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From thy soft eyes, a holier feeling

From their blue light could ne'er be stealing,
But thou wouldst be more loth to part,

And give me more of that glad heart!

Oh!

gone thou art! and bearest hence

The glory of thy innocence.

But with deep joy I breathe the air

That kiss'd thy cheek, and fann'd thy hair,
And feel though fate our lives must sever,
Yet shall thy image live forever!

JOHN WILSON/.

ORIGINAL POETRY.-FOR THE PORT FOLIO.

TO AN EARLY VIOLET.

WHY lovely stranger rear thy head;
Within this spot so wild and sere?
No hand of lover decks thy bed,
No feet of beauty linger here.

Why waste thy fragrance here, ah! why?
Seek'st thou fond welcome at my home?
The tyrant Care has dimm'd that eye,
Which lov'd o'er Nature's breast to roam.

She, kind instructress, taught in youth,
My simple heart a feeling true:

A taste for science, friendship, truth;

But ting'd the boon with Sorrow's huè.

As yet no tepid breezes blow,

From realms where golden Summer sleeps;
The gloomy monarch, Winter, slow
Retires across the northern steeps.

O hide thee! evening's vapours chill
Shall soon thy tender flow'rets shroud;
Adown the base of yonder hill,
I see intwine the gath'ring cloud.

Why, solitary stranger, why
So anxious to behold the day?
The sun that wak'd thy morning sigh,
Mourns now obscur'd his evening ray.

And see, where on untiring wing
The swallow flees the spreading rack;
Precursor of the coming spring,
He hies him to the goddess back.

Hark! how the northern tempest swells,
Amid the groves of murmuring pine!
Forsaken beauty shut thy bells,
For never ending night is thine.

But long as blushing Love shall sigh
In willing ears the tender vow,
So long Hyperion's amorous eye,
Shall ne'er view sweeter flower than thou.

The night is past, the storm is o'er,
And Nature wakes from wonted rest;
I'll give this little wither'd flower,
Asylum in my aching breast:-

Its fate and mine so well agree,

Twill teach me earthly hopes are vain:
For faithless Laura smil'd on me,

Then broke my heart with cold disdain.

G.

SPRING IN PHILADELPHIA COUNTY.

Apostrophe to the Loxia Cardinalis.

Crested bird of plumage red
Com'st to see is winter fled?

Inciter to the farmer's toil,
Welcome to our grateful soil!

VOL. I.

Yet still the frost endures the morn

Spangles the swamp and studs the thorn,
Its brilliant gems on every bush,
Unmelting, slight Aurora's blush;
And pendent willows, crystals weeping,
Still inform us Sol is sleeping.

Pretty bird of plumage red

Thou stayst!-then sure is winter fled.

Quickly the cold dispels. Each stream
Swells high with joy. What fishes teem
Swift ascending from the sea,

To bathe in fresh variety.

Our steady sunshine warmer glowing,
Light more flaval round us throwing
Glads our eyes, and sprights the veins
Of our misses, and our swains.

Pretty bird of plumage red

Thou bidest here, and winter's fled.

Now smoothly roll your giant tides.
Rivers of freedom! safely rides
The anchor'd vessel; joyous sounds
The "yoe heave oh," along your bounds,
The sailor bending o'er the yard,

Gaily performs his toil so hard.

And soon descend with swelling sails
Favoured by Zephyr's steadying gales
Fleets of gallant merchantmen
From the prospering town of Penn,
No icy rocks the waves now bear
Dertructive of the pilot's care.

Pretty bird of plumage red

Well notest thou the winter's fled.

To where rough cataracts impede,
Now the shoaling shad proceed
With herrings sporting in their van
Thicker and broader in the span,

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Than those which seek old Scotia's soil
And freer from the cloying oil.

Truly like herring they appear
Though but the shad-fry of last year.
The catfish follow swift in train
Sweeter than eel, than eel more sane,
And even rockfish, quit the caves
Of Neptune, for our river waves.

Pretty bird of plumage red

Thou seekst to work thy hymen bed.

Thou sweetly singst thou pretty bird,
The joys the fields to all afford!
Thou weetst some notes of nightingale,
But dost not mock sweet Philomel;
She bashful seeks the veiled recess
And boasts nor chatt'ring nor proud dress;
She joys to charm the hours of rest,
Ah, modest muse, that soothst my breast!
Pretty bird of plumage red,

Thou boldly singst, and winter's filed.

Now, as the snows retire, in russet hue,
Appears the herb that loves the dew;
Carpet of Nature! soon thy velvet blades
The tint of Hope, fresh green pervades
Though in our winter, frozen down
To garb of summer's scorched brown:
Rapid the sweet nutritious sap

Spreads gayest robes o'er Nature's lap,
Robes that for emerald bright dont yield,

Even to Erin's shambrac field.

Pretty bird of plumage red,.

Thou wooest safe, for winter's fled.

And see the forests spread their bloom!
Scent we the fruit-trees' sweet perfume.

First of this free lands Spring, I hail thy birth!
Gift of the land of Eden to this western earth,

Aurorean peach! thy chearful bloom above
Brings to my soul the tints of her I love.
With thee, the gentle Amadee may vie,
Nymph of the modest blush and lustral eye.
Now drops of light on germs of life appear,
Hah! next the weeping willow greets the year;
Yet gossamers 'mid its boughs are strung,
And time, revived, again looks young.

CAMILDHU.

FOR THE PORT FOLIO

PROPHECY,

INSCRIBED TO COMMODORE JOHN RODGERS.

Boston, 1813.

Intrepid veteran of the wave,
Rodgers!-whose fame could terror bring
TO THEM-the boldest of the brave,
The chosen of their island king.
Veteran! ere time's imperious sway
Has brought the high meridian hour,
Or changed one jetty lock to gray,
Or touch'd thee with its wizard power;
Attend! for thou art Glory's son,

Born 'mid the battle's blaze to shine,
And known, when Danger's deed is done,
To make the mildest mercies thine.
Hear what the poet-prophet knows,
Triumph is thine; and, added fame,
Even ere the annual summer glows,
The deadly contest meets thy claim.
The green Atlantic felt thy sway,
As erst from dawn to fading light,
Thy hero-helm's impetuous way,
Pursued the foe's elusive flight.
That green Atlantic is thy field,

There-though redoubling hosts assail
The Ocean's Lord to thee shall yield,
And thee-humane in victory-hail.

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