TO AN INTERESTING YOUNG LADY, DEAF AND DUMB.
Weep not, maiden, that thou never
Canst thy ardent love express;
Weep not fate from thee doth sever,
All that would affection bless.
Wouldst thou strive to lighten sorrow?
"Tis the sigh thy breast will free;
Wouldst thou soothing accents borrow?
All our tears we give to thee.
Though like some sweet budding flower,
Which the blush of morn displayed,
Pressed by evening's rudest shower,
Each loved beauty seems to fade.
Yet the orb of glory risen,
Bids the floweret droop no more:
Thus the cheering dawn of heaven
All thy graces shall restore.
THE power that formed
that formed yon worlds of flame,
That guides the systems in their way,
Is kind, and Mercy is his name,
Is good, and bounteous is his sway.
He spake those rolling orbs to birth,
Is not his sovereign wisdom free?
His powerful arm sustains this earth,
Mortal! shall he not look on thee?
To him, ascend from viewless space
The ether notes of choral praise;
Shall not our breathings claim a place,
Will he disdain our humble lays?
To him, burn countless shrines of heaven,
While the veiled cherub shares a part;
Will he not bless our offerings given,
The incense of a contrite heart?
Then why, O trembler! why these fears?
Why shrink at the chastising rod;
Mourn, mourn in penitential tears,
But doubt no more a righteous God.
SEVERAL OFFICERS OF THE REVOLUTION BEING LATELY AT THE SEAT OF GOVERNMENT, RESOLVED TO VISIT MOUNT VERNON, AND PAY THEIR SAD TRIBUTE AT THE TOMB OF THEIR LAMENTED COPATRIOT AND COMMANDER; AFFORDING AN INTERESTING SUBJECT OF REFLECTION TO ALL WHO REVERE THE MEMORY OF WASHINGTON,
WHERE deep Potomac rolls its silver stream,
And glides majestic with its watery gleam,
Remote from scenes where commerce loves to dwell,
And far from din, by yonder peaceful dell,
Vernon, majestic, rears its lofty brow,
In simple grandeur, o'er the plain below.
Hail, sacred spot! to freedom ever dear,
Ye votaries, come, and drop the tender tear;
Here sleep the relics, that have once enshrined
The immortal lustre of a heavenly mind.
No longer, Vernon, smile thy roseate bowers,
Lost is the fragrance of thy blooming flowers;
Mute are the warblers of thy silent groves,
And hushed the carols of their early loves;
A solemn awe reigns through the hallowed ground,
And all is wrapt in solitude profound,
The guardian, saviour, of his country sleeps,
And freedom's genius, here, her vigil keeps.
Lo, at his shrine Columbia's heroes stand,
Deep, sacred grief pervades the veteran band,
No language there, dispels the mournful gloom,
No accents break the silence of the tomb;
Each labouring breast doth with emotions heave,
Each heart surcharged, the deep-drawn sigh doth breathe;
These speak his worth, these heartfelt tributes show
A grief too deep for kindly tears to flow.
Ye hoary warriors, calm your sacred grief,
No more lament your loved departed chief;
Soon shall ye join him in the fields above,
To part no more, but dwell in endless love;
The bright reward attends the faithful blest,
Where falchions slumber, and where soldiers rest.
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