Tickles up the heart of wo,
Sets the tongue, enlivens wit,
Gives the sweet poetic fit.

Tea 't is makes the charming fair
Sprightly, pleasing, as they are.
What is more than all, 't was Tea,
Tea, that set Columbia free.

TO A FAIR LADY.

FAIREST, mourn not for thy charms,
Circled by no lover's arms;

While inferior belles, you see,

Pick up husbands merrily.

Sparrows when they choose to pair,
Meet their matches anywhere;
But the Phoenix, sadly great,
Cannot find an equal mate.

Earth, though dark, enjoys the honor
Of a moon to wait upon her;
Venus, though divinely bright,
Cannot boast a satellite.

ROBERT S. COFFIN,

Was born in the state of Maine, and spent the early portion of his life in Newburyport, where he served an apprenticeship as a printer, an occupation which he afterwards pursued in Boston, New York, and Philadelphia. He dreamed that the gods had made him poetical, and put forth quantities of metre at an early age. In the latter part of his life, his rhymes, under the name of "The Boston Bard," obtained him some notice as an inditer for the poet's corner of the newspapers, and his various pieces were collected and published in a volume, in 1826. It contains but a small amount of tolerable matter. We remember while a schoolboy, to have read some local satires of his

in manuscript, which showed respectable powers of sarcasm and ridicule. He died at Rowley, near Newburyport, in May, 1827, at the age of about thirty. His life was chequered by considerable variety, he having been at one time a sailor; the public sympathy was much excited for him toward the close of his career, and Mr Bryan wrote a poem, the profits of which were given to relieve his necessities.

SONG.

Love, the leaves are falling round thee;
All the forest trees are bare;
Winter's snow will soon surround thee,
Soon will frost thy raven hair:
Then say, with me,

Love, wilt thou flee,

Nor wait to hear sad autumn's prayer?

For winter rude

Will soon intrude,

Nor aught of summer's blushing beauties spare.

Love, the rose lies withering by thee,
And the lily blooms no more;
Nature's charms will quickly fly thee,
Chilling rains around thee pour :
Oh, then with me,

Love, wilt thou flee,

Ere whirling tempests round thee roar,
And winter dread

Shall frost thy head,

And all thy raven ringlets silver o'er?

Love, the moon is shining for thee;
All the lamps of heaven are bright;
Holy spirits glide before thee,
Urging on thy tardy flight;
Then say, with me,

Love, wilt thou flee,

Nor wait the sun's returning light?

Time's finger rude,

Will soon intrude

Relentless, all thy blushing beauties blight.

Love, the flowers no longer greet thee,
All their lovely hues are fled!

No more the violet springs to meet thee,
Lifting slow its modest head:
Then say, with me,

Love, wilt thou flee,

And leave this darkling desert dread?

And seek a clime

Of joy sublime,

Where fadeless flowers a lasting fragrance shed?

WILLIAM B. WALTER,

Was born in Boston, and educated at Bowdoin College, in Maine. He afterwards studied divinity at Cambridge, but never entered the pulpit. He died at Charleston, S. C., in 1822, aged about twentysix or seven. He wrote "Sukey," and a volume of poems, published in 1821.

ROMANCE.

"Tis the last hour! far o'er the beetling steep,
The glorious sun descends into the deep,
And flings around a fiery flood of light,
In farewell beams magnificently bright!-
The shadowing clouds in mingled clusters driven,
In lingering splendor float along the heaven:
On roseate wings all softly now are stealing,
Veil his bright beams then suddenly revealing;
Tinging the towering cliffs and glowing skies,
With radiant streaks of blue and purple dyes;
While the long gleam that sweeps the crimson west,
Traces the mighty limits of his rest.

So sink the powerful, and the good of earth,

From this fair world, that gloried in their birth!

Their fame beams bright o'er death's dispersing gloom, And crowns with living light their hallow'd tomb!

'Tis the last hour! and all around is still!

No murmur breaks on Calvary's lone hill!—

Gihon's green banks and waves of heavenly blue,
And vales and woods touch'd with a soften'd hue,
Shine gladly forth, and greet the raptured view!-
Hush'd is the fall of waters! evening's purple dew
Is all around-the sweet flowers blossoming
Droop their bright heads over the sacred spring!
The high blue depths of air are silent now!—
And spirits crowd along that mountain's brow!-
Their rushing plumes are waving in the light,
Spangled with stars, their waving tresses bright,
Circled with diadems enwreath'd with flowers!
They come in glory from immortal bowers;
Hark! 't is the music of a golden string,
Swept by the sweet winds softly quivering!
That trembles on the air with thrilling wing,
And soothes the soul with its wild wandering!
Like the loved hymn of early joys departed,
That leaves the pilgrim almost broken-hearted;
Too richly dear, its deep enchanting swell
That has no name-but only breathes farewell!—
'Tis gone!-and silent now the broad blue skies,
Rolling in splendor as they gently rise!
Soaring on radiant wings, far, far away!
How solemnly beautiful departing day!

And oh! how changed from that when Jesus died
On that lone mountain's solitary side!-
Thick clouds of darkness veil'd its hallow'd crest,
And hovering lower'd upon its awful breast;
Heavy and still the gathering volumes form;
Hark! 't is the hollow muttering of the storm!
It comes at last, in gloom and wildering terror;
The skies hang heavy like a mighty mirror,
Despoil'd of all its splendor and its light!

Dim crowding shapes are thronging down the night!—
Redoubling peal on peal the thunder rolls,

And rends the reddening vapor's bloody folds!

Sudden and quick the lurid flashes driven
In angry quiverings shot along the heaven,
Shivering the foldings of that darksome shroud!

Rent are the mountain rocks! earth shrieks aloud!
The tempest winds are struggling fierce-and far
Down the deep vale rolls on the fearful war!
The volumed mass, all trembling, now receding,

In wandering fires, high o'er the proud crest spreading
In billowy flames! high on their flashing wings,
Wrecks of old clouds and awful thunderings!
And meteors stricken from the firmament

Shower round their sulphurous rains!-in wild lament,
Phantoms of light burst from the yawning earth
On burning wings, the earthquake's wondrous birth!-
The sun goes down in blood, and day is

gone !
Nature convulsive shakes, groans deep, 't is done!
The whirlwinds rage, the graves give up their dead!
Thousands of thunders roll! Where is that spirit filed?
The godhead's power was there! and all was night!
The godhead's power was there! and all was light!—

Lo! rising from the shade of years, Visions of light are beaming!

They pass away!—a host appears!

*

How bright the visionary shapes are gleaming!-
Harktis the trumpet clang!-the warrior band

Sweep the dark waters for the holy land;

Knights, chieftains, paladins and kings!

Amid ten thousand banner'd things!

Bright gleam the far off spears-and golden armor ringing, Proud plumage waving, and red crosses flinging,

Are all around, where upward they are winging,

In pomp and pride of chivalry,

Their streaming terrors to the sky!—

And see, where burns the crescent high,

Melting in clouds of purple dye!
And gay pavilions proudly shine,-
Gilded throne and gorgeous shrine
Are stretched on Syria's strand!

And there the Moslem banner throws,

Its threatening folds to coming foes!—

See the Saracen lines are unveil'd, and display,

The burning crests of their long array,

And glance in fearful light,-the sun's last trembling ray Hear ye no cry on Gaza's shore?—

No victor shout, no battle roar?—

The ringing trump come piercingly

On the startled ear, and the hoarse war cry!
The peal of drum rolling deeply on!
The war horn's din, and gonfalon ;

Saw ye no flash of the scimetar's wave,