Lally, whose soul the maddening furies claim,
And cursed with longings for the voice of fame.
So when a tyger, flush'd with reeking blood,
Ramps o'er the plains, and tears the leafy wood,
A lion spies him from his secret cave,

Bursts from his stand, to seize the insulting slave;
Then hunts him, generous, from the neighboring fields,
And peace and safety to the forest yields.

O'er Europe too, great George's arms prevail,
And on its seas his fleets triumphant sail;
Witness Belleisle, around whose wave-worn shore
His navies ride, and his loud cannons roar.
Oh! could we boast the seeds of epic song,
Immortal Frederick should the verse prolong;
The chief should shine, inclosed with fields of dead,
And guardian angels hovering round his head.
There, in dread chains the barbarous Russ should bow,
And here, submissive, kneel the Hungarian foe;
There should be seen to bend, the sons of Gaul,

Here lesser troops, his enemies, should fall.
Thus firm a rock, begirt with raging waves,

Stands the fierce charge, though all the tempest raves;
Now round his summit dash the broken tides,
And vainly beat his adamantine sides!
But these we leave to deck the historic page,
And wake the wonder of a future age.

Now let our muse the Paphian trumpet blow,
Beauty 's the theme, and melting strains shall flow.
See Neptune, mounting with his nereid train,
To smooth the surface of the azure main ;
As conscious of his charge, he joys to please
The beauteous Charlotte, mistress of the seas!
The jovial sailors ply their shining oars,

And now they reach fair Albion's white-cliff shores;
With warbling flutes, and hautboy's pleasing sound,
They spread sweet music's silver notes around.
On Cydnus' stream, so once array'd was seen
Fair Cleopatra, Egypt's beauteous queen.

But here we fix, rejoiced to see you bless'd,
And Britain's glory in each clime confess'd!

ELEGY TO THE MEMORY OF MR THOMAS GODFREY.

O DEATH! thou victor of the human frame!
The soul's poor fabric trembles at thy name!
How long shall man be urged to dread thy sway,
For those whom thou untimely tak'st away?
Life's blooming spring just opens to our eyes,
And strikes the senses with a sweet surprise,
When thy fierce arm uplifts the fatal blow
That hurls us breathless to the earth below.

Sudden, as darts the lightning through the sky, Around the globe thy various weapons fly. Here war's red engines heap the field with slain, And pallid sickness there extends thy reign; Here the soft virgin weeps her lover dead, There maiden beauty sinks the graceful head; Here infants grieve their parents are no more, There reverend sires their children's deaths deplore; Here the sad friend-O! save the sacred name, Yields half his soul to thy relentless claim; O pardon, pardon the descending tear! Friendship commands, and not the muses, here. O say, thou much loved, dear departed shade, To what celestial region hast thou stray'd? Where is that vein of thought, that noble fire, Which fed thy soul, and bade the world admire? That manly strife with fortune to be just, That love of praise? an honorable thirst! The soul, alas! has fled to endless day, And left its house a mouldering mass of clay.

There, where no fears invade, nor ills molest, Thy soul shall dwell immortal with the blest; In that bright realm, where dearest friends no more Shall from each other's throbbing breasts be tore, Where all those glorious spirits sit enshrined,

The just, the good, the virtuous of mankind.

There shall fair angels in a radiant ring,

And the great Son of heaven's eternal King,
Proclaim thee welcome to the blissful skies,
And wipe the tears for ever from thine eyes.

How did we hope-alas! the hope how vain!
To hear thy future more enripen'd strain;
When fancy's fire with judgment had combined
To guide each effort of the enraptured mind.

Yet are those youthful glowing lays of thine
The emanations of a soul divine;

Who heard thee sing, but felt sweet music's dart
In thrilling transports pierce his captive heart?
Whether soft melting airs attuned thy song,
Or pleased to pour the thundering verse along,
Still nobly great, true offspring of the Nine,
Alas! how blasted in thy glorious prime!
So when first ope the eyelids of the morn,
A radiant purple does the heavens adorn,
Fresh smiling glory streaks the skies around,
And gaily silvers each enamel'd mound,

Till some black storm o'erclouds the ether fair,
And all its beauties vanish into air.

Stranger, whoe'er thou art, by fortune's hand
Toss'd on the baleful Carolinian strand,
Oh! if thou seest perchance the poet's grave,
The sacred spot with tears of sorrow lave;
Oh! shade it, shade it with ne'er fading bays.
Hallow'd's the place where gentle Godfrey lays.
(So may no sudden dart from death's dread bow,
Far from the friends thou lov'st, e'er lay thee low,)
There may the weeping morn its tribute bring,
And angels shield it with their golden wing,
Till the last trump shall burst the womb of night,
And the purged atoms to their soul unite!

JOHN OSBORN.

JOHN OSBORN was born in the year 1713, at Sandwich, Massachusetts. His father, an educated Scotchman, was then a schoolmaster, but was afterward settled in the ministry at Eastham, where he devoted as much time to the education of his son as could be spared from his agricultural occupations, and his labors for the welfare of his little church. The destitute state of the section of the country in which he lived, rendered manual employment absolutely necessary for the support of every individual, and the worthy divine used alternately to ply his pen in the study, and his spade in the field. His counsel, we are told, was valued quite as highly in

secular, as in spiritual affairs, for he taught his parishioners the art of cutting and preparing peat for fuel; and under his instruction they were enabled to supply a necessity that had often been severely felt, in a region where a tree of spontaneous growth might be sought for with as little success as in the desert of Zahara. His pupil, the poet, meanwhile, was busy one week with his Latin and Greek, and the next in the clam and cod fishery; revelling today among the treasures of classic lore, and storing up the wealth of mighty minds, and digging tomorrow in a sand-bank for the shelly prey that was to be his sustenance during the ensuing winter. In his aquatic excursions, he imbibed those ideas which he has thrown into his celebrated whaling song,-once on the tongue of every Cape Cod sailor. At the age of nineteen, young Osborn entered Harvard College, where he was noticed as a lively and eccentric genius. When his collegiate term was expired, he repaired to his father's house, at Eastham, and while yet undecided what profession to select, devoted a portion of his time to the study of divinity, though the levity of his disposition was such as to preclude all hopes of his prospering in a vocation that would require much gravity and self-denial. After two years spent in turning over the folios in his father's library, he submitted himself to the examination of the neighboring clergy, assembled in solemn conclave, and read a sermon of his composition before them. They praised the ingenuity of his arguments, and the elegance of his composition, but ventured to surmise that his sentiments, as developed in his discourse, were not exactly orthodox.* From their scruples on this head, they refused to grant him a recommendation as a suitable candidate for the ministry. Thus debarred from the pulpit, he turned his thoughts in another direction, and began a course of reading on medicine and surgery. He was afterwards invited to accept

* Osborn's father had been dismissed from his church, for having embraced the doctrines of Arminius. Perhaps the young man's mind was too much distorted by the heresies of his sire, to entitle him to the approbation of the examining committee.

a tutorship at Harvard College, but he declined the honor, on account of his intended matrimonial alliance, which would disqualify him for the station. He married a Miss Doane of Chatham, and removed to Middletown, Connecticut, where he commenced practice as a physician. In a letter to his sister, dated March 1753, he says, "Our family at present are in usual plight, except myself. I am confined chiefly to the house, am weak, lame, and uneasy, and never expect to be hearty and strong again. I have lingered along, almost two years, a life not worth having; and how much longer it will last, I cannot tell. We have six children; the eldest fourteen years old last November-the youngest two years, last January-the eldest a daughter, the next a son, and so on to the end of the chapter."-He died soon after writing the above, at the age of forty.

Mr Osborn possessed that cheerfulness of disposition, and those frank and agreeable manners which palliate many aberrations, and in some degree reconcile us to a volatile temperament. His morals were unimpeached, and his scholastic acquisitions respectable.

His poetic style is rather polished, and his diction quite correct, considering the time and circumstances in which he wrote. It is believed that he never gave but two poems to the world, but his popularity among the people of a soil that has never been remarkably fruitful in poets, entitles him to a place in our collection.

A WHALING SONG.

WHEN spring returns with western gales,
And gentle breezes sweep

The ruffling seas, we spread our sails

To plough the wat'ry deep.

For killing northern whales prepared,
Our nimble boats on board,

With craft and rum (our chief regard)
And good provisions stored,