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leased in May, 1776, and permitted to leave the country. He sailed from Boston* for the West Indies in a vessel which was never afterwards heard from. His family received a pension from the English crown.

THE CHOICE-A POEM.

If youthful fancy might it's Choice pursue,
And act as natural reason prompts it to;
If inclination could dispose our state,
And human will might govern future fate;
Remote from grandeur, I'd be humbly wise,
And all the glitter of a court despise:
Unskild the proud, or vicious to commend,
To cringe to insolence, or fools attend;
Within myself contented and secure,
Above what mean ambition can endure;
Nor yet so anxious to obtain a name,

To bleed for honour on the fields of fame;
Empty parade, is all that heroes know,
Unless fair Virtue hover in the show.

But in these walls, where Heav'n has fix'd my stay,
One half of life I'd wish to breathe away:
The fall and winter of each future year
I'd humbly hope to spend contented here;
'Mid the fierce ravage of a wintry storm,

Kind friends to cheer me, moderate wine to warm,
Securely happy we'd delude the day,
And smile the seasons cheerfully away,

No needless show my modest dome should claim,
Neat and genteel without, within the same:
Decently furnish'd to content and please,
Sufficient for necessity and ease;
Vain is the pomp of prodigal expense,
Frugality denotes the man of sense;
My doors the needy stranger should befriend,
And hospitality my board attend;
With frugal plenty be my table spread,
Those, and those only, whom I love be fed:
The meek and indigent my banquet share,
Who love the master, and approve the fare;
Thy mellow vintage, Lisbon! should abound,
Pouring a mirthful inspiration round;
While laughing Bacchus bathes within the bowl,
Love, mirth, and friendship swallow up the soul.
I'd have few friends, and those by nature true,
Sacred to friendship, and to virtue too;
Tho' but to few an intimate profest,
I'd be no foe, nor useless to the rest:
Each friend belov'd requires a friendly care,
His griefs, dejections, and his fate to share;
For this my choice should be to bounds confin'd,
Nor with a burst of passion flood mankind.
Above the rest, one dear selected friend,
Kind to advise, and cautious to offend;
To malice, envy, and to pride unknown,
Nor apt to censure foibles, but his own;
Firm in religion, in his morals just,
Wise in discerning, and advising best ;
Learn'd without pedantry, in temper kind,
Soft in his manners, happy in his mind;
Is there in whom these social virtues blend,
The Muse lisps Pollio, and she calls him friend:
To him, when flush'd with transport I'd repair,
His faithful bosom should my solace share;

The authorities differ both as to the birth-place of Dr. Church and the port from which he finally left his country; Boston being assigned as the scene of both exploits by some, and Newport by others. We have followed in both cases the narrative of Mr. Loring, in the Hundred Boston Orators, which he states to be derived from a descendant of Hannah, the daughter of Dr. Church, and wife of William Kirkby, a merchant of London.

To him I'd fly when sorrows prove too great,
To him discover all the stings of fate:
His social soul should all my pangs allay,
Tune every nerve and charin my griefs away.
O how I wish to join the friendly throng,
Elude the hours, and harmonize the song;
Each generous soul still sedulous to please,
With calm good temper, and with mutual ease;
Glad to receive and give, the keen reply,
Nor approbation to the jest deny.

But at a decent hour with social heart,

In love and humour should my friends depart: Then to my study, eager I'd repair,

And feast my mind with new refreshment there;
There plung'd in tho't my active mind should tread,
Through all the labours of the learned dead;
Homer, great parent of heroick strains,
Virgil, whose genius was improv'd with pains;
Horace, in whom the wit and courtier join'd,
Ovid, the tender, amorous and refin'd;
Keen Juvenal, whose all-correcting page,
Lash'd daring vice, and sham'd an impious age;
Expressive Lucan who politely sung,
With hum'rous Martial tickling as he stung;
Elaborate Terence, studious where he smil'd,
Familiar Plautus, regularly wild;
With frequent visit these I would survey,
And read, and meditate the hours away.

Nor these alone should on my shelves recline,
But awful Pope! majestically shine,
Unequal'd bard! Who durst thy praise engage?
Not yet grown reverend with the rust of age;
Sure Heav'n alone thy art uurival'd taught,
To think so well, so well express the thought;
What villain hears thee, but regrets the smart?
But tears the lurking demon from his heart?
Virtue attends thee with the best applause,
Conscious desert! great victor in her cause,
She faithful to thy worth, thy name shall grace,
Beyond all period, and beyond all space:
Go, shine a seraph and thy notes prolong
For angels only merit such a song!

Hail Briton's genius, Milton! deathless name!
Blest with a full satiety of fame:
Who durst attempt impertinence of praise?
Or sap insidious thy eternal bays?
For greater song, or more exalted fame,
Exceeds humanity to make, or claim.
These to peruse, I'd oft forget to dine,
And suck refection from each mighty line.
Next Addison's great labours should be join'd,
Prais'd by all tongues and known to all mankind:
With Littleton the tender and correct,
And copious Dryden, glorious in defect;
Nor would I leave the great and pious Young
Divinely fir'd, and sublime in song.

Next would I add the unaffected Gay,
And gentle Waller, with his flowing lay;
Last nature-limning Thomson should appear,

Who link'd eternity within his year.
These for diversion, with the comic throng,
Should raise my fancy, and improve my song;
Extend my view, 'till opening visions roll,
And all Piæria bursts upon my soul.

But to inform the mind, and mend the heart,
Great Tillotson and Butler, light impart;
Sagacious Newton, with all science blest,
And Locke, who always thought and reason'd best.
But lo! for real worth, and true desert,
Exhaustless science, and extensive art,
Boerhaave superior stands; in whom we find
The other Saviour of diseas'd mankind:

Whose skilful hand could almost life create,
And make us leap the very bounds of fate;
Death, tyrant death, beholding his decline,
That Boerhaave would his kingdom undermine,
Arm'd with his surest shafts attack'd this foe,
Who long eluded the repeated throw,

At length fatigu'd with life, he bravely fell,

And health with Boerhaave bade the world farewell.
Thus 'till the year recedes, I'd be employed,
Ease, health and friendship happily enjoy'd;
But when the vernal sun revolves its ray,
Melting hoar winter with her rage away,
When vocal groves a gay perspective yield,
And a new verdure springs from field to field:
With the first larks I'd to the plains retire,
For rural pleasures are my chief desire.

Ah doubly blest! on native verdure laid,
Whose fields support him, and whose arbours shade;
In his own hermitage in peace resides,
Fann'd by his breeze, and slumb'ring by his tides;
Who drinks a fragrance from paternal groves,
Nor lives ungrateful for the life he loves.

I'd have a handsome seat not far from town,
The prospect beauteous, and the taste my own;
The fabrick modern, faultless the design,
Not large, nor yet immoderately fine;
But neat econoiny my mansion boast,
Nor should convenience be in beauty lost:
Each part should speak superior skill and care,
And all the artist be distinguish'd there.
On some small elevation should it stand,
And a free prospect to the South command;
Where safe from damps I'd snuff the wholesome gale,
And life and vigour thro' the lungs inhale;
Eastward my moderate fields should wave with
grain,

Southward the verdure of a broad champaign; Where gamesome flocks, and rampant herds might play,

To the warm sunshine of the vernal day;
Northward, a garden on a slope should lie,
Finely adjusted to the nicest eye;

In midst of this should stand a cherry grove,
A breezy, blooming canopy of love!"

Whose blossom'd boughs the tuneful choir should

cheer,

And pour regalement on the eye and ear:
A gay parterre the vivid box should bound,
To waft a fragrance thro' the fields around;
Where blushing fruits might tempt another Eve,
Without another serpent to deceive.
Westward, I'd have a thick-set forest grow,
Thro' which the bounded sight should scarcely go;
Confus'dly rude, the scenery should impart,
A view of nature unimprov'd by art.—

Rapt in the soft retreat, my anxious breast
Pants eager still for something unpossess'd;

Whence springs this sudden hope, this warm desite?
To what enjoyment would my soul aspire?
"Tis love! extend my wishes, and my care,
Eden was tasteless 'till an Eve was there:
Almighty love! I own thy powerful sway,
Resign my soul, and willingly obey.

Grant me, kind heav'n, the nymph still form'd to

please,

Impassionate as infants when at ease;
Fair as the op'ning rose; her person small,
Artless as parent Eve before her fall;
Courteous as angels, unreserv'dly kind,
Of modest carriage, and the chastest mind;
Her temper sweet, her conversation keen,
Not wildly gay, but soberly serene;

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Not talkative, nor apt to take offence.
With female softness join'd to manly sense;
Her dress and language elegantly plain,
Not sluttish, forward, prodigal, or vain:
Not proud of beauty, nor elate with praise,
Not fond to govern, but by choice obeys;
True to my arms in body and in soul,
As the touch'd needle to th' attractive pole.
Caution, oppos'd to charms like these were vain,
And man would glory in the silken chain;
Unlike the sensual wish that burns and stains,
But where the purest admiration reigns;
Give me, O give me! such superior love,
Before the nectar of the gods above;
Then time on downy wings would steal away,
And love still be the business of the day.

While sporting flocks in fond rotations court,
And to the thicket pair by pair resort;
While tuneful birds in tender murmurings plead,
Chanting their amorous carols thro' the mead;
Link'd arm in arm we'd search the twilight grove,
Where all inspires with harmony and love:
Ye boughs, your friendly umbrage wide extend!
Guard from rude eyes, and from the sun defend:
Ye wanton gales! pant gently on my fair,
Thou love-inspiring goddess meet us there!
While soft invited, and with joy obey'd,
We press the herbage, and improve the shade.
But is th' Almighty ever bound to please?
Rul'd by my wish, or studious of my ease?
Shall I determine where his frowns shall fali?
And fence my grotto from the lot of all!
Prostrate, his sovereign wisdom I adore,
Intreat his mercy, but I dare no more:
No constant joys mortality attend,
But sorrows violate, and cares offend;
Heav'n wisely mixt our pleasures with alloy,
And gilds our sorrows with a ray of joy ;
Life without storms a stagnant pool appeare,
And grows offensive with unruffled years.
An active state is virtue's proper sphere,
To do, and suffer is our duty here:
Foes to encounter, vices to disdain,
Pleasures to shun, and passions to restrain;
To fly temptation's open, flow'ry road,
And labour to be obstinately good.

Then, blest is he who takes a calm survey,
Of all th' events that paint the checquer'd dry;
Content, that blessing makes the balance evan,
And poises fortune, by the scale of heav'n.
I'll let no future ill my peace destroy,
Or cloud the aspect of a present joy;
He who directed and dispens'd the past,
O'errules the present, and shall guide the last,
If Providence a present good has giv'n,

I clasp the boon in gratitude to heav'n:

May resignation fortify my mind,

He cannot be unhappy that's resign'd.

Guard my repose, thou Lord of all within!

An equal temper, and a soul serene,

O! teach me patience when oppos'd to wrong.
Restrain the mad'ning heart, and curb the tongue;
May prudence govern, piety control,

All slander, rage, and bitterness of soul:
Peace, plenty, health and innocence be made.
The blissful tenants of my tranquil shade.

O let me not maliciously comply,
To that curst action that shall raise a sigh;
Or cause the wretched orphan to complain.
Or see the widow's tears, and see in vain:
From a remorseless soul O set me free,
And prompt a pang for every wretch I see.

Whatever station be for me design'd,
May virtue be the mistress of my mind:
May I despise th' abandon'd and the base,
Tho' opulent, or dignified with place;
And spurn the wretch, who, meanly lost to shame,
Thinks wealth or place, a substitute for fame:
If wisdom, wealth, or honour, heav'n lend,
Teach me those talents happily to spend;
Nor make so blest, as I would wish to live,
Beyond those moments Heav'n is pleas'd to give;
Then when life trembles on the verge of rest,
And brings expended minutes to the test;
Absolve me conscience, thou imperial power!
O bless me with a self-approving hour.

ELIZABETH FERGUSON.

ELIZABETH, the youngest child of Dr. Thomas Graeme, a distinguished physician of Philadelphia, and a gran l-daughter on the mother's side of Sir William Keith, Governor of Pennsylvania, was born in the year 1739. Her early years were passed at Graeme Park, the country seat of her father, about twenty iniles from Philadelphia, a place celebrated alike for its cultivated beauties and the hospitalities of its host; where she enjoyed the society of a numerous and refined circle of persons. In her seventeenth year she became engaged to a young gentleman. The marriage was to be celebrated after his return from a residence in London, for the completion of his legal studies. The match was for unexplained reasons broken off, an event productive of much mental suffering to Miss Graeme. To divert her mind by occupation, she commenced and completed a translation of Fenelon's Telemaque in English blank verse. It has never been published, but the MS. has been deposited in the Philadelphia Library. She devoted herself so closely to this task that her health was impaire 1, and a voyage to Europe became necessary, as a means of restoration. Her mother urged her departure not only from solicitude for the daughter's health, but from a strange wish that her mind might not be distracted from spiritual contemplation by her daughter's presence at her anticipated speedy dissolution.

The daughter departed, and the mother died, as she had anticipated, during her absence.

Miss Graeme was accompanied in her visit to England by the Rev. Dr. Richard Peters, of Philadelphia, by whom she was introduced to many of the leading literary men of the day. Accidentally taking a seat at the York races, next to Lawrence Sterne, her remark on betting a sinall sum on one of the horses in the rear at the outset, that "the race was not always to the swift nor the battle to the strong," attracted his notice, and turning to her he requested the honor of her acquaintance. The incident was followed by a long aud agreeable conversation.

She was much visited on her return, and a Journal which she had prepared of her travels, was much sought after. She was urged to publish it, but declined. Her society was eagerly sought, and on Saturday evenings, when she remained at home to receive her friends, her father's house was thronged by delighted guests.

One of these Saturday evening visitors was Mr. Hugh Henry Ferguson, a handsome young Scotchman, who was so charmed by his hostess, that, though ten years her junior, he offered her his hand. He was accepted, and in a few months

married. They settled at Graeme Park, which, by the death of her father, had become Mrs. Ferguson's property, where they resided until the outbreak of the Revolution in 1775; when the husband took the side of the Crown, and the pair separated, and were not again united. Mrs. Ferguson remained at her country residence, where she performed in an unostentatious manner many acts of benevolence, among which are recorded the gift of a large quantity of linen to the American prisoners taken at the battle of Germantown, and the gift of twenty dollars, the eighth part of her income at the time, to a ruined merchant thrown into jail by his creditors. She refused to give her name to the beneficiary, and the good deed was only discovered by his description of her person being identified.

Mrs. Ferguson figures in the history of the Revolution as the bearer, immediately after the British occupation of Philadelphia, of an offensive letter from the Rev. Mr. Duché to Washington. The General sent the letter to Congress, and hinted to Mrs. Ferguson, that he "highly disapproved the intercourse she seemed to have been carrying on, and expected it would be discontinued." She does not seem to have profited by this, as we soon after find her mixed up in the proposal of Governor Johnstone to offer Joseph Reed "ten thousand guineas and the best post in the government" to exert his influence with Washington, and in other directions, "to settle the contest," the only result of which was the memorable reply of Reed reported by Mrs. Ferguson in a narrative of the transaction, which she afterwards published in her own defence. My influence is but snall, but were it as great as Governor Johnstone would insinuate, the king of Great Britain has nothing within his gift that would tempt me."*

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Mrs. Ferguson's correspondence is spoken of as exerting a wide influence, and evidencing high intellectual power. Several of her letters have been printed in the Port Folio. Her social influence was also great and beneficial: under her care her nephew, John Young, when a boy of twelve, is said to have been strangely imbued with a taste for literature by being locked up for twenty-four hours for some offence by his aunt in her father's library, where he, to relieve his imprisonment, took up a book and became so interested in its contents that he not only read other books under more favorable circumstances, but in due time made a contribution to literature by translating D'Argent's Ancient Geography. He died a Lieutenant in the British army. The copy of his translation in the Philadelphia library contains a tribute to his memory by Mrs. Ferguson.

Although nearly ruined in consequence of the war, Mrs. Ferguson steadily refused to receive any of the pecuniary aid pressed upon her by her friends; her simple mode of life rendering her independent. She took much interest in theology; and to impress the Bible more firmly on her memory, transcribed its entire contents.

During the latter part of her life, she suffered severe pain from sickness. She died on the twenty-third day of February, 1801, at the house of a Quaker, Seneca Lukens, near Graeme Park, and was interred, in accordance with her previously

* Life of Joseph Reed, by Wm. B. Reed. i. 887.

expressed request, beside her parents in the graveyard of Christ Church, Philadelphia.*

The poems of Evans contain a poetical correspondence between Miss Graeme, under the name of Laura, and himself, growing out of a passage in Pope, which presents a pleasant specimen of the lady's early versification. We extract the whole, as the individual portions mutually illustrate each other; and the Rev. Nathaniel Evans being but a few years the lady's junior, is soon to be in due course presented to the reader.

SOME LINES OUT OF MR. POPE'S ELOISE TO ABELARD.

How happy is the blameless vestal's lot?
The world forgetting, by the world forgot;
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind;
Each prayer accepted and each wish resign'd:
Labour and rest, that equal periods keep;
Obedient slumbers, that can wake and weep;
Desires compos'd, affections ever even;
Tears that delight, and sighs that waft to heaven.
Grace shines around her with serenest beams,
And whisp'ring angels prompt her golden dreams.
For her the spouse prepares the bridal ring,
For her white virgins hymeneals sing;
For her th' unfading rose of Eden blooms,
And wings of seraphs shed divine perfumes;
To sounds of heav'nly harps she dies away,
And melts in visions of eternal day.

A PARODY ON THE FOREGOING LINES BY A LADY ASSUMING THE
NAME OF LAURA.

How happy is the country Parson's lot?
Forgetting Bishops, as by them forgot;
Tranquil of spirit, with an easy mind,
To all his Vestry's votes he sits resign'd:
Of manners gentle, and of temper even,
He jogs his flocks, with easy pace, to heaven.
In Greek and Latin, pious books he keeps;
And, while his clerk sings psalms, he-soundly sleeps.
His garden fronts the sun's sweet orient beams,
And fat church-wardens prompt his golden dreams.
The earliest fruit, in his fair orchard, blooms;
And cleanly pipes pour out tobacco's fumes.
From rustic bridegroom oft he takes the ring;
And hears the milk-maid plaintive ballads sing.
Back-gammon cheats whole winter nights away,
And Pilgrim's Progress helps a rainy day.

N. B. The foregoing Parody occasioned the following epistolary contest, and poetical Ruiilery, between our Author and Laura.

AN EPISTLE TO LAURA, ON HER PARODY.

I lately saw, no matter where,

A parody by Laura fair;

In which beyond dispute, 'tis clear,
She means her country friend to jeer;
For, well she knows, her pleasing lays,
(Whether they banter me or praise,
Whatever merry mood they take)
Are welcome for their author's sake.

Tobacco vile, I never smoak,
(Tho' Laura loves her friend to joke)
Nor leave my flock all in the lurch,
By being lullaby'd in church;

But, change the word from clerk to priest,
Perhaps I lull my sheep to rest.

As for the table of Back-gammon,
"Tis far beyond the reach of Damon:
But, place right gammon on a table,
And then to play a knife-I'm able.

The Portfolio, quoted in Hazard's Pennsylvania Register, iii. 894.

"How happy is my lot," you say,
Because from Bishops far away!
Happy I am, I'll not deny,
But then it is when you are nigh;
Or gently rushes o'er my mind
Th' idea of the nymph refin'd;
In whom each grace and virtue meet,
That render woman-kind complete;
The sense, the taste, the lovely mien
Of Stella, pride of Patrick's Dean.

O Laura! when I think of this,
And call you friend-'tis greater bliss,
Than all the "fat church-wardens' schemes."
Which rarely" prompt my golden dreams."
Yet, if the happiness, fair maid,

That sooths me in the silent shade,
Should, in your eye, appear too great,
Come, take it all-and share my fate!

LAURA'S ANSWER.

LAURA to Damon health doth send,
And thus salutes her saucy friend.

Because you would exert your wit,
You take the cap ne'er made to fit;
And then your sprightly verse display,
To prove me out in every way-
But I'll proceed, nor care one farthing;
Nor shall you make me sue for pardon,
Nor once recant what I asserted,
Tho' from my pen in haste it flirted.

Truly, because you do inherit

Some portion of the Dean's queer spirit, You want to prove, in wondrous haste, That Laura too has Stella's taste;

As if it must directly follow,

Since you are favour'd by Apollo,
That he his choicest gifts must send,

To ev'ry scribbling female friend.

I thank you, sir-you're wond'rous kind! But think me not so vain or blind,

As to believe the pretty things,

Your muse, with ease, at Laura flings.

"Tis true, the moments I beguil'd, And at a country parson smil'd; Unhappy me! who ne'er could dream, That you should think yourself the theme; Unless my muse, thro' rank ill-nature, Had turn'd what follows into satyr

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A manner frank and debonnair,

A heart that's open and sincere,
Plain sense, stript of pedantic rules,
And formal precepts, hatch'd in schools;
Firm honesty without parade,
Simplicity in truth array'd;

A sprightly vein of humour too,
Known only by a favour'd few."

Had Madam Muse, in spleen or spight,
Plac'd all those graces in a light,
To make us laugh, more than admire-
Then Damon might have taken fire,
And said 'tis past dispute and clear,
I meant my country friend to jeer.
Yet, e'er I close-allow me time,
But just to add another rhyme.
Since I esteem your bliss so great,
In penance you will chuse a mate,
And tell me "I may share your fate!"
The scheme is good, I must confess,
If you have bliss, to make it less!
Yet take a hint, before resolv'd,
And in the dragging chain involv'd.
While youthful joys around you shine,

Haste not to bend at Hymen's shrine;
Let friendship, gen'rous friendship, be
The bond to fetter you and me,
Vestal, Platonic-what you will,
So virtue reigns with freedom still.
But if, in matrimonial noose,

You must be bound-and have a spouse;
The faithful rib that heav'n shall send,
I'll fondly greet, and call her friend.

TO LAURA; IN REPLY TO THE ABOVE,

LAURA, for once excuse, I pray,
The pertness of a rural lay:
And I will ne'er again offend,

Or need the name of saucy friend;

Stella, (for now I see it clearly, Who loves a little mischief dearly) Resolv'd to carry a gay farce on, Told me I was the country parson, Described in your melodious strain: To which I now return again.

1, like my namesake without guile, Thought in my turn that I might smile, So seis'd my pen, in a brisk sally, Determin'd to pay off the tally; And, in a fit of warm regard, Dropt a few words-quite off my guard; For which I Laura's mercy crave, And shall remain her humble slaveShe's pleas'd to say, that "I inherit, Some portion of the DEAN's queer spirit." If aught in me was ever seen. Resembling Patrick's boasted Dean: It was his faults, I fear-rank pride, Which, for my life, I cannot hide, And one less vain than Swift-or me, Might e'en both proud and saucy be, When such fine things of him are said By Laura, the harmonious maid; Yet still her compliments, I fear, Are only sent her friend to jeer, Or sugar o'er a little smart,

And close the bleedings of a heartThus, without cause, when children cry, And put their finger in their eye,

Kind mamma gives them aught that's handly,
Cakes, marmalade, or sugar-candy.

Fair Laura hints-the hint I take,
And honour for its mistress' sake-
Yet when great Cupid is inclin'd,
To fix his empire o'er my mind,
A silken cord, no “dragging chain,"
Shall lead me to his sacred fane;
For none, I trust, shall e'er discover,
In me aught like the whimp'ring lover:
The fault ring voice, the sigh of care,
The languid look, the dying air.
When abject thus behaves the muse,
May I kind Laura's friendship lose,
That friendship which I dearer hold,
Than silver heaps or shining gold.

And now, farewell!-may ev'ry hour
Fresh happiness on Laura pour—
Whether in sacred wedlock join'd,
Or to the Vestal state inclin'd;
May constant joys before her rise,
Till, for low earth, she gains the skies!

* Nathaniel.

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The publication of his chief production, Lines on the Massacre, is due more to accident than design. It was written at the request of Dr. Warren, to accompany the oration on the same subject, which the doctor had been appointed to deliver. The poem was submitted to the committee having the matter in hand, who decided that it should be printed with the oration, but afterwards, owing to suspicions as to the writer's political faith, it was suppressed. Allen, with his usual indolence, gave himself no trouble about the matter, but his friends, indignant at the treatment the poet had received, procured a copy from him, and published it, with extracts from The Retrospect, another poem by the same hand, which they accompanied by a commentary by themselves, exhibiting the author's political soundness and poetical merits.*

Allen also wrote a patriotic epic, entitled Bunker Hill, but after making arrangements for its publication, was too listless to proceed further, and the manuscript is now supposed to be lost. These, with the exception of a few slight magazine pieces, form the whole of his writings.

FROM THE POEM ON THE MASSACRE.

From realms of bondage, and a tyrant's reign,
Our godlike fathers bore no slavish chain.
To Pharaoh's face the inspired patriarchs stood,
To seal their virtue, with a martyr's blood;

But lives so precious, such a sacred seed,
The source of empires, heaven's high will decreed;
He snatch'd the saints from Pharaoh's impious hand,
And bid his chosen seek this distant land:
Thus to these climes the illustrious exiles sped,
'T was freedom prompted, and the Godhead led.
Eternal woods the virgin soil defaced,

A dreary desert, and a howling waste;

The haunt of tribes no pity taught to spare,
And they opposed them with remorseless war.
But heaven's right arm led forth the faithful train,
The guardian Godhead swept the insidious plain,
Till the scour'd thicket amicable stood,
Nor dastard ambush trench'd the dusky wood:
Our sires then earn'd no more precarious bread,
Nor 'midst alarms their frugal meals were spread.
Fair boding hopes inured their hands to toil,
And patriot virtue nursed the thriving soil,
Nor scarce two ages have their periods run,
Since o'er their culture smiled the genial sun;
And now what states extend their fair domains,
O'er fleecy mountains, and luxuriant plains!
Where happy millions their own fields possess,
No tyrant awes them, and no lords oppress;
The hand of rule, divine discretion guides,
And white-robed virtue o'er her path presides,
Each policed order venerates the laws,

The Poem which the committee of the town of Boston had voted unanimously to be published with the late oration. Boston, E. Russell, 1772. Pp. 80.

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