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And when in the grave thy foul carcase shall rot,

May the nettle and nightshade wave rankly around, And our children, disdainfully spurning the spot,

Cry “the meanest of mortals is laid in this ground!” O impotent curses ! for what is to thee Fair fame, song harmonious, ur nature's gay

bloom? Aught lovely or radiant thy soul loathes to see,

And lives, like a toad, amidst poison and gloom. But though Mammon, thy sovereign master, thy heart

Has nearly, I know, render'd callous all o'er, There still is one spot unsecur’d, where the dart

Of Anguish may enter, and pierce to the core. No prayer do I breathe that thy idoliz'd gold May be rent from thy grasp; 'twere the prayer

friend; For if such a loss thou wert doom’d to behold,

Either madness or death all thy misery would end. No: polluter of earth! long on earth may'st thou move

A living anatomy! long be thy mind Condemn'd all the lingering tortures to prove

Which are felt by the beings to avarice resign'd.
Yes: for

years,
tedious

years, of thy riches the slave . May’st thou live; and be fated each hour to repine, That thy hoard swells less fast than thy wild wishes

crave, That the hoard of another is larger than thine. In the dead of the night may’st thou shudder and weep

As thou dream’st that thy treasures are melting away; Then in agony start from thy feverish sleep,

And fancy the robber thou hear'st at his prey.

Ever haunted by doubt, by suspicion, and fear,

May each mortal thou meet’st seem a plundering ell, And even the kindness of kindred appear

By artifice prompted, and aim'd at thy pelf. Nor end torment here. When at length from its clay

Thy sullen, thy miscreant spirit retires, Round the coffers ador'd be it destin’d to stray,

And feel, unimpair'd, all its earthly desires. Then, O pain worse than death! scatter'd wide

may

it view Those hoards scrap'd together with infamous care ; While, carousing in midst of a riotous crew, Loudly scoffs at thy folly thy prodigal heir.

R. A. D. Twickenham,

ANSWER

TO AN INDELICATE VALENTINE.

Your method of wooing a Nymph so divine

Was indeed, my dear Colin, a coarse one: And while you set up to be sweet Valentine, You're more like his rough brother Orson.

S. W. I.

EPISTLE

From a Scottish Emigrant, settled in America, to his

Friend in Scotland.

BY A, BALFOUR, ESQ.

To thee, long lost, but still remember'd friend,
From this lone world, these humble lines I send;
To happier climes, which I no more shall see,
Tho' half my heart still hovers there with thee.
To chase the langours of this dreary clime,
I seek the aid of heart-composing rhyme;
But ah! in vain I court wild Fancy's fires,
No object charms--no sportive muse inspires :
And like the hours, my listless strain must flow,
A tedious tale of sad protracted woe:
For oh

my
friend!

my

rash resolve I mourn,
And weep for joys that never can return.
Ah hapless hour! when first in Scotia’s vales,
I fondly listen’d to the specious tales
Of Independence, ease, and certain gain,
On fairy fields beyond the western main;
Gay visions rose,

and all

my

soul possest, "Till calm content forsook my aching breast; The toils of trade with cold contempt I spurn'd, With golden hopes my anxious bosom burn'd: .

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For I had heard of fair Columbia's fields,
Where unassisted Nature plenty yields ;
Where choicest fruits and flow'rs spontaneous spring,
And ev'ry settler lives—a rural king;
My casy faith the flatt'ring tale believ'd,
Alas ! too late, I find these hopes deceiv'd!
When last my foot press’d Caledonia's strand,
And you, my friend, held my half trembling hand,
Tho' hope delusive play'd around my heart,
Yet still I linger'd, and was loth to part:
I saw the partner of my early joy
Lead on my blooming girl and sportive boy,
Slow from the shore they scald the vessel's side,
My little all launch'd on the rolling tide;
From friends and country rudely torn away--
My heart their home-my hand their only stay.
Close by the mast I took my silent stand,
My fix'd eye gazing on the less’ning land:
Till lost in air the last hill's distant blue,
Then to my country bade a long adieu !
Then from my bosom burst the parting sigh,
Again I rais'd my fond inquiring eye,
That o'er the dim horizon rang’d in vain,
A changeless scene, of sky and boundless main.

Bright shone the sun, the faithless ocean smild,
And kindling hope my pensive thoughts beguild;
Till the dark tempest and the howling storm,
Gave signs of danger in most direful form.
Too soon confirm'-alas ! one fatal wave
Swept my lov'd William to a wat’ry grave.

No more on deck I mark'd the green wave glide, Or gently rippling kiss the vessel's side; Methought the hours on leaden pinions crept, And drowsy winds in silent chambers slept ;

My only wish to leave the treach'rous main,
In daily toil to banish mental pain.
But ah

my

friend! fix'd to this dreary scene, New griefs arise, fresh sorrows intervene: My sanguine hopes like air-blown bubbles spread, My lands—a forest; and my home—a shed; To clear the ground and shape the infant farm, Were ceaseless labour for a giant's arm; The axe, the spade, unwearied he must wield, Whose task is, not to till, but make the field. The groaning wood must to his strokes resound, For room to form the mansion's narrow bound; When strength and toil the scanty spot has clear'd, Of rugged logs the humble hut is rear'd; With painful haste, in rudest order thrown, And architecture's ev'ry grace unknown; No tow'ring chimney guides the smoke away, No pendent sash receives the morning ray; We think not here of kitchen, parlour, hall, No place is private, and disorder all; Innum'rous chinks gape round the rustic form, Whose walls expel not, but invite the storm; And doubly keen the bitter tempest blows, From wastes deep buried in eternal snows : For hoary Winter reigns majestic here, In stormy grandeur claiming half the year: And when reluctantly he leaves his throne, Not less despotic, Summer rules his own: Impervious woods exclude the gentle gale, Whose cooling breath would glad the thirsty vale; Reflected rays with scorching fervour shine, ”Till Nature sicken, and her children pine. Such are the blessings of this boasted clime, Tor

ages huried in the womb of time;

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