I LOVE THE BLUSH.

I LOVE the blush of early morn,
That beams with rosy hue;

When sparkling o'er the verdant lawn,
It gems the crystal dew.

'Tis then I muse on Mary's smile,
Which dimpling bright and fair,
Dark sorrow's ills can e'en beguile,
And charm each latent care.

I love the mildly pensive ray,
That lonely twilight cheers:

When gleaming 'mid the close of day,
It shines through evening's tears.

'Tis then fond memory, whispering says,

While throbs my bosom move,

That such is Mary's tender gaze,

And such her glance of love.

ETERNITY.

THE shadowy reign of time had passed away,
Systems had fled, and suns illumed no more;
The starry gems were lost in radiant day,

The last shrill trump had waked the distant shore;
Its clang had ceased, and silence was in heaven.
I saw the marshalled cordon of the sky,

In glittering ranks, bestud the trackless plain;
The tomb's pale monarch bound in chains stood by,
The prince of darkness, with his powers, was nigh;
While ransomed myriads swelled the countless train.

Dread UNCREATE-The life of DEITY was there.

Its awful signet shall remain untold;

No strains in heaven may tell, no curse in hell shall dare The dreadful years of dark ETERNITY declare.

IMPROMPTU,

OCCASIONED BY THE REJECTION OF THE BILL, RECENTLY INTRODUCED INTO THE HOUSE OF DELEGATES OF MARYLAND, TO ALTER THE CONSTITUTION SO AS TO PLACE THE JEWS ON AN EQUAL FOOTING WITH THE CHRISTIANS, AS IT REGARDS POLITICAL RIGHTS.

WHAT, still reject the fated race,

Thus long denied repose;
What, madly striving to efface,
The rights that heaven bestows?

Say, flows not in each Jewish vein,
Unfettered by control,

A tide as pure, as free from stain,
As warms the Christian's soul?

Do ye not yet the times discern,
That these shall cease to roam;
That Shiloh, pledged for their return,
Will bring his ransomed home?

Be error quick to darkness hurled,
No more with hate pursue;

For HE, who died to save a world,
IMMANUEL-Was a Jew.

SWEET Warbler of the painted vest,
In nature's fair luxuriance drest;
The fondest of the plumaged throng,
The lonely bird of plaintive song.

The condar vast, the wren minute,
The pheasant gay, the falcon brute,
Though bold or pleasing to the eye,
Can ne'er with thee, my favourite, vie.

Thou claim'st my sympathy and love; For still in some sequestered grove, Thou dost indulge thy artless moan, And lov'st to sing and sigh alone.

Thy tender strain of hapless wo
Oft bids the tear of sorrow flow;
Thy note exceeds the touch of art,
Thy melody attracts the heart.

Yet blithe and cheerful is thy mien, And halcyon mirth with thee is seen: Thou roam'st at large, disporting free, Fidelity a trait of thee.