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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 light'nings, my foes to consume.
Give-give me the wings of the whirlwind to sweep
The deer-footed tribe from yon sea-beaten steep.

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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 death-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 ambushes, 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
His name to the race of Maronoc is dear.

year,

'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. Romama 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.
Holloo! Holloo! was soon 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,

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Shame! That what my poor husband's head had

worn,

An odious Dog's appendage should be borne!"

IN MEMORY OF

JOHN CAMPBELL, OF BELFAST, MERCHANT,

DIED AGED 73.

BY DR. DRENNAN.

"TIs not the heap of dust this tomb contains,
This wreck of nature forms not his remains.
But truth, and worth, plain, simple, and sincere,
By friends long felt, now hallow'd by their tear;
And manners mild, affectionate and kind,
The faithful mirror of his candid mind."
Temp'rate and prudent, regular and just,
His guardian care still active to its trust.
Sparing in words, but speaking in the deed,
No narrow sect pal'd in his christian creed:
Deed without show, his evangelic plan;
He worshipp'd God by doing good to Man.
In peace, he passed his rev'rend length of days,
Nor courted, nor contemn'd the public praise;
But Mem❜ry careful of a good man's fame,
A civic wreath, here, twines around his name,
And still in death, the fond attachment bears,
Which grac'd his life, and crown'd his silver hairs.
These, the remains which burst the narrow room,
Live-and come forth from CAMPBELL's honour'd
tomb.

BONAPARTE.

-Adjectis Britannis

Imperio.

'Twas thus the proud Napoleon said
While Europe's leaguer'd banners fled,
While blighted monarchs crouch'd to die
At the black light'nings of his eye,
While kingdoms wither'd at his tread
"Twas thus the proud Napoleon said:
"Onward! soldiers, bolder on!
Give me the cliffs of Albion !
Think how firm our laurel sits
Stiff with the blood of Austerlitz,
Think of the tale that Ulm can tell,
Think of the hour when Prussia fell,
And Wagram where the mighty lie,
The red, red grave of Germany!
Think how we crush'd and mock'd and chid,
The rebel boasters of Madrid.

Think, think of these; press bolder on

And give me, give me Albion!

Oh! 'twill be easy to beguile
The monarch of a paltry isle,
To teach the dolt my chains to wear,
And thank me for the life I spare!
Then on my comrades, bolder on,
And give me, give me Albion!

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