
And brand and bayonet reap the field.
Delight not me the meed of fame,
The fleeting breath of proud acclaim,
Or warrior's wreath, or valiant name,-
Far other joys are mine;

I court not battle's awful brunt,
Nor honors, in the dareful front;
But, my dear country, call'st thou aid,
Behold, I grasp the freeman's blade,

And be my service thine!

And nearer now the foemen drew,
They press thy borders, Bienvenu,
Stern as the angry winds that blew
Across thy startled bed!

And dark and dismal was the night,
When first they struck the deep'ning fight;
Save when anon, a mournful star,
Streamed feebly from its sphere afar:
The troops a cloud-their weapons steel'd,
The brightest star-light of the field,
A fearful vision spread!
Silent they moved along the lake,
No war sound bids the slumb'ring wake,
Nor dashing oars the waters break,
To rouse th' unconscious state;
But from her hills of living green,
Columbia's guardian maid had seen,
She roused at once to intervene,
And save her sons from fate!
Who, rising o'er the watery bed,
To taint the soil with hostile tread,
The margin bold now climbs ?
A warrior stern, who sterner band,
To conquest oft, in Spanish land,
Had led in former times!
Long shall Iberia feel the aid
She gather'd from his biting blade,
When, urged by bold Napoleon,
Invading France came madly on.
And mingling now the conflict, rang
Helmet and spear, the battle clang.
But wherefore, warrior, art thou here,
Feels thy bold heart no touch of fear,
When freemen seize the guardian spear,
Their country to defend?

Nought may thy former deeds avail,
No more thy hope shall conquest hail,
The laurels of thy brow grow pale,
Prophetic of thy end!

*

*

That time, full many a widowed dame,
And orphan, shall with anguish name,
And grief the burning tear drop claim,
Of every hope deprived!

Whose breast stern war's resistless aim,