A moment, and the pageant's gone;
The red men are no more;

The pale fac'd strangers stand alone

Upon the river's shore

e;

And the proud wood king, who their arts disdain'd, Finds but a bloody grave where once he reign'd.

The forest reels beneath the stroke

Of sturdy woodman's axe;

The earth receives the white man's yoke,

And pays her willing tax

Of fruits, and flowers, and golden harvest fields,
And all that nature to blithe labour yields.

Then growing hamlets rear their heads,

And gathering crowds expand,
Far as my fancy's vision spreads,

O'er many a boundless land,

Till what was once a world of savage strife,
Teems with the richest gifts of social life.

Empire to empire swift succeeds,

Each happy, great, and free;
One empire still another breeds,

A giant progeny,

To war upon the pigmy gods of earth,

The tyrants, to whom ignorance gave birth.

Then, as I turn my thoughts to trace
The fount whence these rich waters sprung,

I glance towards this lonely place,

And find it, these rude stones among.

Here rest the sires of millions, sleeping sound,
The Argonauts, the golden fleece that found.

Their names have been forgotten long;
The stone, but not a word, remains ;
They cannot live in deathless song,
Nor breathe in pious strains.

Yet this sublime obscurity, to me
More touching is, than poet's rhapsody.

They live in millions that now breathe;
They live in millions yet unborn,
And pious gratitude shall wreathe

As bright a crown as e'er was worn,

And hang it on the green leav'd bough,
That whispers to the nameless dead below.

No one that inspiration drinks;

No one that loves his native land;
No one that reasons, feels, or thinks,

Can 'mid these lonely ruins stand,

Without a moisten'd eye, a grateful tear

Of reverent gratitude to those that moulder here.

The mighty shade now hovers round-
Of HIM whose strange, yet bright career,
Is written on this sacred ground

In letters that no time shall sere;

Who in the old world smote the turban'd crew, And founded Christian Empires in the new.

And SHE! the glorious Indian maid,
The tutelary of this land,

The angel of the woodland shade,

The miracle of God's own hand,

Who join❜d man's heart to woman's softest grace,

And thrice redeem'd the scourgers of her race.

Sister of charity and love,

Whose life-blood was soft Pity's tide,
Dear Goddess of the Sylvan grove.

Flower of the Forest, nature's pride,
He is no man who does not bend the knee,
And she no woman who is not like thee!

Jamestown, and Plymouth's hallow'd rock,
To me shall ever sacred be-

I care not who my themes may mock,
Or sneer at them and me.

I envy not the brute who here can stand,
Without a prayer for his own native land.

And if the recreant crawl her earth,
Or breathe Virginia's air,

Or, in New-England claim his birth,
From the old Pilgrim's there,

He is a bastard, if he dare to mock,

Old Jamestown's shrine, or Plymouth's famous rock.

101

LOOK ALOFT.

BY JONATHAN LAWRENCE, JUN.

[The following lines were suggested by an anecdote said to have been related by the late Dr. Godman, of the ship-boy who was about to fall from the rigging, and was only saved by the mate's characteristic exclamation, "Look aloft, you lubber."]

In the tempest of life, when the wave and the gale
Are around and above, if thy footing should fail-
If thine eye should grow dim and thy caution depart-
"Look aloft" and be firm, and be fearless of heart.

If the friend, who embraced in prosperity's glow
With a smile for each joy and a tear for each woe,
Should betray thee when sorrow like clouds are arrayed,
"Look aloft” to the friendship which never shall fade.

Should the visions which hope spreads in light to thine eye,
Like the tints of the rainbow, but brighten to fly,
Then turn, and through tears of repentant regret,
"Look aloft" to the sun that is never to set.

Should they who are dearest, the son of thy heart—
The wife of thy bosom-in sorrow depart,
"Look aloft," from the darkness and dust of the tomb,
To that soil where "affection is ever in bloom."

And oh when death comes in terrors, to cast,
His fears on the future, his pall on the past,
In that moment of darkness, with hope in thy heart,
And a smile in thine eye, "look aloft" and depart!

FRAGMENT.

BY WILLIAM LIVINGSTON.-1747.

FATHER of Light! exhaustless source of good!
Supreme, eternal, self-existent God!

Before the beamy sun dispensed a ray,

Flamed in the azure vault, and gave the day;

Before the glimmering moon with borrow'd light

Shone queen amid the silver host of night,

High in the heavens, thou reign'dst superior Lord,
By suppliant angels worshipp'd and adored.
With the celestial choir then let me join
In cheerful praises to the power divine.
To sing thy praise, do thou, O God! inspire
A mortal breast with more than mortal fire.
In dreadful majesty thou sitt'st enthroned,
With light encircled, and with glory crown'd :
Through all infinitude extends thy reign,

For thee, nor heaven, nor heaven of heavens contain ;
But though thy throne is fix'd above the sky
Thy omnipresence fills immensity.

BYRON.

BY LUCRETIA M. DAVIDSON.

His faults were great, his virtues less,
His mind a burning lamp of Heaven ;
His talents were bestowed to bless,
But were as vainly lost as given.

His was a harp of heavenly sound,

The numbers wild, and bold, and clear;
But ah! some demon, hovering round,
Tuned its sweet chords to Sin and Fear.

His was a mind of giant mould,

Which grasped at all beneath the skies;
And his, a heart, so icy cold,

That virtue in its recess dies.