XXIV. THE LUNATIC GIRL.
[From the same.]

'Twas on a moonshine night like this, we took our last farewell; And as he gave his parting kiss, I felt my bosom swell;

He said, "Adieu, my Caroline," but I said not a word;

Yet never heart was fond, like mine-how wild that dark bush stirred!

The moon was round, the moon was bright, the moon was rising high;

It was just such a pleasant night, and he was standing by;
The sweet bird sung his roundelay, he mocked me all night

long;

'Tis winter, and he 's flown away, or I should hear his song.

The moon looks down upon the spring-she cannot melt it, though;

The pretty bird has spread his wing, he does not love the snow; The winds blew hard-they say, at sea, such winds will raise a storm;

I wish my love was here by me-my heart would keep him

warm.

I have a hat of straw for thee-I wove it and I wept,
To think thou wert so far at sea, and I the toy have kept;
I made a basket, which I filled, with lillies, to the brim;
But plucking them, their beauty killed, and so I thought of him.
They say the moon loves such as I-her love is very cold;
She floats so softly through the sky, I'd take her down, and fold
My cloak around her snowy face, and warm her on my heart-
O! no-she needs a warmer place-how could we ever part!
What can my heart have done, to make me love so much the
moon?

My fingers are so cold, they ache-l shall be frozen soon;
I would not love my lover so-my tears are never dry;

I hear him call, and I must go-and so, sweet moon, good-bye.

Twould shock thy manly pride, perhaps,
That buoyant, e'en in slumber,
Sees each remaining hour elapse,
Anxious the last to number.

'Twould pain thy filial heart to find,
A mother nigh thee, kneeling,
More than the dreary death-like wind,
O'er yon cold ocean stealing.

Then sleep, adventurous boy, and live
Still reckless of my sorrow,—
Kind heaven will aid my tongue to give
A firm adieu, to-morrow.

Yes--I will say, adieu to thee,

With scarce a sigh of sadness,
Though while I speak, despair should be,
Driving my heart to madness.

And when afar the ship is borne,
That wafts thee o'er the billow,
I'll seek that vacant couch, and mourn
To mark its lonely pillow.

But hark! I hear a distant cry,
To deck--to danger-warning,
And now the signal-flag on high,
Streams to the breeze of morning.

I go may that eternal friend,

Who sees my sad devotion,

Restore thee, when thy wanderings end,
Unsullied from the ocean.

XXVI. THE LAST REPOSE.

[Daily Advertiser. Philadelphia.]

YE dead! ye dead! your rest is sweet, from dreamy trouble free,
The labouring heart forgets to beat, beneath the alder tree;
O gladly, 'neath the grassy turf, the care-worn would recline,
Or 'neath the wave, where fairy hands bedeck the lowly shrine.
Ye dead! ye dead! he comes! he comes! and he that woke to

weep,

Shall bosom every secret ill, where ye long vigils keep.

Ye solitary relics! pent, in earth, to earth a prey,

Ye voiceless lips! how eloquent, to me, is your decay;

O sweet the consecrated soil, where pilgrims cease to roam,

Where fainting mortals end their toil, and misery finds a home;

L

And sweet the couch, where coral wreaths, deep in the surging brine,

In ocean's dark unfathomed caves, the sleeping dust entwine. Unwept, they sank to lasting sleep, when tempests rode the cloud,

Or when the night-star paled the deep, the deep became their shroud;

Think not, for these, who press that bed, no seemly knell is rung, Think not, no rites embalm the dead, nor holy hymn is sung: Heard ye not on the midnight wave, when whispered anthems stole ?

'Twas, o'er the seaboy's early grave, a requiem for his soul.

Dear to the shipwreck'd is the port, where on a stormless sea, His barque rides safe from every gale, from shoals and quicksands free ;

Dear to the wanderer is the star, that points his doubtful way, That cheers and guides him when, afar, his faltering footsteps stray;

And dear the hour when I, this head, may pillow on its rest,
When I, amid the thronging dead, shall be a welcome guest;
O, dear to me that last repose, where I, this wasting form
May shelter 'neath the opening rose, that knows no wintry

storm.

BOOK IIX.

HUMOROUS AND SATIRICAL.

I. CELEBRATION OF THE FOURTH OF JULY AT HOME,

BY AN OLD SOLDIER.

[New-Hampshire Patriot. Concord.]

MESSRS. EDITORS,

WHILE Various parts of these United States are bursting forth in orations, songs, and toasts, in commemoration of that day, which gave birth to our republic; while hills and dales echo with shouts of joy and acclamations of triumph for our deliverance from the shackles of foreign despots; permit an old revolutionary soldier, through the medium of your paper, to talk a little about himself, "to fight his battles o'er again," and "shoulder his crutch, and show how fields are won." You must know, I am no scholar; I am not gifted in the set forms of speech now in fashion; but I talk right on, just as the spirit (I mean the spirit of '76) gives me utterance. I did, indeed, once set out to become a scholar; acquired a smattering of Latin, and almost conquered the Greek alphabet. At any rate, I carried the outworks, and captured the front and rear guards, alpha and omega, and do verily believe, that had it not been for the breaking out of the revolution, I might have mustered knowledge enough, so that I should have done very well to have been made over into a pettifogger, a pedagogue, or a quack-doctor. What I might have made, had I not entered the army, the Lord only knows; but I have ever been of the opinion, that I was not born to move in that humble station, in which my evil stars have placed me.

But this is all nothing: and why should I care, so long as I have one of the best poets in the world on my side, who says,

"Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,

And waste its sweetness on the desert air."

You see, sirs, I have read a little, and have got a good memory, and that makes me believe I might have made a scholar, had I not gone off at half bent and mis-fired, from which unlucky accident I have never yet fully recovered. In short, I am nothing but a poor lame soldier and a pensioner, thank God and my country; and this is much better than nothing. General St. Clair, and I, have had a hard day of it, thank fortune; he has got a discharge and gone home; he lived in the woods and died in the woods; he lived poor and died poor: and I, thank heaven, am just like him, except that I never commanded an army. But alas! from my rambling, I find, as Dr. Franklin says, that I am growing old. I did, indeed, intend to say something considerable about the wars, and what General Washington and I suffered through a seven years' tug; but I am apt to stray from the ground, and I find I cannot keep my eye steadily on the gun as I used to do I think, however, I shall be justified in the opinion of the world, if in talking of myself, I should boast and swagger a little, and, as they used to say in the army, let off a gun now and then; for, if I do not mistake, I have heard it said that Cicero, or some such true American, who lived a long while before the dark ages, used to say, that old men, and especially old revolutionary soldiers, have a sort of right and privilege given them to talk about themselves, and to say almost what they please--more especially, if they had been good soldiers and had served during the

war.

To come to the point, then, I am now sixty-nine years old, and though I say it, have seen as much service and as hard fortune as any man of my years. I began my military career with the battle of Bunker-Hill: and a hard fought battle it was, as any one could wish to see ; but I have this consolation; I know full well, that I brought down a British grenadier at the distance of