No longer the joy of the Sailor-boy's breast,
Was heard in his wildly breath'd numbers;
The Sea bird had flown to her wave girdled nest;
The fisherman sunk in his slumbers.

One moment I look'd from the hill's gentle slope,
(All hush'd was the billow's commotion,)
And thought that the beacon look'd lovely as Hope,
That star of life's tremulous ocean.

The time is long past, and the scene is afar,
Yet when my head rests on its pillow,
Will memory sometimes rekindle the star,

That blaz'd on the breast of the billow.

In life's closing hour, when the trembling soul flies,
And death stills the heart's last emotion,
Oh! then may the seraph of mercy arise,
Like a star on Eternity's ocean!

THE EMIGRANTS' GRAVE.

BY WILLIAM ROBERT SPENCER, ESQ.

"Why mourn ye? Why strew ye, those flowrets around, "To yon new sodded grave as your slow steps advance?" In yon new sodded grave, (ever dear be the ground). Lies the stranger we lov'd, the poor exile from France.

"And is the poor exile at rest from his woe,

"No longer the sport of misfortune and chance? "Mourn on, village mourners, my tears too shall flow, "For the stranger ye lov'd, the poor exile from France."

Oh, kind was his nature, though bitter his fate,
And gay was his converse, though broken his heart,
No comfort, no hope, his own heart could elate,
Though comfort and hope he to all could impart.

Ever joyless himself, in the joys of the plain,

Still foremost was he, mirth and pleasure to raise,
And sad was his soul, yet how blithe was his strain,
When he sung the glad song of more fortunate days.

One pleasure he knew, in his straw-covered shed,
For the snow-beaten beggar his faggots to trim;
One tear of delight he could drop on the bread,
Which he shar'd with the poor, still poorer than him.

And when round his death bed, profusely we cast,

Ev'ry gift, every solace our hamlet could bring,
He blest us with sighs, which we thought were his last,
But he still had a prayer for his Country and King.

Poor Exile, adieu! undisturb'd be thy sleep;

From the feast, from the wake, from the village green dance, How oft shall we wander, by moon-light to weep,

O'er the stranger we lov'd, the poor exile from France.

To the church going bride, shall thy mem❜ry impart,
One pang, as her eyes o'er thy cold relicks glance;
One flower from her garland, one tear from her heart,
Shall drop on the grave of the Exile from France.

JOHN WILKES, AT BATH,

TO A LITERARY FRIEND-SEPT. 22, 1784.
(Not included in any collection of his Poems.)

Whilst you illumine Shakespeare's page,

And dare the future critick's rage,

Or on the past refine;

Here, many an eve I pensive sit,

No Burke pours out a stream of wit,
No Boswell joys o'er wine.

At Baia's spring, of Roman fame,
I quaff the pure ætherial flame,
To fire my languid blood:
Life's gladsome days, alas! are o'er,
For health's phlogiston now no more
Pervades the stagnant flood.

Studious at times, I strive to scan,
Hope's airy dream-the end of man,
In systems wise or odd;

With Hume, I fate and death defy,
Or visionary phantoms spy,

With Plato and Monbodd'.

By metaphysick whims distress'd,
Still sceptick thoughts disturb my breast,
And reason's out of tune;

One serious truth let none impeach,

"Tis all philosophy can teach,

That man's an air balloon,

The Stranger will be published semi-monthly at the Reading-Room of Mr. John Cook. It will be issued as usual on Saturday Afternoon; each number to contain sixteen pages. The almost unanimous wish of his subscribers has induced Mr. Cook to alter the mode of publication, in this manner

Printed for JOHN COOK, by E. & E. HOSFORD, Albany.

L

THE STRANGER.

"Therefore as a STRANGER, bid it welcome."

HAMLET.

No. 6.

SATURDAY, AUGUST 28, 1813.

VOL. I.

REVIEW.

Art. II. Poems, by Samuel Rogers Philadelphia. Bradford and Inskeep, and Inskeep and Bradford, New-York, 1813, 18mo p. 206.

THE present age is remarkably prolifick in poets, and their writings, we believe, are as much read, as novels or romances formerly were. Indeed, within the circle of our own observation, we have met with several fair damsels, who have almost abjured the productions of the Minerva press, for those of the Ballantynes; and, instead of shuddering over the horrours of Italian castles, with their accompaniments of funereal palls, and murderous banditti, they now joyfully transport their imaginations to the heath-covered plains of Scotland, where the most terrifick object that presents itself, is a highland chieftain, or a stark moss trooper. This alteration in public taste, is however, more in appearance, than in reality: A majority of modern Rhymers exercise their talents in the invention of romantick tales, which, in no case, arise to the dignity of epic poetry; although from the limits that custom prescribes, they are prevented from introducing the odious trash of prosaick fiction. Whether this enlargement of the subjects of poetry is conducive to the advancement of what was formerly supposed to be, its legitimate ends, we are not prepared to examine. It is sufficient that literature and morals are improved by the change, and we rejoice that it is so.

It is matter of congratulation that the work before us, is not written in the manner, nor is liable to the censures which have been so lavishly heaped on those arch hereticks, Scott and Southey. Their merits have been so ably investigated on one side of the Atlantic, that many of our writers have merely adopt

VOL. I.