All—but a few apostates, who are meddling
With merchandise, pounds, shillings, pence, and peddling

Or, wandering through the southern countries, teaching
The A B C from Webster’s spelling-book;
Gallant and Godly, making love and preaching,
And gaining, by what they call “hook and crook,”
And what the moralists call overreaching,
A decent living. The Virginians look
Upon them with as favorable eyes
As Gabriel on the devil in paradise.

But these are but their outcasts. View them neal
At home, where all their worth and pride is placed;
And there their hospitable fires burn clear,
And there the lowliest farm-house hearth is graced
With manly hearts, in piety sincere,
Faithful in love, in honor stern and chaste,
In friendship warm and true, in danger brave,
Beloved in life, and sainted in the grave.

And minds have there been nurtured, whose control
Is felt even in their nation’s destiny;

Men who swayed senates with a statesman's soul,
And looked on armies with a leader's eye;

Names that adorn and dignify the scroll
Whose leaves contain their country's history.

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Hers are not Tempe’s nor Arcadia’s spring,
Nor the long summer of Cathayan vales,
The vines, the flowers, the air, the skies, that fling
Such wild enchantment o'er Boccaccio's tales
Of Florence and the Arno—yet the wing
Of life’s best angel, Health, is on her gales
Through sun and snow—and, in the autumn time,
Earth has no purer and no lovelier clime.

Her clear, warm heaven at noon, the mist that shrouds
Her twilight hills, her cool and starry eves,

The glorious splendor of her sunset clouds,
The rainbow beauty of her forest leaves,

Come o'er the eye, in solitude and crowds,
Where'er his web of song her poet weaves;

And his mind's brightest vision but displays
The autumn scenery of his boyhood's days.

And when you dream of woman, and her love;
Her truth, her tenderness, her gentle power,

The maiden, listening in the moonlight grove,
The mother, smiling in her infant's bower;

Forms, features, worshipped while we breathe or move,

Be, by some spirit of your dreaming hour, Borne, like Loretto's chapel, through the air

To the green land I sing, then wake; you'll find them there.

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THE moon is up ! How calm and slow
She wheels above the hill!

The weary winds forget to blow,
And all the world lies still.

The way-worn travellers, with delight,
The rising brightness see,

Revealing all the paths and plains,
And gilding every tree.

It glistens where the hurrying stream
Its little ripple leaves;

It falls upon the forest shade,
And sparkles on the leaves.

So once, on Judah's evening hills,
The heavenly lustre spread;

The gospel sounded from the blaze,
And shepherds gazed with dread.

And still that light upon the world
Its guiding splendor throws :

Bright in the opening hours of life,
But brighter at the close.

The waning moon, in time, shall fail
To walk the midnight skies;
But God hath kindled this bright light
With fire that never dies.

America to Great Britain.”—WAsHINGTon Allston.

ALL hail! thou noble land,
Our father's native soil :

O stretch thy mighty hand,
Gigantic grown by toil,

O'er the vast Å. wave to our shore

For thou, with magic might,

Canst reach to where the light

Of Phoebus travels bright

The world-o'er!

The Genius of our clime,
From his pine-embattled steep,
Shall hail the great sublime;
While the Tritons of the deep
With their conchs the kindred league shall proclaim.
Then let the world combine—
O'er the main our naval line,
Like the milky way, shall shine
Bright in fame !

Though ages long have passed
Since our fathers left their home,

Their pilot in the blast,
O'er untravelled seas to roam,_

Yet lives the blood of England in our veins'

And shall we not proclaim

That blood of honest fame,

Which no tyranny can tame

By its chains 2

While the languagé, free and bold,
Which the bard of Avon sung,

In which our Milton told
How the vault of heaven rung,

*This poem was written in the year 1810. It was first printed, we be lieve, in Coleridge's Sybilline Leaves. Coleridge inserted it among his own poems, with the following note:—

“This poem, written by an American gentleman, a valued and dear fiend, I communicate to the reader for its moral, no less than its poetic, spirit.

After such a commendation from the greatest poet, and perhaps the greatest man living, any additional one would be superfluous.-Ep.

When Satan, blasted, fell with his host;
While this, with reverence meet,
Ten thousand echoes greet,
From rock to rock repeat
Round our coast;

While the manners, while the arts,
That mould a nation's soul,

Still cling around our hearts,
Between let Ocean roll,

Our joint communion breaking with the Sun:

Yet, still, from either beach,

The voice of blood shall reach,

More audible than speech,

* We are One l’”

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See to life her beauties start;
Hail! thou glorious, matchless flower

Much thou sayest to the heart,
In the solemn, fleeting hour.

*This alludes merely to the moral union of the two countries. The author would not have it supposed that the tribute of respect, offered in these stanzas o the land of his ancestors, would be paid by him, if at the expense of the independence of that which gave him birth.

f The night-flowering Cereus, or Cactus grandiflorus, is one of our most spiendid hot-house plants, and is a native of Jamaica and some other of the West India Islands. Its stem is creeping, and thickly set with spines. The flower is white, and very large, sometimes nearly a foot in diameter. The most remarkable circumstance with regard to the flower, is the short time which it takes to expand, and the rapidity with which it decays. It begins to open late in the evening, flourishes for an hour or two, then begins to droop, and before morning is completely dead.

Ere we have our homage paid,
Thou wilt bow thine head and die;

Thus our sweetest pleasures fade,
Thus our brightest blessings fly.

Sorrow's rugged stem, like thine,
Bears a #. thus purely bright;

Thus, when sunny hours decline,
Friendship sheds her cheering light.

Religion, too, that heavenly flower,
That joy of never-fading worth,

Waits, #. thee, the darkest hour,
Then puts all her glories forth.

Then thy beauties are surpassed,
Splendid flower, that bloom'st to die; ,

For Friendship and Religion last,
When the morning beams on hign.

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God is good! Each perfumed flower,
The smiling fields, the dark green wood,

The insect, fluttering for an hour-
All things proclaim that God is good.

I hear it in the rushing wind;
Hills that have for ages stood,

And clouds, with gold and silver lined,
Are still repeating, God is good.

Each little rill, that, many a year,
Has the same verdant path pursued,

And every bird, in accents clear,
Joins in the song that God is good.

The restless main, with haughty roar,
Calms each wild wave .# billow rude,

Retreats submissive from the shore,
And swells the chorus, God is good.

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