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Rich in my children, on my arms I bore
Soon as the spires of Albany appeared,
-In bitter anguish o'er her limbs I hung, I wept
and sighed, but sorrow chained my tongue; At length her languid eyes closed from the day, The idol of my soul was torn away; Her spirit fled, and left me ghastly clay!
Then-then my soul rejected all relief, Comfort I wished not, for I loved my grief: “Hear, my Abella,” cried I, “hear me mourn ! For one short moment, O my child! return; Let my complaint detain thee from the skies, Though troops of angels urge thee on to rise”..... My friends press round me with officious care,
Bid me suppress my sighs, nor drop a tear ;
“Go,” cried I, raging, “stoic bosoms, go!
FAIR flower that dost so comely grow,
Hid in this silent, dull retreat,
No roving foot shall crush thee here,
By Nature's self in white arrayed,
She bade thee shun the vulgar eye,
Thus quietly thy summer goes
Thy days declining to repose.
I grieve to see your future doom;
Unpitying frosts and Autumn's power
From morning suns and evening dews
At first thy little being came :
are the same;
between is but an hour,
THE "HE sun sets at night, and the stars shun the day,
But glory remains when their lights fade away: Begin, ye tormentors ! your threats are in vain, For the son of Alknomock can never complain.
Remember the woods where in ambush he lay,
nation Why do ye delay ?-till I shrink from my pain ? Know the son of Alknomock can never complain.
Remember the arrows he shot from his bow;
chiefs by his hatchet laid low! The flame rises high-you exult in my pain ! But the son of Alknomock will never complain. I go to the land where His ghost shall exult in the fame of his son. Death comes like a friend; he relieves me from pain, And thy son, O Alknomock! has scorned to complain.
father is gone;
AMERICA, COMMERCE, AND FREEDOM.
How blest a life a sailor leads,
The scene delights by changing !
howl along the main,
Those friends we've left behind us.
And though landsmen look pale, never heed 'em;
Or safe in port rejoicing,
Whilst out the boat is hoisting.
With eager haste the shore we reach,
Our friends delighted greet us ;
The pretty lasses meet us.
To foot it we merrily lead ’em;
And gladly we receive it;
Who wants, we freely give it.
But cheerfully would lend it;
We earn it but to spend it.
To relieve the distressed, clothe and feed 'em; 'Tis a task which we share with the brave and the fair
In this land of commerce and freedom!
St. John Tucker.
DAYS OF MY YOUTH.
AYS of my youth, ye have glided away :
Hairs of my youth, ye are frosted and gray: Eyes of my youth, your keen sight is no more: Cheeks of my youth, ye are furrowed all o’er: