from one of her minor pieces, entitled "Contemplations."

Under the cooling shadow of a stately elm

Close sate I by a goodly river's side,

Where gliding streams the rocks did overwhelm;

A lonely place, with pleasures dignified.

I once that loved the shady woods so well,

Now thought the rivers did the trees excell,

And if the sun would ever shine, there would I dwell.

While on the stealing stream I fixt mine eye,
Which to the long'd-for ocean held its course,
I markt nor crooks, nor rubs that there did lye
Could hinder aught, but still augment its force:
O happy flood, quoth I, that holdst thy race
Till thou arrive at thy beloved place,

Nor is it rocks or shoals that can obstruct thy pace.

Nor is 't enough, that thou alone may'st slide,
But hundred brooks in thy cleer waves do meet,
So hand in hand along with thee they glide
To Thetis' house, where all embrace and greet:
Thou emblem true, of what I count the best,
O could I lead my rivulets to rest,

So may we press to that vast mansion, ever blest.

Ye fish, which in this liquid region 'bide,
That for each season, have your habitation,
Now salt, now fresh, where you think best to glide,
To unknown coasts to give a visitation,

In lakes and ponds, you leave your numerous fry,
So nature taught, and yet you know not why,
You watry folk that know not your felicity.
Look how the wantons frisk to taste the air,
Then to the colder bottome straight they dive,
Eftsoon to NEPTUNE's glassie hall repair

To see what trade the great ones there do drive,
Who forrage o'er the spacious sea-g en field,
And take the trembling prey before
[shield.
Whose armour is their scales, their spreading fins their

yield,

While musing thus with contemplation fed,
And thousand fancies buzzing in my brain,
The sweet-tongued Philomel percht o'er my head,
And chanted forth a most melodious strain
Which rapt me so with wonder and delight,

I judg'd my hearing better than my sight,

And wisht me wings with her a while to take my flight.

O merry bird (said I) that fears no snares,

That neither toyles nor hoards up in thy barn,
Feels no sad thoughts, nor cruciating cares

To gain more good, or shun what might thee harm;
Thy cloaths ne'er wear, thy meat is every where,
Thy bed a bough, thy drink the water cleer,

Reminds not what is past, nor what's to come dost fear.

The dawning morn with songs thou dost prevent,*
Setts hundred notes unto thy feather'd crew,
So each one tunes his pretty instrument,
And warbling out the old, begins anew,

And thus they pass their youth in summer season,
Then follow thee into a better region,

Where winter's never felt by that sweet airy legion.

Man's at the best a creature frail and vain,

In knowledge ignorant, in strength but weak:

Subject to sorrows, losses, sickness, pain,
Each storm his state, his mind, his body break:
From some of these he never finds cessation,
But day or night, within, without, vexation,
Troubles from foes, from friends, from dearest, near'st re-

And yet this sinfull creature, frail and vain,
This lump of wretchedness, of sin and sorrow,
This weather-beaten vessel wrackt with pain,
Joyes not in hope of an eternal morrow:
Nor all his losses, crosses, and vexation,

Anticipate.

[lation.

In weight, in frequency, and long duration,

Can make him deeply groan for that divine translation.
The mariner that on smooth waves doth glide,
Sings merrily, and steers his barque with ease,

As if he had command of wind and tide,
And now become great master of the seas;
But suddenly a storm spoils all the sport,
And makes him long for a more quiet port,
Which 'gainst all adverse winds may serve for fort.

So he that saileth in this world of pleasure,
Feeding on sweets, that never bit of th' sowre,
That's full of friends, of honour, and of treasure,

Fond fool, he takes this earth ev'n for heaven's bower.
But sad affliction comes and makes him see
Here's neither honour, wealth, nor safety;
Only above is found all with security.

O Time, the fatal wrack of mortal things,
That draws oblivion's curtains over kings,

Their sumptuous monuments, men know them not,

Their names without a record are forgot,

Their parts, their ports, their pomp's all laid in th' dust;
Nor wit, nor gold, nor buildings scape time's rust;
But he whose name is grav'd in the white stone
Shall last and shine when all of these are gone.

WILLIAM BRADFORD, the second governor of Plymouth, who wrote a "History of the People and Colony from 1602 to 1647," composed also " A Descriptive and Historical Account of New England, in Verse," which is preserved in the Collections of the Massachusetts Historical Society.

When JOHN COTTON, a minister of Boston, died in 1652, BENJAMIN WOODBRIDGE, the first graduate of Harvard College, and afterward one of the chaplains of CHARLES the Second, wrote an elegiac poem, from a passage in which it is supposed FRANKLIN borrowed the idea of his celebrated epitaph on himself. COTTON, says WOODBRIDGE, was

A living, breathing Bible; tables where
Both covenants at large engraven were;
Gospel and law in 's heart had each its column,
His head an index to the sacred volume,
His very name a title-page, and next
His life a commentary on the text.

O what a monument of glorious worth,
When in a new edition he comes forth,
Without erratas, may we think he'll be,
In leaves and covers of eternity!

The lines of the Reverend JOSEPH CAPEN, on the death of Mr. JOHN FOSTER, an ingenious mathematician and printer, are yet more like the epitaph of FRANKLIN:

Thy body which no activeness did lack,
Now's laid aside like an old almanack;
But for the present only's out of date,
'T will have at length a far more active state :
Yea, though with dust thy body soiled be,
Yet at the resurrection we shall see

A fair edition, and of matchless worth, Free from erratas, new in heaven set forth; 'Tis but a word from God the great Creator, It shall be done when he saith Imprimatur. The excellent President URIAN OAKES, styled "the LACTANTIUS of New England," was one of the most distinguished poets of his time. The following verses are from his

b

Elegy on the death of THOMAS Shepard, minister of Charlestown:

Art, nature, grace, in him were all combined
To show the world a matchless paragon;
In whom of radiant virtues no less shined,
Than a whole constellation; but bee's gone!

Hee's gone, alas! down in the dust must ly
As much of this rare person, as could die.
To be descended well, doth that commend?
Can sons their fathers' glory call their own}
Our SHEPARD justly might to this pretend,
(His blessed father was of high renown,

Both Englands speak him great, admire his name,)
But his own personal worth's a better claim.

His look commanded reverence and awe,
Though mild and amiable, not austere :
Well humour'd was he, as I ever saw,

And ruled by love and wisdom more than fear.
The muses and the graces too, conspired,
To set forth this rare piece to be admired.

He breathed love, and pursued peace in his day,
As if his soul were made of harmony :
Scarce ever more of goodness crowded lay
In such a piece of frail mortality.

Sure Father WILSON's genuine son was he,
New-England's PAUL had such a TIMOTHY.
My dearest, inmost, bosome friend is gone!
Gone is my sweet companion, soul's delight!
Now in a huddling crowd, I'm ali alone,
And almost could bid all the world good-night,

Blest be my rock! God lives: O! let him be
As he is all, so all in all to me.

At that period the memory of every eminent person was preserved in an ingenious elegy, epitaph, or anagram. SHEPARD, mourned in the above verses by OAKES, on the death of JOHN WILSON," the Paul of New England," and "the greatest annagrammatizer since the days of LYCOPHRON," wrote

John Wilson, anagr. John Wilson.

O, change it not! No sweeter name or thing, Throughout the world, within our ears shall ring. THOMAS WELDE, a poet of some reputation in his day, wrote the following epitaph on SAMUEL DANFORTH, a minister of Roxbury, who died soon after the completion of a new meeting-house :

Our new-built church now suffers too by this, Larger its windows, but its lights are less. PETER FOULGER, a schoolmaster of Nantucket, and the maternal grandfather of Doctor FRANKLIN, in 1676 published a poem entitled "A Looking-glass for the Times," addressed to men in authority, in which he advocates religious liberty, and implores the government to repeal the uncharitable laws against the Quakers and other sects. He says—

The rulers in the country I do owne them in the LORD; And such as are for government, with them I do accord. But that which I intend hereby, is that they would keep bound;

And meddle not with God's worship, for which they have no ground.

And I am not alone herein, there's many hundreds more, That have for many years ago spoke much more upon that Indeed, I really believe, it's not your business, [score. To meddle with the church of GoD in matters more or less.

In another part of his "Looking Glass" he says

Now loving friends and countrymen, I wish we may be wise;

'T is now a time for every man to see with his own eyes.
'Tis easy to provoke the LORD to send among us war;
'Tis easy to do violence, to envy and to jar;
To show a spirit that is high; to scorn and domineer;
To pride it out as if there were no GOD to make us fear;
To covet what is not our own; to cheat and to oppress;
To live a life that might free us from acts of righteousness;
To swear and lie and to be drunk, to backbite one another;
To carry tales that may do hurt and mischief to our bro-
ther;

To live in such hypocrisy, as men may think us good,
Although our hearts within are full of evil and of blood.
All these, and many evils more, are easy for to do;
But to repent and to reform we have no strength thereto.
The following are the concluding lines:

I am for peace, and not for war, and that's the reason why I write more plain than some men do, that use to daub and lie.

But I shall cease and set my name to what I here insert: Because to be a libeller, I hate it with my heart. [here, From Sherbontown, where now I dwell, my name I do put Without offence, your real friend, it is PETER FOULGER.

Probably the first native bard was he who is described on a tombstone at Roxbury as "BENJAMIN THOMSON, learned schoolmaster and physician, and ye renowned poet of New England." He was born in the town of Dorchester, (now Quincy,) in 1640, and educated at Cambridge where he received a degree in 1662. His ncipal work, "New England's Crisis," appears to have been written during the famous wars of PHILIP, Sachem of the Pequods, against the colonists, in 1675 and 1676. The following is the prologue, in which he laments the growth of luxury among the people:

The times wherein old POMPION was a saint,
When men fared hardly yet without complaint,
On vilest cates; the dainty Indian-maize
Was eat with clamp-shells out of wooden trayes,
Under thatch'd huts without the cry of rent,
And the best sawce to every dish, content.
When flesh was food and hairy skins made coats,
And men as well as birds had chirping notes.
When Cimnels were accounted noble blood;
Among the tribes of common herbage food.
Of CERES' bounty form'd was many a knack,
Enough to fill poor ROBIN's Almanack.
These golden times (too fortunate to hold)
Were quickly sin'd away for love of gold.
'T was then among the bushes, not the street,
If one in place did an inferior meet,
"Good-morrow, brother, is there aught you want?
Take freely of me, what I have you ha'nt."
Plain Tom and Dick would pass as current now,
As ever since "Your servant, Sir," and bow.
Deep-skirted doublets, puritanick capes,
Which now would render men like upright apes,
Was comlier wear, our wiser fathers thought,
Than the cast fashions from all Europe brought.
'T was in those dayes an honest grace would hold
Till an hot pudding grew at heart a cold.
And men had better stomachs at religion,
Than I to capon, turkey-cock, or pigeon ;
When honest sisters met to pray, not prate,
About their own and not their neighbour's state.

During Plain Dealing's reign, that worthy stud
Of the ancient planters' race before the flood,
Then times were good, merchants cared not a rush
For other fare than jonakin and mush.
Although men fared and lodged very hard,
Yet innocence was better than a guard.
'Twas long before spiders and worms had drawn
Their dingy webs, or hid with cheating lawne
New England's beautys, which still seem'd to me
Illustrious in their own simplicity.

'Twas ere the neighbouring Virgin-Land had broke
The hogsheads of her worse than hellish smoak.
'Twas ere the Islands sent their presents in,
Which but to use was counted next to sin.
'T was ere a barge had made so rich a fraight
As chocolate, dust-gold, and bitts of eight.
Ere wines from France and Muscovadoe too,
Without the which the drink will scarsely doe.
From western isles ere fruits and delicasies
Did rot maids' teeth and spoil their handsome faces.
Or ere these times did chance, the noise of war
Was from our towns and hearts removed far.
No bugbear comets in the chrystal air

Did drive our Christian planters to despair.

No sooner pagan malice peeped forth

But valour snib'd it. Then were men of worth Who by their prayers slew thousands, angel-like; Their weapons are unseen with which they strike. Then had the churches rest; as yet the coales Were covered up in most contentious souls: Freeness in judgment, union in affection,

The most celebrated person of his age in America was COTTON MATHER. He was once revered as a saint, and is still regarded as a man of great natural abilities and profound and universal learning. It is true that he had much of what is usually called scholarship: he could read many languages; and his memory was so retentive that he rarely forgot the most trivial circumstance; but he had too little genius to comprehend great truths; and his attainments, curious rather than valuable, made him resemble a complicate machine, which, turned by the water from year to year, produces only bubbles, and spray, and rainbows in the sun. He was industrious, and, beside his three hundred and eighty-two printed works, left many manuscripts, of which the largest is called "Illustrations of the Sacred Scriptures," on which he laboured daily more than thirty years. It is a mere compilation of ideas and facts from multitudinous sources, and embraces nothing original, or valuable to the modern scholar. His minor works are

Then were the times in which our councells sate,

These gave prognosticks of our future fate.

If these be longer liv'd our hopes increase,
These warrs will usher in a longer peace.-
But if New England's love die in its youth,
The grave will open next for blessed truth.
This theame is out of date, the peacefull hours
When castles needed not, but pleasant bowers.
Not ink, but bloud and tears now serve the turn
To draw the figure of New England's urne.
New England's hour of passion is at hand;
No power except divine can it withstand.
Scarce hath her glass of fifty years run out,
But her old prosperous steeds turn heads about,
Tracking themselves back to their poor beginnings,
To fear and fare upon their fruits of sinnings.
So that the mirror of the Christian world
Lyes burnt to heaps in part, her streamers furl'd.
Grief sighs, joyes flee, and dismal fears surprize
Not dastard spirits only, but the wise.
Thus have the fairest hopes deceiv'd the eye
Of the big-swoln expectant standing by:
Thus the proud ship after a little turn,
Sinks into NEPTUNE's arms to find its urne:
Thus hath the heir to many thousands born
Been in an instant from the mother torn:
Even thus thine infant cheeks begin to pale,
And thy supporters through great losses fail.
This is the Prologue to thy future woe,
The Epilogue no mortal yet can know.

THOMSON died in April, 1714, aged 74. He wrote besides his "great epic," three shorter poems, neither of which have much merit.

ROGER WILLIAMS, Chief Justice SEWALL, NATHANIEL WARD, of Ipswich, JOHN OSBORN, NATHANIEL PITCHER, and many others were in this period known as poets. The death of PITCHER was celebrated in some verses entitled "Pitchero Threnodia," in which he was compared to PINDAR, HORACE, and other great writers of antiquity.

"Magnalia Christi Americana" is preserved rather as a curiosity than as an authority; for recent investigations have shown that his statements are not to be relied on where he had any interest in misrepresenting acts or the characters of persons. His style abounds with puerilities, puns, and grotesque conceits. His intellectual character, however, was better than his moral; for he was wholly destitute of any high religious principles, and was ambitious, intriguing, and unscrupulous. He fanned into a flame the terrible superstition in regard to witchcraft, and when the frenzy was over, hypocritically endeavoured to persuade the people that instead of encouraging the proceedings, his influence and exertions had been on the side of forbearance and caution. Failing to convince them of this, he attempted to justify his conduct, by inventing various personal histories, to show that there had been good cause for the atrocious persecutions.

COTTON MATHER'S verses, scattered through a great number of his works, are not superior to those of many of his contemporaries. The following lines from his "Remarks on the Bright and the Dark Side of that American Pillar, the Reverend Mr. William Thomson," show his customary manner

APOLLYON Owing him a cursed spleen
Who an APOLLOS in the church had been,
Dreading his traffic here would be undone
By num'rous proselytes he daily won,
Accused him of imaginary faults,
And push'd him down so into dismal vaults:
Vaults, where he kept long ember-weeks of grief,
Till Heaven alarmed sent him a relief.

Then was a DANIEL in the lion's den,
A man, oh, how beloved of GoD and men!
By his bedside an Hebrew sword there lay,
With which at last he drove the devil away.
Quakers, too, durst not bear his keen replies,
But fearing it half-drawn the trembler flies.
Like LAZARUS, new raised from death, appears
The saint that had been dead for many years.
Our NEHEMIAH said, "shall such as I
Desert my flock, and like a coward fly!"
Long had the churches begg'd the saint's release;
Released at last, he dies in glorious peace.
The night is not so long, but Phosphor's ray
Approaching glories doth on high display.
Faith's eye in him discern'd the morning star,
His heart leap'd; sure the sun cannot be far.
In ecstasies of joy, he ravish'd cries,

"Love, love the LAMB, the LAMB!" in whom he dies. MATHER died on the thirteenth of February, 1724, in the sixty-fifth year of his age.

66

ROGER WOLCOTT, a major-general at the capture of Louisburg, and afterward governor of Connecticut, published a volume of verses at New London, in 1725. His principal work is "A Brief Account of the Agency of the Honourable JOHN WINTHROP, Esquire, in the Court of King CHARLES the Second, Anno Domini 1662, when he obtained a Charter for the Colony of Connecticut." In this he describes a miracle by one of WINTHROP'S company, on the return voyage.

The winds awhile

Are courteous, and conduct them on their way,
To near the midst of the Atlantic sea,
When suddenly their pleasant gales they change
For dismal storms that o'er the ocean range.
For faithless EOLUS, meditating harms,
Breaks up the peace, and priding much in arms,
Unbars the great artillery of heaven,
And at the fatal signal by him given,

The cloudy chariots threatening take the plains;
Drawn by wing'd steeds hard pressing on their reins.
These vast battalions, in dire aspect raised,
Start from the barriers-night with lightning blazed,
Whilst clashing wheels, resounding thunders crack,
Strike mortals deaf, and heavens astonish'd shake.
Here the ship captain, in the midnight watch,
Stamps on the deck, and thunders up the hatch;
And to the mariners aloud he cries,

"Now all from safe recumbency arise:
All hands aloft, and stand well to your tack,
Engendering storms have clothed the sky with black,
Big tempests threaten to undo the world:
Down topsail, let the mainsail soon be furl'd:

Haste to the foresail, there take up a reef:
'Tis time, boys, now if ever, to be brief;
Aloof for life; let's try to stem the tide,
The ship's much water, thus we may not ride:
Stand roomer then, let's run before the sea,
That so the ship may feel her steerage way:
Steady at helm!" Swiftly along she scuds
Before the wind, and cuts the foaming suds.
Sometimes aloft she lifts her prow so high,
As if she'd run her bowsprit through the sky;
Then from the summit ebbs and hurries down,
As if her way were to the centre shown.
Meanwhile our founders in the cabin sat,
Reflecting on their true and sad estate;
Whilst holy WARHAM's sacred lips did treat
About God's promises and mercies great.

Still more gigantic births spring from the clouds, Which tore the tatter'd canvass from the shrouds,

And dreadful balls of lightning fill the air,
Shot from the hand of the great THUNDERER.
And now a mighty sea the ship o'ertakes,
Which falling on the deck, the bulk-head breaks;
The sailors cling to ropes, and frighted cry,
"The ship is foundered, we die! we die!"

Those in the cabin heard the sailors screech;
All rise, and reverend WARHAM do beseech,
That he would now lift up to Heaven a cry
For preservation in extremity.

He with a faith sure bottom'd on the word
Of Him that is of sea and winds the LORD,
His eyes lifts up to Heaven, his hands extends,
And fervent prayers for deliverance sends.
The winds abate, the threatening waves appease,
And a sweet calm sits regent on the seas.
They bless the name of their deliverer,
Who now they found a GOD that heareth prayer.
Still further westward on they keep their way,
Ploughing the pavement of the briny sea,
Till the vast ocean they had overpast,
And in Connecticut their anchors cast.

In a speech to the king, descriptive of the
valley of the Connecticut, WINTHROP says—
The grassy banks are like a verdant bed,
With choicest flowers all enamelled,
O'er which the winged choristers do fly,
And wound the air with wondrous melody.
Here Philomel, high perch'd upon a thorn,
Sings cheerful hymns to the approaching morn.
The song once set, each bird tunes up his lyre,
Responding heavenly music through the quire.....
Each plain is bounded at its utmost edge
With a long chain of mountains in a ridge,
Whose azure tops advance themselves so high,
They seem like pendants hanging in the sky.
In an account of King PHILIP's wars, he
tells how the soldier-

met his amorous dame,
Whose eye had often set his heart in flame.
Urged with the motives of her love and fear,
She runs and clasps her arms about her dear
Where, weeping on his bosom as she lies,
And languishing, on him she sets her eyes,
Till those bright lamps do with her life expire,
And leave him weltering in a double fire.

In the next page he describes the rising of the sun

By this AURORA doth with gold adorn
The ever beauteous eyelids of the morn;
And burning TITAN his exhaustless rays,
Bright in the eastern horizon displays;
Then soon appearing in majestic awe,
Makes all the starry deities withdraw;
Veiling their faces in deep reverence,
Before the throne of his magnificence.

WOLCOTT retired from public life, after having held many honourable offices, in 1755, and died in May, 1767, in the eighty-ninth year of his age. The next American verse-writer of much reputation was the Reverend MICHAEL WIGGLESWORTH. He was born in 1631, and graduated at Harvard College soon after entering upon his twentieth year. When rendered unable to preach, by an affection of the lungs, In costly verse and most laborious rhymes, He dish'd up truths right worthy our regard. His principal work, The Day of Doom, or a Poetical Description of the Great and Last Judgment, with a Short Discourse about

Eternity," passed through six editions in this country, and was reprinted in London. A few verses will show its style

Still was the night, serene and bright,

When all men sleeping lay;
Calin was the season, and carnal reason
Thought so 't would last for aye.
Soul, take thine ease, let sorrow cease,
Much good thou hast in store :

This was their song their cups among,

The evening before.

After the "sheep" have received their reward, the several classes of "goats" are arraigned before the judgment-seat, and, in turn, begin to excuse themselves. When the infants object to damnation on the ground that

Adam is set free

And saved from his trespass,

Whose sinful fall hath spilt them all,

And brought them to this pass,

the puritan theologist does not sustain his doctrine very well, nor quite to his own satisfaction even; and the judge, admitting the palliating circumstances, decides that although

in bliss

They may not hope to dwell,
Still unto them He will allow
The easiest room in hell.

At length the general sentence is pronounced, and the condemned begin to

wring their hands, their caitiff-hands,

And gnash their teeth for terror;

They cry, they roar for anguish sore,
And gnaw their tongues for horror.

But get away without delay,

CHRIST pities not your cry:
Depart to hell, there may ye yell,

And roar eternally.

WIGGLESWORTH died in 1705.

The Reverend BENJAMIN COLMAN, D. D. "married in succession three widows, and wrote three poems;" but though his diction was more elegant than that of most of his contemporaries, he had less originality. His only daughter, Mrs. JANE TURELL, wrote verses which were much praised by the critics of her time.

The "Poems of the Reverend JOHN ADAMS, M.A.," were published in Boston in 1745, four years after the author's death. The volume contains paraphrases of the Psalms of David, the Book of Revelation in heroic verse, translations from HORACE, and four original compositions, of which the longest is a "Poem on Society," in three cantos. The following picture of parental love is from the first canto.

The parent, warm with nature's tender fire,
Does in the child his second self admire;
The fondling mother views the springing charms
Of the young infant smiling in her arms:
And when imperfect accents show the dawn
Of rising reason, and the future man,
Sweetly she hears what fondly he returns,
And by this fuel her affection burns.

But when succeeding years have fix'd his growth,
And sense and judgment crown the ripen'd youth:
A social joy thence takes its happy rise,
And friendship adds its force to Nature's ties.
The conclusion of the second canto is a de-
scription of love-

But now the Muse in softer measure flows,
And gayer scenes and fairer landscapes shows:
The reign of Fancy, when the sliding hours
Are past with lovely nymph in woven bowers,
Where cooly shades, and lawns forever green,
And streams, and warbling birds adorn the scene;
Where smiles and graces, and the wanton train
Of Cytherea, crown the flowery plain.
What can their charms in equal numbers tell?
The glow of roses, and the lily pale;
The waving ringlets of the flowing hair,

The snowy bosom, and the killing air;
Their sable brows in beauteous arches bent,
The darts which from their vivid eyes are sent,
And fixing in our easy-wounded hearts,
Can never be removed by all our arts;
'Tis then with love, and love alone possest,
Our reason fled, that passion claims our breast.
How many evils then will fancy form?

A frown will gather, and discharge a storm:
Her smile more soft and cooling breezes brings,
Than zephyrs fanning with their silken wings.
But love, where madness reason does subdue,
E'en angels, were they here, might well pursue.
Lovely the sex, and moving are their charms,
But why should passion sink us to their arms?
Why should the female to a goddess turn,
And flames of love to flames of inceuse burn?
Either by fancy fired, or fed by lies,

Be all distraction, or all artifice ?

True love does flattery as much disdain

As, of its own perfections, to be vain.

The heart can feel whate'er the lips reveal,

Nor Syren's smiles the destined death conceal.

Love is a noble and a generous fire,

Esteem and virtue feed the just desire;
Where honour leads the way it ever noves,
And ne'er from breast to breast, inconstant, roves.
Harbour'd by one, and only harbour'd there,

It likes, but ne'er can love another fair. Fix'd upon one supreme, and her alone, Our heart is, of the fair, the constant throne. Nor will her absence, or her cold neglect, At once, expel her from our just respect: Inflamed by virtue, love will not expire, Unless contempt or hatred quench the fire. ADAMS died on the twenty-second of January, 1740. I copy from the "Boston Weekly Newsletter," printed the day after his interment, the following letter from a correspondent at Cambridge, which shows the estimation in which he was held by his contemporaries:

"Last Wednesday morning expired in this place, in the thirty-sixth year of his age, and this day was interred with a just solemnity and respect, the reverend and learned JOHN ADAMS, M. A., only son of the Honourable JOHN ADAMS, Esquire.

"The corpse was carried and placed in the

* This was the first newspaper published in America. It was established in 1604, and the first sheet that was printed was taken damp from the press by Chief Justice SEWEL, to exhibit as a curiosity to President WILLARD, of Harvard University. The "Newsletter" was continued seventy-two years.