Enjoy'd the peace your valor won.
Let independence be our boast,
Ever mindful what it cost;
Ever grateful for the prize,
Let its altar reach the skies.
Firm-united-let us be,
Rallying round our liberty;
As a band of brothers join'd,
Peace and safety we shall find.

Immortal patriots! rise once more;
Defend your rights, defend your shore:
Let no rude foe, with impious hand
Invade the shrine where sacred lies,
Of toil and blood the well-earn'd prize.
While offering peace, sincere and just,
In Heaven we place a manly trust,
That truth and justice will prevail,
And every scheme of bondage fail.

Sound, sound the trump of fame,

Let WASHINGTON's great name

Ring through the world with loud applause,
Let ev'ry clime to freedom dear,
Listen with a joyful ear.

With equal skill, and god-like power,
He govern'd in the fearful hour
Of horrid war; or guides, with ease,
The happier times of honest peace.

Behold the Chief, who now commands,
Once more to serve his country stands—
The rock on which the storm will beat,
But arm'd in virtue, firm and true,
His hopes are fix'd on Heaven and you.
While hope was sinking in dismay,
And glooms obscured Columbia's day,
His steady mind, from changes free,
Resolved on Death or Liberty.

RICHARD B. DAVIS

Was born in New York, August 21st, 1771. He studied at Columbia College, but was too diffident to attempt any learned profession, and chose the trade of his father, who was a car

ver. In 1796 however, he was prevailed upon to become editor of The Diary, a daily paper in New York. He soon grew dissatisfied with the occupation, and gave it up at the end of the year. After this, he engaged in trade. In the autumn of 1799, the yellow fever prevailing in the city, he removed with his family to New Brunswick in New Jersey, but not before he had imbibed the disease. He died in his twentyeighth year. His poems were collected and published with a memoir in

1807.

TO A SLEEPING INFANT.

SWEET are thy slumbers, innocence, reclined
On the fond bosom of maternal love;

Calm as the lake whose waters gently move,
Wafting the spirit of the dying wind.

For thee affection wakes with pleasing care,
Delighted smiles, and breathes the fervent prayer.

Far different is sleep, when labor faints

On his hard couch, when restless avarice quakes;
When from the scene of dread that conscience paints,
Affrighted guilt with sudden horror wakes;
When from the eye of day misfortune shrinks,
And on his bed of thorns despondent sinks.

When night recalls the toilsome day of care,
When hopeless love catches in short repose
Scenes that alike his aching bosom tear,
Visions of shadowy bliss or real woes.

For dreams like these, and nights of anxious pain,
Manhood thy peaceful slumbers must resign,

And all his boasted wisdom sigh in vain
For the calm blessings of a sleep like thine.

THOU ART THE MUSE.

No genius lends its sacred fire
To animate my song;

To me no heaven-presented lyre
Or muse-taught verse belong.

She who first charm'd my soul to love,
Inspired the tuneful breath;
With love-instructed hand I wove
For her the early wreath.

I'VE seen the loveliest roses blow
That Hudson's verdant banks adorn;
I've seen the richest crimson glow
That paints the smiling face of morn:

I've listen'd while the evening gale,
(Fraught with the sweets of many a flower,
Wafted sweet incense through the vale,
And bless'd the contemplative hour.

Sweet tints the blushing rose adorn,

And sweet the rays of morning shine Sweet are the sounds by zephyrs borne, But sweeter charms, my fair, are thine.

The rose shall droop, its charms shall fade,
Clouds shall obscure the brightest day;
Music shall cease to bless the shade,
And even thy beauties must decay:

But the bright flame that warms thy breast,
Beams from those eyes, and tunes that tongue,
Virtue-shall ever shine confess'd,

And ever claim my noblest song.