Tu potes Proctors comitesque Bull-dogs,
Ducere, et Redcoats celeres morari;
E'en the stern Masters tibi blandienti

Smilingly cedunt.

Quin et each high Don Sociique vultu
Titter invito mid the gay assemblage;
Shouts of applause rise rapid, dum catervas

Carmine mulces.

Tu, merry fellow, velut es levamen

To the pale forms whose final doom approaches,
Who, citò coram solio Minerviæ

Shuddering shall stand.

Fell are her priests! Quem Vitulos prehendant,
Singulos, eheu! lacerant in pieces!

Hi tamen mites sweetly gaze at Mathews,

Full of his frolics.

Serus in Lunnum redeas, diuque

Gratus intersis populo togato!

Leave the dull Cockneys,-with us be at Home, Sir!

Go it in Oxford!

For the Port Folio.

SONG.

Written on reading Moore's "Oh then remember me.”
Oh think not of me when the trumpet of fame
Is sounding thy praises, is breathing thy name,
When pleasure awakes her enchantment for thee,
And friends are surrounding-Oh think not of me.

But when worldly distinctions no longer are thine,
When the star of thy fortune no longer shall shine;
When adversity's voice bids the bright visions flee
And false friends desert thee-Oh then think of me.

Then think there's a breast where thou still may'st recline,
And a hand no misfortunes can sever from thine,
A heart where thy image forever will stay.
And a lip that will kiss every tear-drop away.

Oh! think not of me when the planet of light
Is burning with lustre uncloudedly bright;

When the glories of summer are glowing for thee,
And her roses are blooming-Oh! think not of me.

But when tempest-fraught clouds shall envelop the sky,
When thunders are rolling and winds blowing high;
When winter's cold hands are disrobing the tree,
And the roses have faded-Oh! then think of me.

Then think that thy friendship, in grief's stormy night,
Was the planet that lent to my pathway a light;
That thy kindness brought flowers that path to adorn,
When nought of the roses remained-but the thorn.

Oh! think not of me when the circle of mirth
Is happily forming around the gay hearth;
When music is sounding in numbers of glee
And light hearts are beating, oh! think not of me.

For then, while the accents of melody sound
And the bright eyes of beauty are flashing around,
They may win thee a moment their magic to own,
And share in that heart, where I'd fain be alone.

But should fancy in solitude wish to portray
The friend, whose affections from thee never stray,
Whose thoughts and whose wishes turn always to thee,
In whose heart thou'rt unrivall'd-Oh! then think of me.
ROSA.

November, 1820.

ANSWER TO ROSA.

Forget thee! no never, why cherish a thought
To the friend of thy soul with injustice so fraught?
Why embitter the fast fading moments of bliss
By suspicion so wild and unfounded as this?

Forget thee! no never! Among the light hearted
Love may sink to decay when the fond ones are parted;
But affection like ours is too deep and sublime
To be chill'd in its ardour by absence or time.

Then, gentle one, banish all doubt from thy breast;
By the kiss that so late on thy lips I impress'd,

By the griefs that have blighted the bloom of my years,
By the hope that still calls forth a smile through my tears,
By the hour of our parting thus sweetly delayed,
By truth firmly tried-and by trust unbetrayed,
APRIL, 1824.-NO 264

44

I will not forget thee; 'till life's latest ray

In the dark night of death shall have melted away.
Mid ambition, fame, power, and fortune, and gladness,
Pain, and peril, and hate, and contention and sadness,
Though changes the darkest, and brightest betide,
Thy friendship shall sooth me, thy counsels shall guide,
And thy memory at once be my solace and pride.
Philadelphia, February 1824.

For the Port Folio.

THE FINAL REST.

"Mourn not; there is a home beyond those azure skies,
There is repose, a final rest in heav'n.”—Anon.

Has Sorrow's painful hand forc'd thee to roam,
And made thee weeping in the dust to lie?
No longer mourn; there is a heavenly home,
A sweet repose in yonder azure sky.

Has some false friend e'en broke the sacred tie

Which form'd thy hope, and cheer'd thy youthful heart?
No longer mourn; there is in yonder sky

A sov'reign balm to heal the wounded part.

Has cruel death awoke the rending sigh,
And fill'd thy bursting soul with sad dismay?
No longer mourn; there is in yonder sky,
For thee a happier hour, a brighter day.

TO MY BOOKSELLER.

By Ben Jonson.

Thou that makest gain thy end, and, wisely well,
Call'st a book good, or bad, as it doth sell,
Use mine so too: I give thee leave; but crave
For the luck's sake it thus much favour have,

To lie upon thy stall, till it be sought;

Not offered, as it made suit to be bought;
Nor have my title-leaf on posts, or walls,

Or in cleft sticks, advanced to make calls
For termers, or some clerk-like serving man,

ANNA.

Who scarce can spell the hard names-whose knight less

can.

If, without these vile arts, it will not sell,

Send it to Bucklersbury, there 'twill well.

JOHN'S ELEGY IN A COUNTRY TOWN,

OR THE ADDRESS OF THE CARRIER OF THE ILLINOIS GAZETTE, ON THE FIRST DAY OF JANUARY, 1824.

The north wind, sighing, mourns the parting year;
The Editor has flown to scenes of glee-
The Pressman homeward casts a wistful leer,
And leaves the idle types to you and me!

Now glows th' enlivening bowl upon the sight,
And winged hours in pastime haste away,
Save where the Carrier toils the live-long night,
To treat his patrons to the accustomed lay.

For long has custom, by a stern decree,

Fixed as the laws by Medes and Persians made,
Ordain'd the Carrier's Song, the PATRON'S FEE,
The mutual tax by mutual kindness paid.

Ah! who to dumb forgetfulness a prey,

Remembers not the Carrier's weekly toil,
Who braves the wintry blast, or sultry ray,

Skulks through the rain, or wades through miry soil?

'Tis his to bring the richly freighted page,
Where shine the glories of the great and brave,
Where glow the follies of the passing age,
Or stand exposed the triumphs of the grave.

He brings the Message grave, the sage Debate,
The worn out Maxim, or the pithy Speech
Of hoary Statesman at the helm of State,

And Politicians from the stump who preach.

But not alone of Message grave, or sage debate,
Of Man's high glories, or of Folly's reign,
Or other things retold, does John relate,-
From realms afar we stranger tidings gain.

Lo! the poor Spaniard, bless'd with genial clime,
With richly teeming soil, and spicy groves---
The slave of despots, purpled o'er with crime,
Plunged in unholy wars, unhallow'd loves!

Behold the land by gallant Cortes gain'd,

Where Freedom nobly struggles for her right, Where groaning crowds, by Superstition chain'd, Break the vile links, and draw their sabres bright!

Their cause is hallow'd by the pious prayer,
Their wrongs are treasur'd in the patriot's mind,
And Liberty shall reign triumphant there,
When despots cease to trample on mankind.

Shame to such despots! claiming homage, due
Alone to Him who rules the hosts on high,
Who sleep on couches of ensanguin'd hue,
Lull'd by the dying groan, the bursting sigh!

Now turn we to Columbia's wide domain,

Where Chiefs obedient own a people's swayWhere happy millions, smiling o'er the plain, Inhale new blessings with each new-born day.

Such are the tidings by the Carrier brought,
Nor these alone engross the ample sheet:
The Lover's song, the Poet's merry thought,
The Wit's last joke, enhance the weekly treat.

If Colin weds the amply courted dame,

From bed and board, if Dolly chance to flee,
He gives impartial to the tongue of fame,
Frail Dolly's sin, and happy Colin's glee.

Nor can his labours this brief song display-
None but th' initiated know them right-
Carrier and Devil each alternate day,
And oft, alas! Compositor at night.

Let not ambition mock his useful toil,

His inky phiz, or name to fame unknownNor patrons read with a disdainful smile, The annual tribute of the punctual John.

No further seek his merits to disclose,
But draw your silver from its dark abode;
The sparkling specie to his eye expose,
And speed the Carrier on his
weary road.