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Where wasting sickness heaves the secret sigh,
Fires the quick pulse, and dims the languid eye;
While the weak accent, tremulous with grief,
In undistinguish'd woe implores relief;
Or there were meagre poverty in vain
Entreats one opiate in her hour of pain,
And finds her doubting eye first meet the form
Of sympathy, amidst life's closing storm.
Nor there alone, where Want with asking eye,
Moves the parch'd lip, and only begs to die,
Or there where sickness with its numerous train,
Feels every sad variety of pain,
Did she with sweet endearment's softest sound
Court the confided pang, and heal the wound:
Her's too were sorrow's tenderest sympathies,
And all her aidiny, graceful, charities,
For Hope's lost joys, for brighter hours gone by,
The sudden gloom that clouds her summer sky,
When her fair sunshine, once serenely bright,
Sinks in the darkness of a dreadful night;
O'er these, with sympathy's unchanging beam,
She bade sweet pity shed her radiant gleam,
And all her cheering brightness mildly play,
O'er the sad moinents of each wintry day.

Ah! ever prompt with eager step to go, At the soit call of duty, or of woe, I saw her hasten to the fatal bed, There by maternal feeling, ardent led, Saw her regardless of disease's pow'r With looks of love, beguile his dangerous hour, With doubting smiles which hope and fear exprest, Still clasp her treasure trembling to her breast, Still for herself forget disease's reign Whilst all the mother throb’d in ev'ry vein.

Ah! why when thus around that dangerous bed Maternal love her holy influence shed, Why, why, conceald beneath her brightest wreath Did Fate relentless wing his dart of death, And see her droop amidst its blossoms gay A fairer flower, a lovelier far than they? Yes it was hurl'd and in that fatal hour, When nature strove with more than nature's pow'r ; Th' unequal conflict of a mother's throes With all a mother's agonizing woes ; When drooping first she felt the cruel strife, Felt the strong charm that calld her back to life; To her parch'd lips her new-born hope she prest Then trembling gave it from her burning breast, Whilst scarcely conscious of this added tye, Its welcome mingled with a parting sigh.

From that pure sphere, where purest spirits prove The pleading mercy of redeeming love, Still bend a mortal's with an angel's eye, (If aught can mingle of mortality), If earthly thoughts with heavenly bliss can blend, Let thy pure spirit still to earth descend; Oh! turn to those who drooping yet remain, Dear infant wanderers in a world of pain, Prompt every wish, and guileless act which here To thee shall guide them through this world of care; With guardian eye each better thought direct With guardian hand their erring steps protect, And lead them gently through life's thorny road, To meet thee in the bosom of their God.

1809,

THE INCANTATION,

BY WM. CAREY, ESQ.

Scene; a moon-light view of a wild country, on the borders of a

forest. MATACORON, an Indian Warrior, designing a midnight attack upon a hostile tribe, sings the praises of his deceased Father, and by powerful spells raises his spirit, to learn the fate of the approaching battle.

OH, Night, my avengers conceal in thy womb;
Assist me, ye lightnings, my foes to consume.
Give-give me the wings of the whirlwind to sweep
The * deer-footed tribe from yon sea-beaten steep.
Ye ghosts of the valiant, who shine from on + high,
And, nightly, display your proud thrones in the sky,
Hide, hide me; the lights of your victory shroud :
And sleep, thou bright Bow, in yon f deatb-bearing

cloud.

- Swift-footed.

+ The Indians suppose that the ghosts of Warriors, slain in battle, after having slumbered a certain time in the grave, are raised to dwell in the stars, from whence they occasionally descend to wander among the scenes of their former enjoyment.-

Their greatest defeats being the result of nightly marches and àmbushes, they look upon death to be the offspring of Darkness,

Five chiefs of renown, by his arrows, lay dead,
Ere the blood of my Father, in battle, was shed.
He fell by the side of the dark-winding stream,
And the vallies resound with the song of his fame,
How sweet is his sleep in the night of the grave;
For dear is revenge to the soul of the brave.
O’er his ashes, the fierce Potomamac I tore,
And sprinkled the mantle of earth with his gore.
Like a tiger, undaunted he rush'd to the war ;
Like thunder he struck and spread terror afar.
As the blossoms of love, or the spring of the year,
His name to the race of Maronoc is dear.
'Tis now the dread moment when Spirits awake;
'They glide o'er the pines, or ascend from the lake;
They ride on the winds, or re-visit the plain,
Where the moss-covered skulls of the battle remain.
Three scalps of the conquer'd, to * Podor I burn;
At whose voice from Ronama the shadows return.
A snake black with venom, I cast in the flame,
And call on the ghost of my Father, by name,
In his glory he comes like a star in the skies!
He smiles-and the omens of triumph arise !
He speaks--and the time of my wishes is near,
When the race of my foes shall in blood disappear,
In the gloom of the forest, securely they sleep :
But, long ere the sun shall illumine the deep,
This hand which the Spirits of Ruin shall guide,
In a tempest of slaughter shall scatter their pride.

HANTS.

* Podor, the God of the winds, and ruler of deceased spirits. Ronamg the Indian Paradise,

A TOWN SCENE,

BY THEOPHILUS SWIFT, ESQ.

A harmless dog, once passing through the street,
Of idle truants chanced a crew to meet.
Unlucky, lawless, without thought or rule,
On mischief bent, the imps had mitch'd from school.
Seized by the tail, poor Tray began to yelp,
And piteous look'd, as though he pray'd for help.
In vain :- The naughty boys a horn had found,
And to his tail the barbarous log they bound.
Hollwo! Hollou! was suon the common cry:
Holloo ! Holloo ! streets, alleys, lanes, reply:
Loud sounds the horn, as if the French were coming:
Miss screams :-is very sure she hears the drumming,
Old maids inquisitive to windows run;-
" Pray, Monsieur, is the ravishing begun?
Th' approaching shout affrighted matrons hear,
And virgins fear—they know not what they fear.
At length a buxom widow in the crowd,
With all her griefs alive, exclaims aloud,
" Shame! That what my poor husband's head had

worn,
An odious Dog's appendage should be borne!"

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