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THOUGHTS ON PARTING.

BY JOHN INMAN.

YES! I will hope, though fortune's stern decree
From all I love commands me soon to part;
Nor doubt, though absent, that a thought of me
Shall sometimes find a place in every heart,
Where feeling glows, unchilled by time or art—

Why should I doubt, when doubt is wretchedness,
Such as to feel bids bitter tears to start

From eyes that seldom weep, though tears, perhaps, might bless?

It cannot be that love like that which fills

My soul for them, should be bestowed in vain, When but the fear that they forget me, chills

Each pulse and feeling—as the wintry rain Chills earth and air, which yet may glow again In summer's beams but what can joy restore To bosoms upon which that blight has lain?

From such e'en hope departs, and can return no more.

For them I would have done - but let me not

Such thoughts recall-could service e'er repay
The blessings their companionship has wrought? -
With them too swiftly passed the time away,
On pleasure's wings - weeks dwindled to a day,
And days to moments — such the charm they cast

O'er every scene, and such their gentle sway,

Making each glad hour seem still brighter than the last.

To them I turned, as Iran's tameless race
Toward their refulgent God looked till the last,
And died still gazing on his radiant face;–
Alas! the spring-time of my year is past-
From them afar my line of life is cast,

And I must wander now like one that's lost-
A helmless bark, blown wide by every blast,

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And without hope or joy, on life's rude surges toss'd.

Oh no, it cannot be that grief like this

Should be reserved to blight my coming years-
That moments of such almost perfect bliss
Should be succeeded by an age of tears
Revive, then, hope, and put to flight my fears;
I'll meet the future with undaunted eye,
Trusting thy light, that now my pathway cheers,
Gilding its onward course, as sunset gilds the sky.

THE FALLS OF NIAGARA.

[Translated from the Italian.*]

BY SAMUEL L. MITCHELL.-1796.

BORNE to the rocky bed's extremest brow,

The flood leaps headlong, nor a moment waits;— To join the whirlpool deep and vast below,

The saltless ocean hurries through the straits.

* The above lines were translated by Dr. Mitchell, in October 1796, from the Italian of Dr. Gian Baptista Scandella, an accomplished gentleman, who afterwards, in September 1798, fell a victim to the yellow fever in the city of New York, just as he had finished his American tour, and was on the eve of embarking for Europe.

Hoarse roars the broken wave; and upward driv'n,

Dashes in air;-dissolving vapours press'd

Confound the troubled elements with heav'n :-
Earth quakes beneath ;-heart trembles in the breast.

With steps uncertain, to a jutting rock,
To gaze upon the immense abyss I hie;
And all my senses feel a horrid shock
As down the steep I turn my dizzy eye.

On cloudy steams I take a flight sublime,
Leaving the world and nature's works behind;
And as the pure empyreal heights I climb,
Reflect with rapture on the Immortal Mind.

CANZONET.

BY J. B. VANSCHAICK.

WHEN motes, that dancing
In golden wine,
To the eyes' glancing

Speak while they shine

Then, the draught pouring,

Love's fountain free,

Mute, but adoring,

I drink to thee.

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Now all through Pennsylvania's pleasant land,
Unheeded pass'd our little roving band,
-For every soul had something here to do,
Nor turn'd aside our cavalcade to view-
By Bethlehem, where Moravian exiles 'bide,
In rural paradise, on Lehigh's side,
And York and Lancaster-whose rival rose
In this good land, no bloody discord knows.
Not such their fate!—the ever grateful soil
Rewards the blue-eyed German's patient toil;
Richer and rounder every year he grows,
Nor other ills his stagnant bosom knows
Than caitiff grub, or cursed Hessian fly,
Mildews, and smuts, a dry or humid sky;
Before he sells, the market's sudden fall,
Or sudden rise, when sold-still worse than all!

Calmly he lives-the tempest of the mind,
That marks its course by many a wreck behind;
The purpose high that great ambition feels,
Sometimes perchance upon his vision steals,
But never in his sober waking thought
One stirring, active impulse ever wrought.
Calmly he lives-as free from good as blame,
His home, his dress, his equipage the same;
And when he dies, in sooth, 'tis soon forgot
What once he was, or what he once was not-
An honest man, perhaps,-'tis somewhat odd
That such should be the noblest work of God!
So have I seen, in garden rich and gay,
A stately cabbage waxing fat each day;
Unlike the lively foliage of the trees,

Its stubborn leaves ne'er wave in summer breeze,
Nor flower, like those that prank the walks around,

Upon its clumsy stem is ever found;

It heeds not noontide heats, nor evening's balm,

And stands unmoved in one eternal calm.
At last, when all the garden's pride is lost
It ripens in drear autumn's killing frost,
And in a savoury sourkrout finds its end,
From which detested dish, me heaven defend !

LAKE GEORGE.-1829.

BY S. DE WITT BLOODGOOD.

I STOOD upon the shore,

And looked upon the wave,
While I thought me o'er and o'er

HERE SLEEP THE BRAVE!

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