The civet fragrance shall dispense,
And treasured sweets return;
Cologne revive the flagging sense,
And smoking amber burn.

And when at night my weary head
Begins to droop and dose,
A chamber south, to hold my bed,
For nature's soft repose;

With blankets, counterpanes, and sheet,
Mattrass, and sack of down,
And comfortables for my feet,
And pillows for my crown.

I want a warm and faithful friend,
To cheer the adverse hour,
Who ne'er to flatter will descend,

Nor bend the knee to power;

A friend to chide me when I'm wrong, My inmost soul to see;

And that my friendship prove as strong For him, as his for me.

I want a kind and tender heart,
For others wants to feel;

A soul secure from Fortune's dart,
And bosom arm'd with steel;
To bear divine chastisement's rod,
And, mingling in my plan,
Submission to the will of God,
With charity to man.

I want a keen, observing eye,
An ever-listening ear,

The truth through all disguise to spy,
And wisdom's voice to hear;
A tongue, to speak at virtue's need,
In Heaven's sublimest strain;
And lips, the cause of man to plead,
And never plead in vain.

I want uninterrupted health,

Throughout my long career,
And streams of never-failing wealth,
To scatter far and near-
The destitute to clothe and feed,

Free bounty to bestow,
Supply the helpless orphan's need,
And soothe the widow's wo.

I want the genius to conceive,
The talents to unfold,
Designs, the vicious to retrieve,
The virtuous to uphold;
Inventive power, combining skill,
A persevering soul,

Of human hearts to mould the will,
And reach from pole to pole.

I want the seals of power and place,
The ensigns of command,

Charged by the people's unbought grace,
To rule my native land;

Nor crown, nor sceptre would I ask,

But from my country's will,

By day, by night, to ply the task
Her cup of bliss to fill.

I want the voice of honest praise
To follow me behind,

And to be thought, in future days,
The friend of human kind;
That after ages, as they rise,

Exulting may proclaim,

In choral union to the skies,
. Their blessings on my name.

These are the wants of mortal man;
I cannot need them long,
For life itself is but a span,

And earthly bliss a song.
My last great want, absorbing all,
Is, when beneath the sod,
And summon'd to my final call,-
The mercy of my God.

And oh while circles in my veins
Of life the purple stream,
And yet a fragment small remains
Of nature's transient dream,
My soul, in humble hope unscared,
Forget not thou to pray,

That this THY WANT may be prepared
To meet the Judgment-Day.

THE PLAGUE IN THE FOREST.

TIME was, when round the lion's den, A peopled city raised its head; "T was not inhabited by men,

But by four-footed beasts instead. The lynx, the leopard, and the bear, The tiger and the wolf, were there;

The hoof-defended steed;

The bull, prepared with horns to gore The cat with claws, the tusky boar,

And all the canine breed.

In social compact thus combined,

Together dwelt the beasts of prey;
Their murderous weapons all resigned,
And vowed each other not to slay.
Among them Reynard thrust his phiz;
Not hoof, nor horn, nor tusk was his,
For warfare all unfit;

He whispered to the royal dunce,
And gained a settlement at once;
His weapon was,-his wit.

One summer, by some fatal spell,

(Phoebus was peevish for some scoff,) The plague upon that city fell,

And swept the beasts by thousands off The lion, as became his part, Loved his own people from his heart, And taking counsel sage, His peerage summoned to advise And offer up a sacrifice,

To soothe Apollo's rage.

To me the sight of lamb is curst,
It kindles in my throat a thirst,-

I struggle to refrain,

Poor innocent! his blood so sweet!
His flesh so delicate to eat!
I find resistance vain.

"Now to be candid, I must own

The sheep are weak and I am strong, But when we find ourselves alone,

The sheep have never done me wrong. And, since I purpose to reveal All my offences, nor conceal

One trespass from your view;
My appetite is made so keen,

That with the sheep the time has been
I took, the shepherd too.
"Then let us all our sins confess,

And whosoe'r the blackest guilt,
To ease my people's deep distress,
Let his atoning blood be spilt.
My own confession now you hear,
Should none of deeper dye appear,

Your sentence freely give; And if on me should fall the lot Make me the victim on the spot, And let my people live."

The council with applauses rung,

To hear the Codrus of the wood; Though still some doubt suspended hung,

If he would make his promise good,— Quoth Reynard, "Since the world was made, Was ever love like this displayed?

Let us like subjects true
Swear, as before your feet we fall,
Sooner than you should die for all,
We all will die for you.

"But please your majesty, I deem,

Submissive to your royal grace,
You hold in far too high esteem

That paltry, poltroon, sheepish race;
For oft, reflecting in the shade,
I ask myself why sheep were made
By all-creating power?
And howsoe'er I tax my mind,
This the sole reason I can find-
For lions to devour.

"And as for eating now and then,

As well the shepherd as the sheep,-
How can that braggart breed of men

Expect with you the peace to keep?
"Tis time their blustering boast to stem,
That all the world was made for them-
And prove creation's plan;
Teach them by evidence profuse
That man was made for lion's use,
Not lions made for man."

And now the noble peers begin,

And, cheered with such examples bright, Disclosing each his secret sin,

Some midnight murder brought to light; Reynard was counsel for them all, No crime the assembly could appal,

But he could botch with paint: Hark, as his honeyed accents roll: Each tiger is a gentle soul,

Each blood-hound is a saint. When each had told his tale in turn,

The long-eared beast of burden came. And meekly said, "My bowels yearn

To make confession of my shame:
But I remember on a time

I passed, not thinking of a crime,
A haystack on my way:
His lure some tempting devil spread,
I stretched across the fence my head,
And cropped,-a lock of hay."

"Oh, monster! villian!" Reynard criedNo longer seek the victim, sire;

Nor why your subjects thus have died, To expiate Apollo's ire."

The council with one voice decreed; All joined to execrate the deed,What, steal another's grass!"

The blackest crime their lives could show, Was washed as white as virgin snow; The victim was,-The Ass.

TO A BEREAVED MOTHER.

SURE, to the mansions of the blest
When infant innocence ascends,
Some angel, brighter than the rest,
The spotless spirit's flight attends.
On wings of ecstasy they rise,

Beyond where worlds material roll;
Till some fair sister of the skies
Receives the unpolluted soul.
That inextinguishable beam,

With dust united at our birth,
Sheds a more dim, discolour'd gleam
The more it lingers upon earth...
But when the LORD of mortal breath
Decrees his bounty to resume,
And points the silent shaft of death
Which speeds an infant to the tomb--
No passion fierce, nor low desire,

Has quenched the radiance of the flame; Back, to its GOD, the living fire

Reverts, unclouded as it came.

Fond mourner! be that solace thine!

Let Hope her healing charm impart, And soothe, with melodies divine,

The anguish of a mother's heart. Oh, think! the darlings of thy love, Divested of this earthly clod, Amid unnumber'd saints, above,

Bask in the bosom of their God.... O'er thee, with looks of love, they bend: For thee the LORD of life implore; And oft, from sainted bliss descend, Thy wounded quiet to restore. Then dry, henceforth, the bitter tear;

Their part and thine inverted see. Thou wert their guardian angel here, They guardian angels now to thee

He

JOSEPH HOPKINSON, LL. D., son of FRANCIS HOPKINSON, author of "The Battle of the Kegs," &c., was born in Philadelphia in 1770, and educated for the bar in the office of his father. wrote verses with fluency, but had little claim to be regarded as a poet. His "Hail Columbia!" is, however, one of our very few national songs, and is likely to be looked for in all collections of American poetry. In his old age Judge HOPKINSON wrote me a letter, in which the history of this song is thus given:

..."It was written in the summer of 1798, when war with France was thought to be inevitable. Congress was then in session in Philadelphia, deliberating upon that important subject, and acts of hostility had actually taken place. The contest between England and France was raging, and the people of the United States were divided into parties for the one side or the other, some thinking that policy and duty required us to espouse the cause of republican France, as she was called; while others were for connecting ourselves with England, under the belief that she was the great preservative power of good principles and safe government. The violation of our rights by both belligerents was forcing us from the just and wise policy of President WASHINGTON, which was to do equal justice to both, to take part with neither, but to preserve a strict and honest neutrality between them. The prospect of a rupture with France was exceedingly offensive to the portion of the people who espoused her cause; and the violence of the spirit of party has never risen higher, I think not so high, in our country, as it did at that time, upon that

question. The theatre was then open in our city. A young man belonging to it, whose talent was as a singer, was about to take his benefit. I had known him when he was at school. On this acquaintance, he called on me one Saturday afternoon, his benefit being announced for the following Monday. His prospects were very disheartening; but he said that if he could get a patriotic song adapted to the tune of the President's March,' he did not doubt of a full house; that the poets of the theatrical corps had been trying to accomplish it, but had not succeeded. I told him I would try what I could do for him. He came the next afternoon; and the song, such as it is, was ready for him.

"The object of the author was to get up an American spirit, which should be independent of, and above the interests. passions, and policy of both belligerents; and look and feel exclusively for our own honour and rights. No allusion is made to France or England, or the quarrel between them; or to the question, which was most in fault in their treatment of us: of course the song found favour with both parties, for both were Americans; at least neither could disavow the sentiments and feelings it inculcated. Such is the history of this song, which has endured infinitely beyond the expectation of the author, as it is beyond any merit it can boast of, except that of being truly and exclusively patriotic in its sentiments and spirit."

At the time of his death, which occurred on the fifteenth of January, 1842, the author was President of the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts, one of the Vice-Presidents of the American Philosophical Society, and a Judge of the District Court of the United States.

HAIL COLUMBIA.

HAIL, Columbia! happy land!
Hail, ye heroes, heaven-born band!

Who fought and bled in Freedom's cause, Who fought and bled in Freedom's cause, And when the storm of war was gone, Enjoy'd the peace your valour won!

Let independence be our boast,
Ever mindful what it cost;
Ever grateful for the prize,
Let its altar reach the skies.
Firm-united-let us be,
Rallying round our liberty;
As a band of brothers join'd,
Peace and safety we shall find.

Immortal patriots! rise once more; Defend your rights, defend your shore;

Let no rude foe, with impious hand, Let no rude foe, with impious hand, Invade the shrine where sacred lies Of toil and blood the well-earned prize. While offering peace sincere and just, In Heaven we place a manly trust,

That truth and justice will prevail,
And every scheme of bondage fail.
Firm-united, &c.

Sound, sound the trump of Fame!
Let WASHINGTON's great name

Ring through the world with loud applause,
Ring through the world with loud applause:

Let every clime to Freedom dear

Listen with a joyful ear.

With equal skill and godlike power,
He governs in the fearful hour

Of horrid war; or guides with ease,
The happier times of honest peace.
Firm-united, &c.

Behold the chief who now commands
Once more to serve his country stands-

The rock on which the storm will beat,
The rock on which the storm will beat:
But, armed in virtue firm and true,
His hopes are fixed on heaven and you.
When Hope was sinking in dismay,
And glooms obscured Columbia's day,
His steady mind, from changes free,
Resolved on death or liberty.

Firm-united, &c.

THF father of WILLIAM CLIFFTON was a wealthy member of the society of Friends, in Philadelphia. The poet, from his childhood, had little physical strength, and was generally a sufferer from disease; but his mind was vigorous and carefully educated, and had he lived to a mature age, he would probably have won an enduring reputation as an author. His life was marked by few incidents. He made himself acquainted with the classical studies pursued in the universities, and with music, painting, and such field-sports as he supposed he could indulge in with most advantage to his health. He was considered an amiable and accomplished gentleman, and his society was courted alike by

the fashionable and the learned. He died in December, 1799, in the twenty-seventh year of his age.

The poetry of CLIFFTON has more energy of thought and diction, and is generally more correct and harmonious, than any which had been previously written in this country. Much of it is satirical, and relates to persons and events of the period in which he lived; and the small volume of his writings published after his death doubtless contains some pieces which would have been excluded from an edition prepared by himself, for this reason, and because they were unfinished and not originally intended to meet the eye of the world.

TO WILLIAM GIFFORD, ESQ.*

In these cold shades, beneath these shifting skies, Where Fancy sickens, and where Genius dies; Where few and feeble are the muse's strains, And no fine frenzy riots in the veins, There still are found a few to whom belong The fire of virtue and the soul of song; Whose kindling ardour still can wake the strings, When learning triumphs, and when GIFFORD Sings. To thee the lowliest bard his tribute pays, His little wild-flower to thy wreath conveys; Pleased, if permitted round thy name to bloom, To boast one effort rescued from the tomb.

While this delirious age enchanted seems With hectic Fancy's desultory dreams; While wearing fast away is every trace Of Grecian vigour, and of Roman grace, With fond delight, we yet one bard behold, As Horace polish'd, and as Perseus bold, Reclaim the art, assert the muse divine, And drive obtrusive dulness from the shrine. Since that great day which saw the Tablet rise, A thinking block, and whisper to the eyes, No time has been that touch'd the muse so near, No Age when Learning had so much to fear, As now, when love-lorn ladies light verse frame, And every rebus-weaver talks of Fame.

When Truth in classic majesty appear'd, And Greece, on high, the dome of science rear'd, Patience and perseverance, care and pain Alone the steep, the rough ascent could gain: None but the great the sun-clad summit found; The weak were baffled, and the strong were crown'd.

• Prefixed to WILLIAM COBBETT's edition of the "Baviad and Mæviad," published in Philadelphia, in 1799.

The tardy transcript's nigh-wrought page confined
To one pursuit the undivided mind.
No venal critic fatten'd on the trade;
Books for delight, and not for sale were made;
Then shone, superior, in the realms of thought,
The chief who govern'd, and the sage who taught:
The drama then with deathless bays was wreath'd,
The statue quicken'd, and the canvass breathed.
The poet, then, with unresisted art,

Sway'd every impulse of the captive heart.
Touch'd with a beam of Heaven's creative mind,
His spirit kindled, and his taste refined:
Incessant toil inform'd his rising youth;
Thought grew to thought, and truth attracted truth.
Till, all complete, his perfect soul display'd
Some bloom of genius which could never fade.
So the sage oak, to Nature's mandate true,
Advanced but slow, and strengthen'd as it grew!
But when, at length, (full many a season o'er,)
Its virile head, in pride, aloft it bore;
When steadfast were its roots, and sound its heurt,
It bade defiance to the insect's art,
And, storm and time resisting, still remains
The never-dying glory of the plains.

Then, if some thoughtless BAVIUS dared appear,
Short was his date, and limited his sphere;
He could but please the changeling mob a day,
Then, like his noxious labours, pass away:
So, near a forest tall, some worthless flower
Enjoys the triumph of its gaudy hour,
Scatters its little poison through the skies,
Then droops its empty, hated head, and dies.

Still, as from famed Ilyssus' classic shore, To Mincius' banks, the muse her laurel borc, The sacred plant to hands divine was given, And deathless MARO nursed the boon of Heaven Exalted bard! to hear thy gentler voice, The valleys listen, and their swains rejoice;

But when, on some wild mountain's awful form,
We hear thy spirit chanting to the storm,
Of battling chiefs, and armies laid in gore,
We rage, we sigh, we wonder, and adore.
Thus Rome with Greece in rival splendour shone,
But claim'd immortal satire for her own;
While HORACE pierced, full oft, the wanton breast
With sportive censure, and resistless jest;
And that Etrurian, whose indignant lay
Thy kindred genius can so well display,
With many a well-aim'd thought, and pointed line,
Drove the bold villain from his black design.
For, as those mighty masters of the lyre,
With temper'd dignity, or quenchless ire,
Through all the various paths of science trod,
Their school was NATURE and their teacher Gop
Nor did the muse decline till, o'er her head,
The savage tempest of the north was spread;
Till arm'd with desolation's bolt it came,
And wrapp'd her temple in funereal flame.

But soon the arts once more a dawn diffuse,
And DANTE hail'd it with his morning muse;
PETRARCH and BOCCACE join'd the choral lay,
And Arno glisten'd with returning day.
Thus science rose; and, all her troubles pass'd,
She hoped a steady, tranquil reign at last;
But FAUSTUS Came: (indulge the painful thought,)
Were not his countless volumes dearly bought?
For, while to every clime and class they flew,
Their worth diminish'd as their numbers grew.
Some pressman, rich in HOMER's glowing page,
Could give ten epics to one wondering age;
A single thought supplied the great design,
And clouds of Iliads spread from every line.
Nor HOMER'S glowing page, nor VIRGIL's fire
Could one lone breast with equal flame inspire,
But, lost in books, irregular and wild,
The poet wonder'd, and the critic smiled:
The friendly smile, a bulkier work repays;
For fools will print, while greater fools will praise.
Touch'd with the mania, now, what millions rage
To shine the laureat blockheads of the age.
The dire contagion creeps through every grade;
Girls, coxcombs, peers, and patriots drive the trade:
And e'en the hind, his fruitful fields forgot,
For rhyme and misery leaves his wife and cot.
Ere to his breast the wasteful mischief spread,
Content and plenty cheer'd his little shed;
And, while no thoughts of state perplex'd his mind,
His harvests ripening, and Pastora kind,

He laugh'd at toil, with health and vigour bless'd,
For days of labour brought their nignts of rest:
But now in rags, ambitious for a name,
The fool of faction, and the dupe of fame,
His conscience haunts him with his guilty life,
His starving children, and his ruin'd wife.
Thus swarming wits, of all materials made,
Their Gothic hands on social quiet laid,
And, as they rave, unmindful of the storm,
Call lust, refinement; anarchy, reformi.

No love to foster, no dear friend to wrong, Wild as the mountain flood, they drive along: And sweep, remorseless, every social bloom To the dark level of an endless tomb.

By arms assail'd we still can arms oppose, And rescue learning from her brutal foes; But when those foes to friendship make pretence, And tempt the judgment with the baits of sense, Carouse with passion, laugh at Gon's control, And sack the little empire of the soul, What warning voice can save? Alas! 'tis o'er, The age of virtue will return no more; The doating world, its manly vigour flown, Wanders in mind, and dreams on folly's throne. Come then, sweet bard, again the cause defend, Be still the muses' and religion's friend; Again the banner of thy wrath display, And save the world from DARWIN's tinsel lay. A soul like thine no listless pause should know; Truth bids thee strike, and virtue guides the blow From every conquest still more dreadful come, Till dulness fly, and folly's self be dumb.

MARY WILL SMILE.

THE morn was fresh, and pure the gale,
When MARY, from her cot a rover,
Pluck'd many a wild rose of the vale
To bind the temples of her lover.
As near his little farm she stray'd,

Where birds of love were ever pairing,
She saw her WILLIAM in the shade,

The arms of ruthless war preparing. "Though now," he cried, "I seek the hostile plain, MARY shall smile, and all be fair again."

She seized his hand, and "Ah!" she cried, "Wilt thou, to camps and war a stranger, Desert thy MARY'S faithful side,

And bare thy life to every danger? Yet, go, brave youth! to arms away!

My maiden hands for fight shall dress thee, And when the drum beats far away,

I'll drop a silent tear, and bless thee. Return'd with honour, from the hostile plain, MARY will smile, and all be fair again.

"The bugles through the forest wind,

The woodland soldiers call to battle: Be some protecting angel kind,

And guard thy life when cannons rattle!" She sung-and as the rose appears

In sunshine, when the storm is over, A smile beam'd sweetly through her tearsThe blush of promise to her lover. Return'd in triumph from the hostile plain, All shall be fair, and MARY smile again.