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Frail being of a day!

"Twill leave a gloom upon the wild,
Where erst it sweetly bloomed and smiled,
Such as would shroud terrestrial things,
Should the archangel's radiant wings
Sweep suns and stars away.

Rocks too in wild confusion lie,
That once perhaps were to the sky
In storms sulphurious driven;
By belching flames right upwards hurl'd;
The ruins of a tortured world

Against the breast of heaven.

Their forms fantastic-sable front-
Show they have stood some fiery brunt,
Whose smoke in eddying volumes rolled,
In sable clouds involv'd each pole,
Blotted the sun's effulgent light,
And turn'd the day to gloomy night.
Here in some dark portentous hour,
Nature has felt the rending power
Of the tremendous sons of fire;
Earthquake dread-eruption dire;
Convulsive shock-sulphurious storm;
That oft her fairest scenes deform.
Of these, the awful signs still linger,
Undimmed by time's effacing finger:
They'll linger still while nature lasts-
The monuments of ruin past.
In distant times, the musing sage
Shall view this scene of strife and rage,
And elemental war;

And tell in words with wonder fraught,
The awful ruin they have wrought
On wood and wold and scaur.

Here many an Indian,-nature's child-
Nursed 'mid the gloom of desart wild,
With nerve well braced, and nimble feet,
Pursued the course of wild deer fleet;
Or chace being o'er, sunk to repose,
Regardless of to-morrow's woes.
O wilding scene! what warriors bold
Have roamed thy wood, thy hill, thy wold!

With daring soul and courage high,
And dauntless heart, and falcon eye,
Have marked where hated foemen lay,
Then rushed like tiger on their prey;
Or prowled like wolf in fen and brake,
And stung their foe like venomed snake.
The pale moon beams that o'er thee glance,
Have lighted oft their midnight dance:
Those rocks that round them scattered lie,
Have witnessed oft their revel high;
The murdering feast-the piercing yell,
That woke the echoes of the dell;
Frightened the grim wolf in his den,
And roused the dun deer in his glen;
Hushed the lonely whip-poor-will;
The raven heard it and was still;
Silenced the owlets mournful cry,
And woke the eagle's slumber high:
The rapture fierce, a savage knows,
Exulting o'er his vanquish'd foes;
The keen resentment flaming high,
That swears to be revenged or die;
Of grief and woe the frantic strain,
For brothers, friends, in battle slain;
Or all in rout and tumult tost,
For adverse fate and battle lost.
Here did the victim oft expire,
By torments slow and wasting fire;
When lit was fire and victim bound,
And clenched was knife to give the wound,
And foes insulting crowded round;
His eye, while they keen pangs invent,
And on inflicting them are bent,
Flashed a fiercer hardiment.

On his swart brow and sallow cheek,
Glowed sternly contempt's deepest streak;
His quiv'ring lip and nostril curled,
Spoke stern defiance on the world.
Their furious rage-their torments dire;
The flaying knife and scorching fire;
All their inventions to subdue
His soul-to sternest virtue true;
Compel him meanly to complain;
Extort one single look of pain,

Or wring one solitary sigh,

Passed like a breeze unheeded by.

Where are those monarchs of the wood,
Whose pride was war-whose glory, blood;
Those heroes fierce, of giant might,
Of haughty mien, and piercing sight,
Beneath whose look the coward quailed,
Whose foot the tiger's den assailed,
Whose yell as up the chase they led
Wolf, wildcat, fox and dun deer fled;
Of daring soul and callous brow,
Those heroes fierce-where are they now;
They're gone as all things earthly must,
And mingled with their parent dust.
The wintry blast will ruin bring
On every tender flower of spring;
Yet spring returns-the flower will rise;
But death's cold sleep has closed their eyes.
High towers the oak-but winter's blast
Will crush its mighty form at last:

High towered their souls-but time's cold hand
Has swept these heroes from the land.
A few rude piles of shattered stones
Form the investment of their bones:
Tis all that love, that friendship gave,
From blank oblivion to savé,
The glorious actions of the brave.
Vain monuments of human pride!
Ye tell that some one lived and died;
But who he was, or what his name,
Is blotted from the rolls of fame.
The trophies bright he may have won,
And all his deeds of glory done,
Have now no place beneath the sun.
No Pæan's lofty strain was rung;
No harp to wildest rapture strung;
No grey-haired minstrel gave his name
To the perennial wing of fame;
But all his deeds of glory bright
Are shrouded in eternal night.

Like tints that tinged an evening scene,

Or flower that bloomed in copsewood green;

Like northern blast that whistled by,
Or stars that blazed athwart the sky,
They've had their course-they've had their day,
And passed forevermore away.

Village Greatness.

In every country village where
Ten chimney smokes perfume the air,
Contiguous to a steeple ;

Great gentle folks are found a score,
Who can't associate any more,

With common "country people.”,

Jack Fallow, born among the woods,
From rolling logs, now rolls in goods,
Enough a while to dash on-
Tells negro stories, smokes segars,
Talks politics, decides on wars,

Drinks rum and lives in fashion.

Tim Oxgad, lately from the plough,
A polish'd gentleman is now,
And talks of country fellows,
But ask the fop what books he's read,
You'll find the brain pan of his head,
As empty as a bellows.

Miss Faddle lately from the wheel,
Begins quite lady like to feel,
And talks affectedly genteel,

And sings some tasty songs too :

But my veracity impeach,

If she can tell what part of speech
Gentility belongs to.

Without one speech of wit refin'd
Without one beauty of the mind,
Genius or education;

Or family or fame to boast,
To see such gentry rule the toast,
Turns patience to vexation.

you;

Amidst the rubbish of the earth,
Should real genius, mental worth,
The aid of science lend
You might as well the stye refine;
Or cast your pearls before the swine,
They'd only turn and rend you.

Ode for the New Year-1817.

I. 1.

WITH pinions yet untir'd for flight,
Time wildly speeds adown the storm of years,
And still his banner dark uprears

Through joy's ecstatic reign, and sorrow's night. Empires may fall, and states decay,

Earth's proudest glories fade away,

But time holds on his unmolested course,
Sweeping through the tempests hoarse;
With unrelenting hand, destroying wide
The pomp and boast of human pride,
And dooming to one common grave,

The great in soul, the fair, the virtuous and the brave!

I. 2,

Youth hails him as he hastens on,

And chides his tedious flight and long delay;

Age mourns the evening of the day,

When all its former joys shall soon be gone.

And he, the dark destroyer, flings

Upon the winds his rapid wings,

Unmark'd, so sudden and so swift, his flight,

By the dim and dizzy sight;

Till o'er the closing drama, death enfold

His misty curtain, drear and cold,

And youth's fond dream, and age's sigh,

At once entomb'd and lost, in lonely silence lie!

1. 3.

There in common rest shall sleep

Hearts that joy, and eyes that weep;

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