his agency obliged him to make a voyage to England in 1803, and on his return to his native country the following year, he retired from business to a country residence near Philadelphia, where he continued to reside until his death, which occurred on the 12th of March, 1821. He was a polished scholar, and retained his classical knowledge until the time of his death. In his retirement he read much, and his mind was literally a storehouse of learning. Possessed of a powerful memory, he was a living index to what had passed and still was passing in the world, and yet the writings of his early days alone entitle him to notice here, as he was not ambitious of literary distinction. In 1785, he published a small volume of poems, which was republished in London the following year. He wrote much on the politics of the times, but these papers have passed into oblivion, with the incidents which gave them birth and interest.

THE FALL OF ZAMPOR.

A PERUVIAN ODE.

Now ruin lifts her haggard head
And madly staring horror screams!
O'er yonder field bestrew'd with dead,
See, how the lurid lightning gleams!

Lo! 'mid the terrors of the storm,

From yonder black brow'd cloud of night,
The mighty Capac's dreadful form
Bursts forth upon my aching sight!

But ah! what phantoms, fleeting round
Give double horrors to the gloom,
Each pointing to the ghastly wound
That sent him, shroudless to the tomb !

On me they bend the scowling eye;
For me their airy arms they wave!
Oh! stay-nor yet from Zampor fly,
We'll be companions in the grave!—

Dear victims of a tyrant's rage!

They're gone!-each shadowy form is fled, Yet soon these hoary locks of age

Shall low as theirs in dust be laid!

Thou faithless steel, that harmless fell
Upon the haughty Spaniard's crest,
Swift to my swelling heart, go tell

How deep thou'st pierced thy master's breast.

But shall curst Spain's destroying son,
With transport smile on Zampor's fate?
No! ere the deed of death be done
The tyrant's blood shall glut my hate.

Yon forked flash with friendly glare
Points where his crimson'd banners fly,
Look down, ye forms of fleeting air,
I yet shall triumph ere I die!

He spoke and like a meteor's blaze

Rush'd on th' unguarded Spaniard's lord; Around his head the lightning playsReflected from his brandish'd sword:

"Great Capac nerve the arm of age,

And guide it swift to Garcia's breast, His pangs shall all my pangs assuage, His death shall give my country rest.

Ye powers who thirst for human blood

Receive this victim at your shrine ! " Aghast the circling warriors stood

66

Nor could prevent the chief's design.

""T is Garcia's crimson stream that flows,
'Tis Zampor hurls him to his fate-
The author of my country's woes
Now sinks the victim of my hate."

From Garcia's breast the steel he drew
And sheathed it deep within his own-

"I come, ye gods of lost Peru,"

He said and died without a groan.

ODE TO MEDITATION.

OH! thou, who lov'st to dwell
Within some far sequester'd cell,
Unknown to Folly's noisy train,
Untrod by Riot's step profane,
Meek Meditation! silent maid,
To thee my votive verse be paid;
To thee, whose mildly pleasing power
Could check wild youth's impetuous flight,

And in affection's gloomy night

Could soothe the "torturing hour,"

To thee the strains belong;

But say, what powerful spell,

What magic force of song

Can lure thy solemn steps, to my uncultured bower

By night's pale orb, beneath whose ray

With thee thy Plato oft would stray;

By the brilliant star of morn

That saw thee bend o'er Solon's urn;

By all the tears you shed

When Numa bow'd his languid head;

By the mild joys that in thy breast would swell,
When Antonine, by grateful realms adored,

Majestic Rome's immortal lord,

Would leave the toils, the pomp of state,
The crimson splendors of the victor's car,
The painful pleasures of the great,

The shouts of triumph, and the din of war,
In Tiber's hallowed groves with thee to dwell.

But ah!-on Grecian plains no more
Exists the taste for ancient lore,

For from oppression's scourge the muses fled;
And Tiber's willow'd banks along
Where Maro pour'd the classic song,

Grim superstition stalks with giant tread.

Yet can Columbia's plains afford
The magic spell, the potent word ;-
A spell to charm thy sober ear,
A name to thee, to freedom dear!—

By the soft sigh that stole o'er Schuylkill's wave,

When he around whose urn

Dejected nations mourn,

Immortal Franklin sunk into the grave;
By his thoughts, by thee inspired;

By his works by worlds admired;
By the tears by science shed,
O'er the patriot's dying head;
By the voice of purest fame

That gave to time his deathless name,
By these, and every powerful spell,
Oh! come meek nymph, with me to dwell.

The garland weave for Franklin's head,
Wreaths of oak from Runnymead,
Where the British barons bold

Taught their king in days of old,

To tremble at insulted Freedom's frown,

And venerate the rights her children deem'd their own. For he, like them, intrepid rose

Against insulted Freedom's foes,

Fix'd the firm barrier 'gainst oppression's plan,

And dared assert the sacred rights of man!

And in the wreath, which Freedom's hand shall twine

To deck her champion's ever honor'd shrine,

The victor's laurel shall be seen

In folds of never-dying green;
The muses too, shall bring
Each flow'ret of the spring,

Wet with the beamy tears of morn;

And there with all her tresses torn,

What time meek twilight's parting ray
Sinks lingering in nights dun embrace,
Pale-eyed Philosophy shall stray
In hopes his awful form to trace,
Hovering on some pregnant cloud,

From whence, while thunders burst aloud,
From whence, while through the trembling air
In lurid streams the lightnings glare,

His rod her head she 'll wave around,
And lead the harmless terrors to the ground.

But, should milder scenes than these
Thy sober, pensive bosom please,
We'll seek the dark embrowning wood
27

VOL. I.

That frowns o'er broad Ohio's flood,
And while amid the gloom of night
No twinkling star attracts the sight;
And while beneath, the sullen tide
Shall in majestic silence glide,
We'll listen to the notes of wo,
By echo borne from plains below,
Where Genius droops his laurel'd head,
And Honor mourns a Clymer dead.

Thou sullen flood, whose dreary shore
Has oft been stain'd with streams of gore,
Ah! never did a meeker tear

Impearl thy banks from Virtue's eye;
Ah! never did thy breezes bear

A purer breath than Clymer's sigh.
Ye plains that saw sedition wave
Her impious banners to the wind,
With you the youth has found his grave,
To you is virtue's friend consign'd;
Yet still, as each succeeding race
Through time to fate shall pass away,
Ah! never shall your sods embrace
A dearer pledge than Clymer's clay.

Oft o'er the spot that wraps his head
Shall Pity's softest tears be shed,
There Friendship's sacred form shall comé
To strow with flowers his Clymer's tomb,
And while the queen of night shall shroud
Her beams behind some threatening cloud;
And while the western mountain's brow
The star of eve shall sink below;
And while the consecrated ground
Mute Melancholy stalks around,
There, Meditation, shalt thou find
A scene to suit thy sober mind,
There Fancy's hand shall form the cell
In which thou long shalt love to dwell,
And undisturbed by wild sedition's tread,
Muse o'er the virtues of the silent dead.