At first, when he began to read,

Their heads the assembly downward hung. But he with boldness did proceed,

And thus he read, and thus they sung.

THE PSALM.

With vast amazement we survey
The wonders of the deep,

Where mackerel swim, and porpoise play,
And crabs and lobsters creep.

Fish of all kinds inhabit here,

And throng the dark abode.

Here haddock, hake, and flounders are,
And eels, and perch, and cod,

From raging winds and tempests free,
So smoothly as we pass,

The shining surface seems to be
A piece of Bristol glass.

But when the winds and tempests rise,
And foaming billows swell,
The vessel mounts above the skies,
And lower sinks than hell.

Our heads the tottering motion feel,
And quickly we become

Giddy as new-dropp'd calves, and reel
Like Indians drunk with rum.

What praises then are due that we
Thus far have safely got,
Amarescoggin tribe to see,

And tribe of Penobscot.

A MOURNFUL LAMENTATION FOR THE DEATH OF

MR OLD TENOR.*

A DOLEFUL tale prepare to hear,

As ever yet was told:

The like, perhaps, ne'er reach'd the ear

Of either young or old.

*A New England currency.

"T is of the sad and woeful death
Of one of mighty fame,

Who lately hath resign'd his breath;
Old Tenor was his name.

In vain ten thousands intercede,
To keep him from the grave;
In vain, his many good works plead ;
Alas! they cannot save.

The powers decree, and die he must,
It is the common lot,

But his good deeds, when he 's in dust,
Shall never be forgot.

He made our wives and daughters fine,
And pleased everybody:

He gave the rich their costly wine,
The poor their flip and toddy.
The laborer he set to work;

In ease maintain'd the great:
He found us mutton, beef, and pork,
And everything we eat.

To fruitful fields, by swift degrees,

He turn'd our desert land:

Where once nought stood but rocks and trees,

Now spacious cities stand.

He built us houses, strong and high,

Of wood, and brick, and stone;

The furniture he did supply;

But now, alas! he's gone.

The merchants too, those topping folks,
To him owe all their riches;

Their ruffles, lace, and scarlet cloaks,
And eke their velvet breeches.

He launch'd their ships into the main,

To visit distant shores;

And brought them back, full fraught with gain,
Which much increased their stores.

Led on by him our soldiers bold,
Against the foe advance;

And took, in spite of wet and cold,
Strong Cape Breton from France.
12*

VOL. I.

Who from that fort the French did drive,
Shall he so soon be slain?
While they, alas! remain alive,
Who gave it back again.

From house to house, and place to place, In paper doublet clad,

He pass'd, and where he show'd his face,
He made the heart full glad.

But cruel death, that spareth none,
Hath robbed us of him too;

Who through the land so long hath gone,
No longer now must go.

In senate he, like Cæsar, fell,

Pierced through with many a wound, He sunk, ah, doleful tale to tell! The members sitting round: And ever since that fatal day, Oh! had it never been, Closely confined at home he lay, And scarce was ever seen,

Until the last of March, when he
Submitted unto fate;

In anno regis twentythree,
Etatis fortyeight.

For ever gloomy be that day,

When he gave up the ghost; For by his death, oh! who can say, What hath New England lost?

Then, good Old Tenor, fare thee well,
Since thou art dead and gone;
We mourn thy fate, e'en while we tell
The good things thou hast done.
Since the bright beams of yonder sun,
Did on New England shine,

In all the land, there ne'er was known
A death so mourn'd as thine.

Of every rank are many seen,

Thy downfal to deplore;

For 't is well known that thou hast been

A friend to rich and poor.

We'll o'er thee raise a silver tomb,
Long may that tomb remain,
To bless our eyes for years to come,
But wishes, ah! are vain.

And so God bless our noble state,
And save us all from harm,
And grant us food enough to eat,
And clothes to keep us warm.
Send us a lasting peace, and keep
The times from growing worse;
And let us all in safety sleep,
With silver in our purse.

LAW bears the name, but money has the power. The cause is bad whene'er the client's poor. Those strict-lived men, who seem above our world, Are oft too modest to resist our gold;

So judgment like our other wares is sold.

And the grave knight, that nods upon the laws,
Waked by a fee, hems and approves the cause.

EXTEMPORE ON THE FOURTH LATIN SCHOOL BEING TAKEN DOWN TO MAKE ROOM FOR ENLARGING THE CHAPEL CHURCH.

the town,

A FIG for your learning, I tell you To make the church larger must pull the school down. "Unluckily spoken," replied Master Birch,

"Then learning, I fear, stops the growth of the church."

WILLIAM LIVINGSTON,

WILLIAM LIVINGSTON, governor of New Jersey, was descended from a Scotch family which settled in New York. He was born in New York about the year 1723, and studied at Yale college, where he received a degree in 1741. He afterwards became a distinguished lawyer, and upon his re

moval to New Jersey, was chosen a member of the first Congress in 1774, having previously signalized himself by his public writings against the encroachments of Britain. In 1776 the inhabitants of New Jersey deposed their colonial governor, and formed a new constitution, under which Livingston was chosen first chief magistrate, and continued to be re-elected to the office till his death. He was a delegate in 1787 to the grand convention which formed the constitution of the United States. He died at his seat near Elizabethtown July 25th, 1790, aged 67.

Governor Livingston, besides his political writings, was the author of various essays upon miscellaneous topics: a poem entitled "Philosophic Solitude, or the choice of a Rural Life," published in 1747, when he was about 24 years of age; and a few short poetical effusions of a subsequent date.

PHILOSOPHIC SOLITUDE.

LET ardent heroes seek renown in arms,
Pant after fame, and rush to war's alarms;
To shining palaces let fools resort,

And dunces cringe to be esteem'd at court:
Mine be the pleasure of a rural life,

4

From noise remote, and ignorant of strife;
Far from the painted belle, and white-gloved beau,
The lawless masquerade, and midnight show,
From ladies, lap-dogs, courtiers, garters, stars,

Fops, fiddlers, tyrants, emperors, and czars.

Full in the centre of some shady grove,

By nature form'd for solitude and love;

On banks array'd with ever blooming flowers,
Near beauteous landscapes, or by roseate bowers;
My neat, but simple mansion I would raise,
Unlike the sumptuous domes of modern days;
Devoid of pomp, with rural plainness form'd,
With savage game, and glossy shells adorn'd.

No costly furniture should grace my hall;
But curling vines ascend against the wall,
Whose pliant branches should luxuriant twine,
While purple clusters swell'd with future wine: