*

And everie monthe was lovelie Maye-
Cupide thenne hadde but to goe
With his purple winges and bowe;
And in blossomede vale and grove
Everie shepherde knelt to Love.
Then a rosie, dimpled cheek,
And a blue eye fonde and meeke;
And a ringlette-wreathenne brow,
Like hyacynthes on bed of snowe,
And a lowe voice silverre-sweete
From a lipp without deceite:
Onlie those the heartes could move
Of the simple swaines to love.
But that time is gone and paste;
Canne the summer alwayes laste!
And the swaines are wiser growne,
And the hearte is turned to stone,
And the maiden's rose may witherre,
Cupide's fled, no man knowes whitherre!
But anotherre Cupide's come,

With a brow of care and gloome;
Fixede upon the earthlie moulde,
Thinkinge of the sullenne golde:
In his hande the bowe no more,
At his back the householde store,
That the bridalle colde muste buye;
Useless nowe the smile and sighe:
But he weares the pinion stille,
Flyinge at the sighte of ill.

Oh, for the olde true-love time

Whenne the worlde was in its prime.

For the Port Folio.

[Lines occasioned by a visit to the Indian Mound at Grave Creek-twelve miles below Wheeling on the Ohio.-July 1821.]

Majestic mound whose towering form so long
Hast braved the summer's sun, the wintry storm,
The lightning's fire-" the war of elements"..
Nay more the slow and steady waste of Time!
Who shak'st the " tower from its mould'ring base,"
And in the dust of its own mighty ruin
Buries each vestige of its former grandeur:
Time,-who with ceaseless and unsparing hand,
Against earth's loftiest, proudest monuments
FEBRUARY, 1823-No. 250.

22

Wages eternal war! Ah! tell me whence,
In what remote and hidden depth of years
Hadst thou thy being? Thy huge sides which swell
So amply o'er the hill surrounded plain.

Deck'd with the growth of many an age gone by-
Trees nodding now with age, which threatning hang
Their withering branches o'er the plain beneath-
Who raised them here? Ah ye who sleep below,
Burst from the slumbers which in silence hold
Immoveable, your cold and senseless limbs,
And chain'd thro' passing centuries your tongues,
Once eloquent in love and loud in war;

Ye eyes whose fierce and soul subduing glance,
Beam'd like the fiery meteor of the night,

Once danced with joy; or frown'd in sullen wrath,
Now in the darkness of the tomb extinguish'd-
Burst the dark cerements of the grave,-stand forth
And speak-and to my questions now reply-
Were ye a race who o'er these happy fields
Chased the wild deer, as naked as himself,
Hurl'd the rude spear, or bent the twanging bow,
Or on the bosom of yon lovely stream
Paddled with savage skill the bark canoe?
Or train'd in all the gentler arts which shed
The flowers of life along the path of man,
Renowned at once in science, arts and arms?

Whence came; when were ye, what destructive scourge
Has, like a mighty inundation swept

Your very name from human history?

Ye answer not-The iron sleep of Death
Hangs dark and heavy on your dull, cold eyes.-
The Earth who was your parent, to whose breast
Living ye clung,-thence drew your nourishment;
Now, dead, again in her maternal arms

Enfolds

your forms and bids you sleep in Peace!

A. M.

HOPE AND DESPAIR.

Deceived by Hope whose transient beam
Gave Fancy's tints their hue,

Pleased we indulge the blissful dream,

And fondly think it true.

But in Despair's sad sick'ning sight
The pleasing vision fades,
Ambition leaves her lofty flight
And sighing seeks the shades.

VALERIUS.

From the Italian of Mestastasio.

If every one's internal care
Were written on his brow,
How many would our pity share,
Who raise our envy now!
The fatal secret when revealed,
Of every aching breast,

Would prove that only when concealed,
Their lot appears the best.

WOMAN.

Woman, thou source of earthly bliss,
We scarce can ask another,

In childhood's fond embrace we kiss,

And call thee mother.

And then a sister's tender name,
Calls for its soft regards,
In answering the tender claim

What joy rewards!

But when the ardent soul of youth
Is warmed by fires from heaven,
And when to sacred love and truth

All else is given;

Then name her not, it is profane,
"Tis not a lover's part,

But keep the joy and keep the pain

Deep in thy heart.

But now the nuptial hour is past

She is thy friend for life,
Here is thy paradise, at last

She is a wife.

M. M.

[The following beautiful poem, from the Christian Observer, will be perused with pleasure by the serious part of our readers; although there may be some objection to the use of it, in devotional exercises, as the persons singing it would appear to be worshipping a star.]

EPIPHANY.

Brightest and best of the sons of morning,

Dawn on our darkness and lend us thine aid;

Star of the east, the horizon adorning,

Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid.

Cold on his cradle the dew-drops are shining;
Low lies his bed with the beasts of the stall;
Angels adore Him in slumber reclining,
Maker and Monarch, and Saviour of all!

Say, shall we yield him in costly devotion,
Odors of Edom, and offerings divine,
Gems of the mountain and pearls of the ocean,
Myrrh from the forest, and gold from the mine?
Vainly we offer each ample oblation,

Vainly with gold would his favour secure;
Richer by far is the heart's adoration,

Dearer to God are the hearts of the poor. Brightest and best of the sons of morning, Dawn on our darkness and lend us thine aid; Star of the east, the horizon adorning,

Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid.

There's not a moment half so sweet,
So fraught with heartfelt union,
As that when friends long severed meet,
And join in blest communion.

When woman's voice, the glance of Love,
And Beauty's witching powers,
Conspire at once the heart to move,
And chase the golden hours.

Let others boast the sparkling bowl,
Or music's softest breathing,

Or ardent strive for glory's goal,

Their brows with laurels wreathing;

Those eyes with rapture sparkling bright
Can more impart of pleasure;
Those soothing accents more delight
Than music's softest measure.

Why should I strive for glory's prize,
Each care of life increasing?

Or seek in wealth or fame to rise
And toil through life unceasing?

The bard hath said and well might say
"This world's not worth the winning;"

Its joys continual fade away,

Its toils are still beginning.

But Ah! there is ablest retreat,
To sooth each wounded feeling;
It is that smile so softly sweet,
A faithful heart revealing;

1822.

When pale disease with reckless sway,
Each flower of joy is stealing,
And sorrow like a wintry day,
Affection's buds congealing;

'Tis then Love's sunshine rising bright,
Displays each scene fresh blooming;
Like spring's bright sun with golden light
Fair Nature's face illuming.

Should sullen Fate with angry frown,
Of other gifts bereave me;
Should Fortune's partial sun go down,
And heartless friends all leave me,
If then my Lucy still remain,
Each gloomy moment cheering;
The seeming loss I'll count but gain,
Our hearts the more endearing.
True love is like the di'mond's glow,
In darkest hours still shining,
But false love like the show'ry bow
Fades when the sun's declining.

L. B. S.

For the Port Folio.

BEAUTY.

A comparison between natural and cultivated beauty occasioned by reading Moore's Lalla Rookh.

Sing not of Persia's blue-ey'd maids,
With golden locks so graceful flowing;
Sing not of Cashmere's flow'ry glades,
With spicy-fragrant zephyrs blowing.

Those azure eyes, tho' bright they shine,
With tender love's most soft expression;
Can only shed their light benign,
Amid the Harem's dire oppression.

Though bleak the clime and rough the land,
Give me Columbia's free-born nation;
Where beauty's fairest flowers expand,
Beneath the beams of Education.

Give me the intellectual glance,
Reason's ethereal light revealing;
The mental glow that can entrance
The human heart with tend'rest feeling.
The lovely Persian's azure eye,
With nature's warm expression beaming;