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If the following original lines are worthy of insertion in the Port Folio, they are at your service.

W.

TO MELANCHOLY.

Hail Melancholy! here-advance!

In sable robe array'd;
Enwrapt in ever-musing trance

Obscurity and shade.
Thou scorn'st each glitt'ring, low delight,

To Folly's children dear,
And thrones and sceptres, in thy sight

But vanity appear.
Begone! thou cri'st-fashion, thou gay

And airy phantom, flee!
Fair, silken pleasure, hence-away!

Thou hast no charms for me!
For me, in vain, in trophied pride,

Triumphal arches bend:
With scorn I view gilt temples glare,

And palaces ascend,
I rather prize the lowly cot;

The thick, embower'd glade;

The peaceful, solitary grot,

For Contemplation made.
Where, by the world forsook, forgot,

Thou heav'n-descended maid!
Enlarge, inspire my every thought:

Each virtuous impulse aid.
Assist my sentiments to climb,

My every wish, to rise,
To thy celestial fount sublime!

Beyond those vaulted skies;
Oft will I haunt some sacred gloom

By sober twilight gray;
Or, watch around the silent tomb

At solemn close of day:
Oft at this season will I rove

To grass-grown, mossy seat;
Or, to some spreading, lonesome grove

The hermit's calm retreat!
Or, on some wide extended plain

Entranced will I lie,
And view the splendid, starry train

That light the realms on high:
What awful grandeur strikes the sight!

What grace and order join, 'Midst heaven's immeasurable height!

To speak a Power Divine. Oft, will I wander to the rock

Whose lofty summit braves The fierce tornado's thund'ring shock

And ocean's mountain waves; When on the billowy, boist'rous tide

The trembling moon-beams beat, Or gild the cliff's rough, rugged side,

The eagle's rude retreat:
And, often near the sandy shore

Will I enraptur'd stray,
To hear the distant surges' roar

In murmurs die away.

Or shipwreck'd mariner to save

Shall strive my dauntless soul,
Oft beating back the furious waves

Which round me threat’ning roll.
I, oft will range the desert plain

In contemplative mood,
And oft attend the house of pain,

The minister of good:
To sooth the wretch, embracing death

His sole relief from wo;
To cheer the sufferer's latest breath,

And Friendship's balm bestow:
Oft I unbar the felon's cell,

And heave for him, the sigh;
Where dark Despair and Anguish dwell,

Is felt my sympathy:
I love to ease the troubled breast.

That feels the wound of sin,
And turn the mind, to seek the blest

Great Comforter within;
And while I thus my hours employ

To light the gloomy mind,
I catch a melancholy joy,

A consolation find;
To me more dear, congenial more

Than those from wealth that flow;
Ambition bright, nor fame, nor pow'r

Can such pure bliss bestow.
While, Melancholy! scenes like these

Afford thee pure delight,
Hope shall unbar the gates

of

peace And joy, and endless light. Philadelphia, June 4, 1810.

W.

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