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or two waiting for that which rarely lasts a

minute.

Yours, &c.

TRAVESTY.

1

Epigram.

Says Talley to Nap, a resource I espy,

That completely, I think, all my other schemes flogs, The country we'll drive-cry the d-d English dogs; But they lie, the dull rogues; all their arts I defy.

They may drive off their oxen, their sheep, and their
hogs;

But their ponds and their ditches our wants will supply:
The fools haven't thought yet of driving their frogs.

QUIZ.

Anacreon Moore.-From a New York Paper,

July 9.

Thomas Moore, known by his elegant translation of Anacreon, lately left this city on an expedition to view the falls of Niagara. The polite and distinguished attention shewn to this youthful poet by the people of Philadelphia, made a forcible impression on his feelings, and drew from him the following impromptu lines, a day or two previous to his departure from that city :

Alone by the Schuylkill a wanderer rov'd,

And bright were its flowery banks to his eye, ▾
But far, very far were the friends that he lov'd,
And he gaz'd on its flowery banks with a sigh.

Oh nature! tho' blessed and bright are thy rays,
O'er the brow of creation enchantingly thrown,
How faint are they all to the lustre that plays

In a smile from the heart that is dearly our own.
Nor long did the soul of this stranger remain

Unblest by the smile he had languish'd to meet, Oh scarce did he hope it would bless him again, Till the threshold of home had been kiss'd by his feet. But the lays of his boyhood had stol'n to their ear,

And they lov'd what they knew of so humble a name, And they told him (with flattery welcome and dear,) That they found in his heart something dearer than fame. Nor did woman-Oh! woman, whose form and whose soul Are the spell and the light of each path we pursue, Whether sunn'd in the tropic, or chill'd at the pole, If woman be there, there is happiness tooNor did she her enamouring magic deny : That magic his heart had relinquish'd so long; Like eyes he had lov'd was her eloquent eye, Like them did it soften and weep at his

Oh blest be the tear, and in memory soft

song.

**

May its sparkle be shed o'er his wandering dream,

Oh blest be that eye, and may passion as soft,
As free from a pang, ever mellow its beam.

The stranger is gone-but he will not forget

When at home he shall talk of the toils he has known, To tell with a sigh what endearments he met,

As he stray'd by the wave of the Schuylkill alone.

* Mr. Moore here alludes to an occurrence during his visit at Philadelphia. He obliged a company of friends with a little plaintive song, which he sung with such exquisite taste and pathos, as drew tears from one of the ladies present.

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America.-The Boston Humane Society lately celebrated the anniversary of their institution. After the election of officers, and other business of the anniversary, the society went in procession to the chapel church, where, after prayers, by the Rev. Mr. Gray, a scientific discourse, embracing the great objects of the society, was pronounced by Dr. John C. Howard; and the following original Ode, written by R. T. Paine, jun. esq. was sung by Mrs. Jones.

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O'er the swift flowing stream, as the tree broke in air,
Plung'd a youth in the tyrannous wave;

No ear heard his shriek; faint with toil and despair,
He sunk, and was whelm'd in his grave!

RECITATIVE.

See humanity's angel alight on the scene!

Tho' the shadows of death have dissembled his mien,
See his corse is redeem'd from the stream's icy bed,
And a mother's wild grief shrieks, "Alas! he is dead!"

AIR-LARGO MAESTOSO.

Spirit of the Vital Flame!

Touch with life his marble frame!

From the day-star's radiant choir

Bring thy torch of quenchless fire,
And bid a mother's hope respire!

ALLEGRO.

Hither, sparkling cherub, fly!
Mercy's herald, cleave the sky!

To human prayer benignant heaven
The salient spring of life has given;
And Science, while her eye explores
What power the dormant nerve restores,
Surveys the Godhead, and adores;
And him, the first of glory's clan,
Proclaims, who saves a fellow man!

MAESTOSO.

Spirit of the Vital Flame!
Touch again his marble frame!
Bid the quivering nerve return,
'Till the kindling eye discern

A mother's tears with rapture burn!

ALLEGRO ASSAI.

Behold, the quick'ning spirit raise

The trembling limb, the wandering gaze!
Instinct listens! memory wakes!
Thought from cold extinction breaks;
Reason, motion, frenzy, fear,

Religion's triumph, nature's tear,

Almighty Power, thy hand is here!

While fair religion keeps her standard here,
The God of Israel will be ever near;
But while we hear from far the din of arms,
And Europe feels convulsed with war's alarms,
In this dread time of wrath let Britain pray,
That God would cast the threat'ning sword away,
Once more the olive branch of peace bestow,
And put an end to sin and death and woe.

Lines on the Funeral Procession of the late Lord Nelson, January 9, 1806.

See where the Britons crowd with solemn state!
And round the ashes of some hero wait.

Behold them clad, each in a sable vest,

By outward signs their inward grief exprest.
For whom moves all this great funereal show?
For whom do briny tears of sorrow flow?
Great Nelson's gone-long England's pride and boast,
The great defender of his native coast.

He's gone-the terror of the tyrant shore,
Where his loud cannons shall resound no more.
He's gone the idol of his faithful crew,
Who, at his signal, prompt with vigour flew.
He's gone-but laurels still shall crown his head,
He ever lives, tho' number'd with the dead.
The sculptur'd stone shall raise his honours high,
And long the ravages of time defy;

But a more sure, more priz'd, more honor'd place,
The memory of Nelson still shall grace,
Shall sound responsive to his merit's claim,
The grateful bosom, shall preserve his name.
Peace to his shade!-tho' sorrow's deadly darts
So deeply wound, so agonize our hearts,
Yet, not insensible to mercies left,

We own that God has not our land bereft ;
How many still remain the Trident's boast,
See! for our aid they stand a numerous host,
Their wisdom, courage, and their zeal unite,
To gall our foes, and put their force to flight.
How many brave for us the winds and waves,
Nor start at death, nor shrink from watery graves.
Brave Collingwood, may I thy name résound,
In whom such judgment, and such zeal were found!

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