There glittering towns and villages extend, There ploughmen chant, and mowers sweep the soil, Thanks to the brave, who through these forests bore Who drove them howling through th' affrighted waste, Where still the mouldering breastwork meets the view, FOR THE PORT FOLIO. Tribute to the memory of Anna Smedes. Where twilight's sad and ling'ring ray, Enshrin'd within its bosom cold, In this expedition against the hostile Indians, which was committed to the management of general Sullivan, and crowned with the most complete success, the only stand made by the savages was at this place, August 29th, 1799. After a short skirmish they were driven from this their last hold, and pursued beyond the Gennesee river. Forty of their towns, and upwards of one hundred and sixty thousand bushels of Indian corn were destroyed. The remnant of the tribes took refuge in Canada; and thus an immense extent of the most fertile country of the United States was laid open to the enterprise of our active and industrious settlers. The white population of these parts of the State of New-York, settled since, may be fairly estimated at three times the number of all the Indians within five hundred miles of the place. FOR THE PORT FOLIO. To Miss TOUCH not again thy sacred lyre, Forbear that melting hallow'd strain; "Twill reillume my bosom's fire, "Twill wake my heart to feel again: That heart which once, with youthful glow, "Tis when Cynthia's rising beam, When some pale lover, wand'ring far, 'Tis when the rais'd romantic mind, To peace, to love, to heaven resigned, Loves to repair To some wild fragrant myrtle cove, 'Tis when the fairy orb, serenc, Divinely blends each rural scene Of hill and dale, When by the heav'nly visioned light, From perfum'd spray, the bird of night Descants his tale. 'Tis when the grief-worn pilgrim hies To commune with his kindred skies To seek relief In pious pray'r and fancy tells 'Tis when the sentient, wounded heart, Pierced by Slander's keenest dart, O'erwhelmed with woes, Flies from the busy haunts of men, 'Tis that blest hour when lovers stray To taste those joys that shun the day, Congenial hour, When timid maids their lovers bless, When by this light they first confess Love's gentle power. "Tis when the poet, Passion's child, In Fancy's world now wanders wild, With soul on fire, The strain of epic praise prolongs, 'Tis when, as fabled poets say, And revel all the live-long night, But vanish at the earliest light 'Tis when, as Superstition says, The soul departed oft betrays Holds converse with its mutual heart, Or leaves Elysium to impart Some truth sublime. Oh, still I love thy tranquil light, For e'en when sorrow swells my breast, Thy beams can sooth my soul to rest, FOR THE PORT FOLIO. EPIGRAM. Written in a volume of Pratt's Gleanings. TROTH, master Pratt, I've toil'd, in vain, Through these same "Gleanings" more than half; And quit them:-for there's little grain, But, zooks! a nation deal of chaff. |