1 And she, the while, with merry laugh lets fall And there the grandam sits, in placid ease, And there the manly farmers scan the news; The matrons of the morning sermon speak, And each its passing excellence declares; While tears of pious rapture, pure and meek, Course in soft beauty down the christian mother's cheek.. Then, just at one, the full thanksgiving feast, One dish, that wakens memory's longing sigh- Who e'er has seen thee in thy flaky crust Thee, pumpkin pie, by country maids prepared, With their white rounded arms above the elbow bared. Now to the kitchen come a vagrant train, The plenteous fragments of the feast to share. For his mull'd cider and his pleasant fare,— A veteran soldier he, of those proud times But who is this, whose scarlet cloak has known So dark the frown that does her face deform, Yet now the sybil wears her mildest mood; Thy doting faith, fond maid, may envied be, Where the red morning-glow falls full but tremblingly Tis evening; and the rural ball begins: The fairy call of music all obey; The circles round domestic hearths grow thin; All, at the joyful signal, hie away To yonder hall with lights and garlands gay. New England's daughters need not envy those He thinks not so, that young enamor'd boy Who through the dance her graceful steps doth guide, All blushing for the love she cannot hide; The brightness nature gave to his unrivall'd maid. Gay bands, move on; your draught of pleasure quaff; The lad's light joke, the maiden's mellow laugh, How blithe to see the sprightly dance begin! While these enjoy the mirth that suits their years, On the white wings of peace their days have flown; To gild with heavenly hopes their evening's pensive shade But now, farewell to thee, thanksgiving day! Doth the warm tribute of our thanks demand FITZ-GREENE HALLECK, Is a native of Guilford, Connecticut, where he was born in 1795. Here he lived till his eighteenth year, when he went to New York, where he has since resided, having been occupied generally in pursuits of a mercantile character. Mr Halleck has been a writer of poetry from an early period of his life; but he first attracted public attention in 1819, by a series of Pindaric Odes, published in the New York Evening Post, under the signature of "Croaker & Co." These were generally of a light and playful character, seasoned with occasional touches of keen satire, and racy humor. They produced a considerable sensation at the time, and curiosity was busy to detect the authors. It was at length discovered that Mr Halleck was the principal writer, and that his friend Dr Drake, now deceased, was his associate. The first work which Mr Halleck published in a volume, was "Fanny;" it appeared in 1819, and although its principal topics are of a local nature, and its allusions, many of them, refer to passing incidents of the day, yet it has been read with interest in every part of the country, and has been twice reprinted in Great Britain. It was written in haste, (it having been only three weeks from the commencement of the work to the day of its publication) and was doubtless looked upon by the author as an ephemeral affair. Yet it not unfrequently happens, that the least elaborated performances of a man of real talent, outlive those which are constructed with more serious effort, and finished with more anxious care. We are by no means certain, that this may not be the fact in respect to the poem under consideration. In 1827, a small volume, entitled "Alnwick Castle and other poems," appeared in New York, and is Mr Halleck's last publication. It seems to comprise such of the author's works as he is willing to have preserved, and we suspect was intended rather to make his other productions forgotten, than to perpetuate those it embraced. We do not believe, however little the author may wish to hear about them, that he has succeeded in casting either the "Croakers" or "Fanny," into oblivion; and "Alnwick Castle, and other poems," would have lived, if the author had not collected and published them in a volume. If a man wishes to be quiet and unnoticed, he should not write like this author. We cannot better close our observations than by an extract from an article which appeared some time since in New York, from the pen, we believe, of Mr Leggett. "As a poet, Mr Halleck ranks very high. He has not written much, but what he has written is almost faultless. If tenderness and wamth of feeling, playfulness of fancy, imagery not abundant, but appropriate, and great copiousness, and invariable euphony of language, constitute a claim to excellence, his effusions are excellent. There is one censure*-we have already named it—in which all concur; and we most cordially hope that Mr Halleck will speedily amend the fault that occasions it. But whether he write more or not, as the poet is to be estimated by the quality, and not the quantity of his works, he is entitled to a place which but few can hope to attain. "There have been loftier themes than his, And longer scrolls, and louder lyres, And lays lit up with poesy's Purer and holier fires: That he writes too little: |