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And seems his huge gray form to throw
The stars are on the moving stream,
In an eel-like, spiral line below;
And the plaint of the wailing whip-poor-will,
Here we have introduced to us the Fairy culprit:
Wrapt in musing stands the sprite :
He cast a saddened look around,
But he felt new joy his bosom swell,
Thither he ran, and he bent him low,
He heaved at the stern and he heaved at the bow,
And he pushed her over the yielding sand,
As ever fairy had paddled in,
For she glowed with purple paint without,
An oar he shaped of the bootle-blade;
No American can forget that to Drake we are indebted for our National Ode, which commences,
When Freedom, from her mountain height,
She tore the azure robe of night,
She mingled with its gorgeous dyes
Another of our American bards, SPRAGUE, has given us the following sweet bird-song:` suggested by seeing two swallows flying into a church in Boston:
Gay, guiltless pair, what seek ye from the fields of heaven?
The poem by which this author is most known, entitled Curiosity, has a singular history. Griswold states that it was published in Calcutta a few years ago as an original production by a British officer, with no other alterations than the omission of a few American names, and the insertion of others in their places; and in this form it was reprinted in London, where it was much praised.
Now listen to the following song:
Day, in melting purple dying,
Ye but waken my distress;
Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure,
Gifts and gold are naught to me,
Tell to thee the high-wrought feeling,
Yet but torture, if comprest
These glowing stanzas, from MRS. BROOKS's Zophiel,—an exquiShe story of a Jewish exiled maiden and her lovers,-exhibit the style of the authoress, whom Southey designated, in The Doctor, as "the most impassioned and imaginative of poetesses."
Turn we for a moment to a sweet, familiar ditty-known to all lovers of lyric verse,-'tis about the little sanctuary of Home:
'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Home, home, sweet home!
Every person knows that sweet household lyric; but it is not every one who has heard the life-story of its author. That immortal song, so brim-full of tender pathos and natural feeling, would cause many to drop a tear of sympathy over the sad fate of its author, HOWARD PAYNE, were they to be told that,-an American adventurer in the heart of Paris, Vienna, and London, while hearing
"Mid pleasures & palaces though
Be it ever so humble, there's A charm from the sky seems
which, seek through the world is ne'er met with elsewhere!
place like tome?
to hallow us
Home, home! sweet, sweet Home! There's no place like Home? Theres wo place. like Home!
An exile from Home, splendour dazzles in vain! thatch'd cottage again! _
The birds singing garly that came at my call -