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Presented to the pleased spectator's view,
United, rural scene and city too.
On a large square its architecture stood,
While down each side roll'd a broad silver flood;
Ships of all sizes here safe in harbor lay,
And parti-color'd pendants deck the bay.
The streets were broad and even length'ning drawn,
And in its centre smiled a spacious lawn.
Chinese precinct'ring work enclosed its ground,
And trees of pride of India bloom'd around,
Two outward rows at equal distance grew,
Form'd shade and walk of use and beauty too.
Their flowers a native extra worth assume,
And pride themselves in long continued bloom;
These too again in inner walks are seen
With balm of Gilead interplaced between.
Through the whole lawn now pride of India shows,
And here an aromatic balm of Gilead grows.
The fence was lined throughout its ample square,
And different shrubbery different colors wear.
Here stands the laurel crown'd in generous bloom,
Here breathes the honeysuckle's sweet perfume.
The pale white rose attracts the passing eye,
And here the damask scented richer dye,
The inner walks with tints continued glow,
As some decline new opening beauties flow.
* Around the lawn are seen,
Four summer houses which adorn the green,
Whose opening diamond work invites the air,
And vine of grapes and jessamines livery wear,
Luxuriant branches o'er their archings run,
And loveliest verdure shades the unwelcome sun.
WAS formerly one of the professors at Dartmouth College, and is now the editor of the New York Statesman. He is extensively known as the author of two volumes of Travels in Europe, published in 1827. His poetry consists of short pieces, chiefly occasional.
In hymns of praise, eternal God!
When thy creating hand
Stretch'd the blue arch of heaven abroad,
And meted sea and land,
The morning stars together sung,
And shouts of joy from angels rung.
Than Earth's prime hour, more joyous far
Was the eventful morn,
When the bright beam of Bethlehem's star
Announced a Saviour born!
Then sweeter strains from heaven began—-
"Glory to God-good will to man.'
Babe of the manger! can it be?
Art thou the Son of God?
Shall subject nations bow the knee,
And kings obey thy nod?
Shall thrones and monarchs prostrate fall
Before the tenant of a stall?
"Tis He! the hymning seraphs cry,
While hovering, drawn to earth;
"Tis he! the shepherds' songs reply,
Hail! hail Emmanuel's birth!
The rod of peace those hands shall bear,
That brow a crown of glory wear!
"Tis He! the eastern sages sing,
And spread their golden hoard;
"Tis He! the hills of Sion ring,
Hosanna to the Lord!
The Prince of long prophetic years
To day in Bethlehem appears!
He comes! the Conqueror's march begins,
No blood his banner stains;
He comes to save the world from sins,
And break the captive's chains!
The poor, the sick and blind shall bless
The Prince of Peace and Righteousness.
Though now in swaddling-clothes he lies,
All hearts his power shall own,
When he, with legions of the skies,
The clouds of heaven his throne,
Shall come to judge the quick and dead,
And strike a trembling world with dread.
PAINS OF THE IMAGINATION.
ON Ocean's cliff, see beauty wild and pale, Watching alone the fury of the gale: Amid the dangers of the rugged coast, She marks her sailor's gallant vessel tost; Frantic with grief, her sunny locks she tears, As the red lightning on the breakers glares, And o'er the tumult of the boiling deep, Mad whirlwinds howl, and dark tornadoes sweep. Shall she, delighted, hear the tempest rave, And list the murmurs of the dashing wave! Think ye the grandeur of the scene can charm Her heart, that throbs at every gust alarm!
Behold yon volumes of sulphureous smoke,
Roll in black wreaths, and heaven with vapor choke
The mountain trembles, and the earth afar
Feels the dread shock of elemental war;
Loud roars the ocean, and the mingled din
Breaks on the ear from rumbling caves within:
Then flames the crater: to the skies aspire
The liquid gushes of volcanic fire.
Aghast the peasant of Campania stands,
And mourns his ruin'd cot, his deluged lands,
Perchance his wife, his children's hapless doom,
Buried in flame, and hurried to the tomb.
While his lorn bosom is with anguish wrung,
Cares he what bards the scene sublime have sung?
How many Plinies once admired the sight,
Its grandeur traced, then perish'd in delight?
But hark-in southern climes along the ground, Like distant thunders, runs a hollow sound: Wide and more wide extends the sullen jar, As when conflicting chariots rush to war;
Rocks, woods, and plains the wild commotion feel,
And the tall Andes to their bases reel;
In mountain waves, the undulating lea
Heaves, like the tossings of a troubled sea;
Impending ruin mocks the force of art,
And ghastly terror seizes every heart.
Then yawns the fathomless abyss, and down
At once are hurl'd the works of old renown,
The monuments of ages; all that man,
His genius, taste, and luxury could plan :
All, all in one promiscuous grave repose,
O'er which the earth, and gushing waters close,
And hence along the stagnant lake and plain,
Shall solitude and desolation reign.
Oh! who hath not in fancy trod alone,
The trackless deserts of the burning zone,
Nor felt a dreariness oppress his soul,
To mark the sands in eddies round him roll,
Like ocean's billows, threatening to o'erwhelm,
His wilder'd march, through many a weary realm?
No verdure smiles, no crystal fountains play,
To quench the arrows of the god of day,
No breezy lawns, no cool, meandering streams,
Allay the fervor of his torrid beams;
No whispering zephyrs fan the glowing skies;
But o'er long tracts the mournful siroc sighs,
Whose desolating march, whose withering breath
Sweeps through the caravan with instant death;
The wandering Arab, startled at the sound,
Mantles his face, and presses close the ground,
Till o'er his prostrate, weary limbs hath pass'd,
In sullen gusts, the poison-wafting blast.
'Tis night: but there the sparkling heavens diffuse No genial showers, no soft-distilling dews; In the hot sky, the stars, of lustre shorn, Burn o'er the pathway of the wanderer lorn, And the red moon, from Babelmandel's strand, Looks, as she climbs, through pyramids of sand, That whirl'd aloft, and gilded by her light, Blaze the lone beacons of the desert night. From distant wilds is heard the dismal howl Of hideous monsters, that in darkness prowl: Urged by gaunt famine from his lair and home,
Along the waste, the tiger's footsteps roam,
And from afar, the fierce hyena's scream
At midnight breaks the traveller's fitful dream.
AUTHOR of The Fatal Jest, and other pieces, published at New York, in 1819.
RUDE was the storm, and her fallen hair
Stream'd in the gale from her bosom bare;
As alone, through the forest's blacken'd shade,
On errand of fear came the Indian maid.
Wild was her look; but her eye was bright
With the melting beam of Mercy's light-
Her speech was hurried; but kindness hung
On the accents bland of her warning tongue.
"White men, beware of Havoc's sweep!
He is waked in the forest, from sullen sleep-
He would drink your blood, in a guardless hour,
And your wives and slumbering babes devour.
"Beware!-for, the tempest, chain'd so long,
Shall burst tonight, in its fury strong-
The trees must root them against its sway,
And their branches cling, or be scatter'd away!
"The fire shall rage; for, the breeze is blowing-
The smoke rolls hither-the flames are glowing;
They climb the hills; to the vales they spread--
The night is black; but the forest is red.