Mind, mind alone, without whose quickening

ray,

The world's a wilderness, and man but clay, Mind, mind alone, in barren, still repose, Nor blooms, nor rises, nor expands, nor flows!

Take Christians, Mohawks, Democrats and all

From the rude wig-wam to the congress-hall,
From man the savage, whether slav'd or free,
To man the civiliz'd less tame than he !
'Tis one dull chaos, one unfertile strife
Betwixt half-polish'd and half-barbarous life;
Where every ill the ancient world can brew
Is mix'd with every grossness of the new;
Where all corrupts though little can entice,
And nothing's known of luxury, but vice!

Is this the region then, is this the clime For golden fancy? for those dreams sublime, Which all their miracles of light reveal To heads that meditate and hearts that feel? No, no-the muse of inspiration plays O'er every scene; she walks the forest

maze,

And climbs the mountain; every blooming spot

Burns with her step, yet man regards it not!

which it carries its white waves to the opposite shore without mixing them: afterwards it gives its colour to the Mississippi, which it never loses again, but $ carries quite down to the sea."-Letter xxvii.

She whispers, round, her words are in the air,

But lost, unheard, they linger freezing there, Without one breath of soul, divinely strong of heart to thaw them into song!

One ray

Yet, yet forgive me, oh you sacred few! Whom late by Delaware's green banks

knew ;

Whom, known and lov'd through many a social eve,

'Twas bliss to live with, and 'twas pain to leave!*

Less dearly welcome were the lines of yore The exile saw upon the sandy shore,

When his lone heart but faintly hop'd to find One print of man, one blessed stamp of mind! Less dearly welcome than the liberal zeal, The strength of reason and the warmth to feel,

*In the society of Mr. Dennie and his friends, at Philadelphia, I passed the few agreeable moments which my tour through the States afforded me. Mr. Dennie has succeeded in diffusing through this elegant little circle that love for good literature and sound politics, which he feels so zealously himself, and which is so very rarely the characteristic of his countrymen. They will not, I trust, accuse me of illiberality for the picture which I have given of the ignorance and corruption that surround them. If I did not hate, as I ought, the rabble to which they are opposed, I could not value, as I do, the spirit with which they defy it; and in learning from them what Americans can be, I but see with the more in dignation what Americans are.

The manly polish and the illumin'd taste,
Which, 'mid the melancholy, heartless waste
My foot has wander'd, oh you sacred few!
I found by Delaware's green banks with you.
Long may you hate the Gallic dross that runs
O'er your fair country and currupts its sons;
Long love the arts, the glories which adorn
Those fields of freedom, where your sires
were born.

Oh! if America can yet be great,

If, neither chain'd by choice, nor damn'd by fate

To the mob-mania which imbrutes her now, She yet can raise the bright but temperate brow

Of single majesty, can grandly place
An empire's pillar upon freedom's base,
Nor fear the mighty shaft will feebler prove
For the fair capital that flowers above !—
If yet releas'd from all that vulgar throng,
So vain of dulness and so pleas'd with wrong,
Who hourly teach her, like themselves, to
hide

Folly in froth, and barrenness in pride,
She yet can rise, can wreathe the attic charms
Of soft refinement round the pomp of arms,
And see her poets flash the fires of song,
To light her warriors' thunderbolts along!
It is to you, to souls that favouring Heaven
Has made like yours, the glorious task is
given-

Oh but for such, Columbia's days were done: Rank without ripeness, quicken'd without

sun,

Crude at the surface, rotten at the core, Her fruits would fall, before her spring were o'er !

Believe me SPENCER, while I wing'd the

hours

Where Schuylkill undulates through banks of flowers,

Though few the days the happy evenings few So warm with heart, so rich with mind they

flew,

That my full soul forgot its wish to roam, And rested there, as in a dream of home! And looks I met, like looks I lov'd before, And voices too, which as they trembled o'er The chord of memory, found full many a

tone

Of kindness there in concord with their own!. Oh! we had nights of that communion free, That flush of heart, which I have known with thee

So oft, so warmly; nights of mirth and mind, Of whims that taught, and follies that refin'd When shall we both renew them? when restor'd

To the pure feast and intellectual board, Shall I once more enjoy with thee and thine Those whims that teach, those follies that re

1 hear Niagara's distant cataract roar,
Even now, as wandering upon Erie's shore,
I sigh for England-oh! these weary feet
Have many a mile to journey, ere we meet!

Ω ΠΑΤΡΙΣ, ΩΣ ΣΟΥ ΚΑΡΤΑ ΝΥΝ ΜΝΕΙΑΝ ΕΧΩ.

Euripides.

A WARNING.

To

On! fair as heaven and chaste as light!
Did nature mould thee all so bright,
That thou shouldst ever learn to weep
O'er languid virtue's fatal sleep,
O'er shame extinguish'd, honour fled,
Peace lost, heart wither'd, feeling dead?

No, no! a star was born with thee,
Which sheds eternal purity!
Thou hast, within those sainted eyes,
So fair a transcript of the skies,
In lines of fire such heavenly lore,
That man should read them and adore!
Yet have I known a gentle maid
Whose early charms were just array'd
in nature's loveliness like thine,
And wore that clear, celestial sign,