The dread avenger of our country's wrong,
While, undisturb'd, the treasur'd vengeance sleeps,

Dim in th' horizon, Albion's hostile star,
In silent grandeur, rises on the sight:
Terrific omen! honoured wide and far-
The harbinger of death, and pale affright.

Near and more near the bloody contest draws-
Frowning they meet, and awfully serene-
And, ere the strife begins, in solemn pause,
They stand and watch the narrow space between.

It was an hour to none but heroes dear,
When vulgar mortals tremble and despair:
When all the patriot has to hope, or fear,
Seems but suspended by a single hair.

At such an hour, what hostile passions meet!
What wild emotions enter and depart!

What hopes of glory! fears of foul defeat!

All throng, tumultuous, through the stoutest heart!

But mark! around what sudden glooms infest,
As if the clouds that sail'd the realms of air,
At once, had settled on the ocean's breast,
And fix'd the region of contention there.

Unusual darkness on the surface lies,
A night of horror veils the combat o'er,
Disturb'd by victor shouts and dying cries-
By lightning flashes, and the thunder's roar.

Now light returns: but what dismay and rout!
How cold the cheek where hope was so elate!
And the pale lip still quivers with the shout
Of joy and triumph in the hour of fate.

Short was the contest-O! in pity, spare!
Ye sights, unholy! vanish from my ken:
For supplicating Mercy's cries, forbear!
Nor taunt with victory these dying men.

1

But welcome, heroes! to your native land;
Safe from th' arduous perils of the fight;
And welcome, gallant leader of the band!
Who blushes when he finds his fame so bright.

And welcome BOOTH and RODGERS! welcome KNIGHT!
And RAPP!-such noble souls will ne'er refuse
This poor requital, and with rudeness slight
The humble off'ring of no venal Muse.

Nor CLAXTON shall thy worth unsung remain,
Thy early day betokens promise fair;
For glory hover'd round the brows of pain,
And mark'd unseen the future hero there.

Nor shall thy merits, BIDDLE, pass untold,
When cover'd with the cannon's flaming breath,
Onward he press'd, unconquerably bold,
He fear'd dishonour, but he spurn'd at death.

He mov'd the foremost of the gallant band,
Undaunted by the roar of hostile arms;
And led reluctant Victory by the hand,
Confus'd and blushing, in her blaze of charms.

Then welcome, heroes! for your glory lives;
Nor shall malignant Envy dare assail:
Receive the laurel which your country gives,
And share her triumphs while she tells the tale.

ODE TO HONOUR-FOR THE PORT FOLIO.

HALL! Spirit of the lion brood!
I hail thee! monarch of my soul;
Who guid'st my veins' mad rolling flood;
Proud chieftain! of supreme control.

Crown'd with lightning, thron'd in storm,
First born in battle's raging force;

Thy mandate bids the phalanx form,
Where even demons take their course.

Thy thirsting, like the Danish shade,
By no libation is appeas'd,
Until the reckoning blood has paid,
And vengeance has thy spirit eased.

Thine are the sybil tomes of fate;
For should one sacred page be lost,
Repentence then is vain and late,
The rest is kept with double cost.

'Tis but to offer at thy shrine

That crowns from danger's front are torn;
And 'tis for thee that we entwine
Those laurels which the sword has shorn.

And that mild dictate comes from thee,
Which teaches Pride to stoop his crest;
Bending, to gentle courtesy,

The fiercer inmates of his breast.

FOR THE PORT FOLIO.

L.

MR. OLDSCHOOL,

THE following poetry falling accidentally into my hands, my admiration of it induced me to make some inquiry respecting its origin and author.

It was occasioned by the decease of an amiable and lovely young lady, under very affecting and peculiar circumstances. Cherishing for a long time the idea of hymeneal connexion with the object of her earliest choice and most ardent affections, she was attacked, in the bloom of eighteen, with a pulmonary complaint, which finally overthrew all the fond expectations of herself and friends. Led by slow degrees to the precincts of a premature grave, she found herself at length compelled to abandon, for other and sublimer contemplation, what had hitherto been to her a source of purest delight, and exchange her thoughts of earthly happiness for hopes of heavenly participation, through the medium of her God: while the unceasing attentions, and undeviating devotedness of her lover, during the whole period of her fatal illness, pressing on the grateful, and most exquisite sensibilities of her

nature, endeared him to her even in the arms of dissolution. She died the

10th of July, 1812.

THE VISION.

DEEP in a shade, through banks of flow'rs,

The streamlet wound its way,

And softly sped the noiseless hours

As on the bank I lay.

While thus, in a voluptuous calm,
I watch'd the gliding stream,
My eyes were steep'd in slumber's balm,
My heart in Fancy's dream.

I saw a maiden, wond'rous fair,

Glance through the thicken'd shade,
The ringlets of whose golden hair

With murmuring zephyrs play'd.
From her bright eyes serenely beam'd
The heaven's purest blue,

And on her cheek the rose had seem'd
To shed its softest hue.

Upon her balmy lips there play'd
A smile of gladness meek;
Yet from her eye a tear drop stray'd
Adown her rosy cheek.

Ah! how my throbbing pulses beat
In such dear dream of bliss!

For ne'er seem'd transport half so sweet
So exquisite as this.

I flew to clasp her to my heart-
Alas! vain fleeting trance!-

A deadly paleness mark'd each part,
And stay'd my rash advance.

Intent on me she fixed her eye,

Then, pointing to above,

The gentle spirit breathed a sigh,
And vanish'd from the grove!

Farewell! farewell! remembered shade!
And, O! sad dream, farewell!
Too surely what that look convey'd
My aching heart can tell,

"To taste unmix'd the joys of love
To mortals ne'er was given;
Then, as its happy home's ABOVE;

MR. OLDSCHOOL,

Seek not on EARTH for HEAVEN."

. F.

FOR THE PORT FOLIO.

If the following original lines are deemed worthy of a place in The Port Folio, an insertion thereof would oblige,

Yours, &c.

*'Twas in the dead of night! the orb of day
Had fled to distant climes; all nature lay
Enwrapt in shadowy robe; Silence her reign
Had spread wide o'er the interminable plain;
And every creature, fearful of the gloom,
Had found in sleep's embrace a transient tomb-
Save Eliphaz. His troubled fancy sought

In vain, midst Morpheus' realms, retreat from thought:

All wakeful, as the poet turn'd his eye

Within, some pleasing prospect to descry;

Sublime and heavenly thoughts his soul inspir'd,

And intellectual scenes his fancy fir'd.

When, lo! an awful form near to him drew,

From realms etherial burst upon his view:

A Spirit pass'd before his face!-affright

Unnerv'd his frame-he view'd the chilling sight-
And as he view'd, his shivering bones confess'd

The awful conflict raging in his breast.

With horror stood erect his streaming hair,
And ev'ry sense was palsied with despair.
Though suddenly, to his astonish'd view,
Unlook'd-unwish'd for, the fell phantom drew:

* Vide Job, chap. iv. 13, 19.