Some real world once more may be assign'd,
Some new-born mansion for the immortal mind!
Farewell, sweet lake; farewell, surrounding woods:
To other groves, through midnight glooms, I stray,
Beyond the mountains, and beyond the floods,
Beyond the Huron bay!

Prepare the hollow tomb, and place me low,
My trusty bow and arrows by my side,
The cheerful bottle and the venison store;
For long the journey is that I must go,
Without a partner, and without a guide."

He spoke, and bid the attending mourners weep, Then closed his eyes, and sunk to endless sleep!

THE INDIAN BURYING-GROUND.

In spite of all the learn'd have said,
I still my old opinion keep;
The posture that we give the dead,

Points out the soul's eternal sleep.

Not so the ancients of these lands

The Indian, when from life released, Again is seated with his friends,

And shares again the joyous feast.*

His imaged birds, and painted bowl, And venison, for a journey dress'd, Bespeak the nature of the soul,

Activity, that knows no rest.

His bow, for action ready bent,

And arrows, with a head of stone, Can only mean that life is spent, And not the old ideas gone.

Thou, stranger, that shalt come this way,
No fraud upon the dead commit-
Observe the swelling turf, and say
They do not lie, but here they sit.
Here still a lofty rock remains,

On which the curious eye may trace (Now wasted, half, by wearing rains) The fancies of a ruder race.

Here still an aged elm aspires,

Beneath whose far-projecting shade (And which the shepherd still admires) The children of the forest play'd!

There oft a restless Indian queen
(Pale SHEBAH, with her braided hair)
And many a barbarous form is seen
To chide the man that lingers there.

The North American Indians bury their dead in a sitting posture; decorating the corpse with wampum, the images of birds, quadrupeds, &c.: and (if that of a warrior) with bows, arrows, tomahawks, and other military weapons.

By midnight moons, o'er moistening dews,
In habit for the chase array'd,

The hunter still the deer pursues,
The hunter and the deer, a shade!
And long shall timorous fancy see

The painted chief and pointed spear;
And Reason's self shall bow the knee
To shadows and delusions here.

TO THE MEMORY OF THE AMERICANS WHO FELL AT EUTAW.*

AT Eutaw Springs the valiant died;

Their limbs with dust are cover'd o'erWeep on, ye springs, your tearful tide; How many heroes are no more!

If, in this wreck of ruin, they

Can yet be thought to claim the tear, O smite your gentle breast, and say,

The friends of freedom slumber here! Thou who shalt trace this bloody plain, If goodness rules thy generous breast, Sigh for the wasted rural reign;

Sigh for the shepherds, sunk to rest! Stranger, their humble graves adorn;

You too may fall, and ask a tear: 'Tis not the beauty of the morn

That proves the evening shall be clear.

They saw their injured country's wo;

The flaming town, the wasted field; Then rush'd to meet the insulting foe; They took the spear-but left the shield.

Led by the conquering genius, GREENE,
The Britons they compell'd to fly :
None distant viewed the fatal plain;
None grieved, in such a cause to die.
But like the Parthians, famed of old,
Who, flying, still their arrows threw;
These routed Britons, full as bold,
Retreated, and retreating slew.

Now rest in peace, our patriot band;
Though far from Nature's limits thrown,
We trust they find a happier land,
A brighter sunshine of their own.

TO AN OLD MAN.

War, dotard, wouldst thou longer groan Beneath a weight of years and wo; Thy youth is lost, thy pleasures flown, And age proclaims, ""Tis time to go."

The Battle of Eutaw, South Carolina, was fought September 8, 1781.

To willows sad and weeping yews
With us a while, old man, repair,
Nor to the vault thy steps refuse;
Thy constant home must soon be there.
To summer suns and winter moons
Prepare to bid a long adieu;
Autumnal seasons shall return,

And spring shall bloom, but not for you.
Why so perplex'd with cares and toil
To rest upon this darksome road?
"Tis but a thin, a thirsty soil,

A barren and a bleak abode.

Constrain'd to dwell with pain and care, These dregs of life are bought too dear; "Tis better far to die, than bear

The torments of life's closing year.

Subjected to perpetual ills,

A thousand deaths around us grow: The frost the tender blossom kills,

And roses wither as they blow.

Cold, nipping winds your fruits assail;
The blasted apple seeks the ground;
The peaches fall, the cherries fail;
The grape receives a mortal wound.

The breeze, that gently ought to blow,

Swells to a storm, and rends the main; The sun, that charm'd the grass to grow,

Turns hostile, and consumes the plain; The mountains waste, the shores decay,

Once purling streams are dead and dry'Twas Nature's work-'tis Nature's play, And Nature says, that all must die.

Yon flaming lamp, the source of light,

In chaos dark may shroud his beam, And leave the world to mother Night, A farce, a phantom, or a dream.

What now is young, must soon be old:

Whate'er we love, we soon must leave:
"Tis now too hot, 'tis now too cold-
To live, is nothing but to grieve.
How bright the morn her course begun!
No mists bedimm'd the solar sphere;
The clouds arise-they shade the sun,
For nothing can be constant here.

Now hope the longing soul employs,
In expectation we are bless'd;
But soon the airy phantom flies,

For, lo! the treasure is possess'd.

Those monarchs proud, that havoc spread,
(While pensive REASON dropt a tear,)
Those monarchs have to darkness fled,
And ruin bounds their mad career.

The grandeur of this earthly round,
Where folly would forever stay,
Is but a name, is but a sound—
Mere emptiness and vanity.

Give me the stars, give me the skies, Give me the heaven's remotest sphere, Above these gloomy scenes to rise

Of desolation and despair.

Those native fires, that warm'd the mind, Now languid grown, too dimly glow, Joy has to grief the heart resign'd,

And love, itself, is changed to wo. The joys of wine are all you boast,

These, for a moment, damp your pain; The gleam is o'er, the charm is lostAnd darkness clouds the soul again. Then seek no more for bliss below,

Where real bliss can ne'er be found; Aspire where sweeter blossoms blow,

And fairer flowers bedeck the ground; Where plants of life the plains invest, And green eternal crowns the year :The little god, that warms the breast, Is weary of his mansion here. Like Phospher, sent before the day, His height meridian to regain, The dawn arrives-he must not stay To shiver on a frozen plain. Life's journey past, for fate prepare,"Tis but the freedom of the mind; Jove made us mortal-his we are,

To Jove be all our cares resign'd.

COLUMBUS TO FERDINAND.*

ILLUSTRIOUS monarch of Iberia's soil,
Too long I wait permission to depart;
Sick of delays, I beg thy listening ear-

Shine forth the patron and the prince of art.

While yet Columbus breathes the vital air,

Grant his request to pass the western main: Reserve this glory for thy native soil,

And, what must please thee more, for thy own reign.

Of this huge globe, how small a part we know— Does heaven their worlds to western suns deny? How disproportion'd to the mighty deep

The lands that yet in human prospect lie!

Does Cynthia, when to western skies arrived,

Spend her moist beam upon the barren main, And ne'er illume with midnight splendour, she, The natives dancing on the lightsome green? Should the vast circuit of the world contain

Such wastes of ocean and such scanty land? "Tis reason's voice that bids me think not so; I think more nobly of the Almighty hand.

*Columbus was a considerable number of years engaged in soliciting the court of Spain to fit him out, in order to discover a new continent, which he imagined to exist somewhere in the western parts of the ocean. During his negotiations, he is here supposed to address King Ferdinand in the above stanzas.

Does yon fair lamp trace half the circle round

To light mere waves and monsters of the seas? No; be there must, beyond the billowy waste, Islands, and men, and animals, and trees. An unremitting flame my breast inspires

To seek new lands amid the barren waves, Where, falling low, the source of day descends, And the blue sea his evening visage laves. Hear, in his tragic lay, Cordova's sage:*

"The time may come, when numerous years are past,

When ocean will unloose the bands of things,
And an unbounded region rise at last;

And TYPHIS may disclose the mighty land,

Far, far away, where none have roved before ; Nor will the world's remotest region be

Gibraltar's rock, or THULE's savage shore." Fired at the theme, I languish to depart; Supply the bark, and bid Columbus sail; He fears no storms upon the untravell'd deep; Reason shall steer, and skill disarm the gale. Nor does he dread to miss the intended course, Though far from land the reeling galley stray, And skies above, and gulfy seas below,

Be the sole objects seen for many a day. Think not that Nature has unveil'd in vain The mystic magnet to the mortal eye: So late have we the guiding needle plann'd, Only to sail beneath our native sky? Ere this was known, the ruling power of all Form'd for our use an ocean in the land, Its breadth so small, we could not wander long, Nor long be absent from the neighbouring strand. Short was the course, and guided by the stars,

But stars no more must point our daring way; The Bear shall sink, and every guard be drowned, And great Arcturus scarce escape the sea,

When southward we shall steer- -O grant my wish,

Supply the bark, and bid Columbus sail,
He dreads no tempests on the untravell'd deep,
Reason shall steer, and skill disarm the gale.

THE WILD HONEYSUCKLE.

FAIR flower, that dost so comely grow,
Hid in this silent, dull retreat,
Untouch'd thy honey'd blossoms blow,
Unseen thy little branches greet:

No roving foot shall crush thee here,
No busy hand provoke a tear.

*Seneca, the poet, a native of Cordova in Spain: "Venient annis secula seris,

Quibus oceanus vincula rerum
Laret, et ingens pateat tellus,
Typhisque novos detegat orbes ;
Nic sit terris ultima Thule."

Seneca, Med., act iii., v. 375.

By Nature's self in white array'd,
She bade thee shun the vulgar eye,
And planted here the guardian shade,
And sent soft waters murmuring by;
Thus quietly thy summer goes,
Thy days declining to repose.

Smit with those charms, that must decay,
I grieve to see your future doom;
They died-nor were those flowers more gay,
The flowers that did in Eden bloom;

Unpitying frosts and Autumn's power
Shall leave no vestige of this flower.

From morning suns and evening dews
At first thy little being came:
If nothing once, you nothing lose,
For when you die you are the same;
The space between is but an hour,
The frail duration of a flower.

HUMAN FRAILTY.

DISASTERS on disasters grow,

And those which are not sent we make;

The good we rarely find below,

Or, in the search, the road mistake.

The object of our fancied joys

With eager eye we keep in view: Possession, when acquired, destroys The object, and the passion too.

The hat that hid Belinda's hair

Was once the darling of her eye; "Tis now dismiss'd, she knows not where; Is laid aside, she knows not why.

Life is to most a nauseous pill,

A treat for which they dearly pay: Let's take the good, avoid the ill, Discharge the debt, and walk away.

THE PROSPECT OF PEACE.

THOUGH clad in winter's gloomy dress
All Nature's works appear,
Yet other prospects rise to bless
The new returning year:
The active sail again is scen

To greet our western shore,
Gay plenty smiles, with brow serene,
And wars distract no more.

No more the vales, no more the plains
An iron harvest yield;

Peace guards our doors, impels our swains
To till the grateful field:

From distant climes, no longer foes, (Their years of misery past,) Nations arrive, to find repose

In these domains at last.

And, if a more delightful scene
Attracts the mortal eye,

Where clouds nor darkness intervene,
Behold, aspiring high,

On freedom's soil those fabrics plann'd,
On virtue's basis laid,

That make secure our native land,
And prove our toils repaid.

Ambitious aims and pride severe,

Would you at distance keep,
What wanderer would not tarry here,
Here charm his cares to sleep?

O, still may health her balmy wings
O'er these fair fields expand,

While commerce from all climates brings
The products of each land.

Through toiling care and lengthen'd views,
That share alike our span,

Gay, smiling hope her heaven pursues,
The eternal friend of man:

The darkness of the days to come

She brightens with her ray,
And smiles o'er Nature's gaping tomb,
When sickening to decay!

TO A NIGHT-FLY, APPROACHING A

CANDLE.

ATTRACTED by the taper's rays,
How carelessly you come to gaze
On what absorbs you in its blaze!
O fly! I bid you have a care:
You do not heed the danger near-
This light, to you a blazing star.

Already you have scorch'd your wings:
What courage, or what folly brings
You, hovering near such blazing things?

Ah, me! you touch this little sun—
One circuit more, and all is done!-
Now to the furnace you are gone!-

Thus folly, with ambition join'd,
Attracts the insects of mankind,
And sways the superficial mind:

Thus, power has charms which all admire,
But dangerous is that central fire-

If you are wise, in time retire.

JOHN TRUMBULL, LL.D., the author of "McFingal," was born in Waterbury, Connecticut, on the twenty-fourth day of April, 1750. His father was a Congregational clergyman, and for many years one of the trustees of Yale College. He early instructed his son in the elementary branches of education, and was induced by the extraordinary vigour of his intellect, and his unremitted devotion to study, to give him lessons in the Greek and Latin languages before he was six years old. At the age of seven, after a careful examination, young TRUMBULL was declared to be sufficiently advanced to merit admission into Yale College. On account of his extreme youth, however, at that time, and his subsequent ill health, he was not sent to reside at New Haven until 1763, when he was in his thirteenth year. His college life was a continued series of successes. His superior genius, attainments and industry enabled him in every trial to surpass his competitors for academic honours; and such of his collegiate exercises as have been printed evince a discipline of thought and style rarely discernible in more advanced years, and after greater opportunities of improvement. He was graduated in 1767, but remained in the college three years longer, devoting his attention principally to the study of polite letters. In this period he became acquainted with DWIGHT, then a member of one of the younger classes, who had attracted considerable attention by translating in a very creditable manner two of the finest odes of Horace, and contracted with him a lasting friendship. On the resignation of two of the tutors in the college in 1771, TRUMBULL and DWIGHT were elected to fill the vacancies, and exerted all their energies for several years to introduce an improved course of study and system of discipline into the seminary. At this period the ancient languages, scholastic theology, logic, and mathematics were dignified with the title of "solid learning," and the study of belles lettres was decried as useless and an unjustifiable waste of time. The two friends were exposed to a torrent of censure and ridicule, but they persevered, and in the end were successful. TRUMBULL wrote many humorous prose and poetical essays while he was a tutor, which were published in the gazettes of Connecticut and Massachusetts, and with DWIGHT produced a series in the manner of the "Spectator," which extended to more than forty numbers. The

quaintance with rhetoric and belles lettres, then obtained more generally than now, and dunces had but to remain four years in the neighbourhood of a university to be admitted to the fellowship of scholars and the ministers of religion. In the satire, Toм BRAINLESS, a country clown, too indolent to follow the plough, is sent by his weakminded parents to college, where a degree is gained by residence, and soon after appears as a full-wigged parson, half-fanatic, half-fool, to do his share toward bringing Christianity into contempt. Another principal person is DICK HAIRBRAIN, an impudent fop, who is made a master of arts in the same way; and in the third part is introduced a character of the same description, belonging to the other sex.

During the last years of his residence at College, TRUMBULL paid as much attention as his other avocations would permit to the study of the law, and in 1773 resigned his tutorship and was admitted to the bar of Connecticut. He did not seek business in the courts, however, but went immediately to Boston, and entered as a student the office of JOHN ADAMS, afterward President of the United States, and at that time an eminent advocate and counsellor. He was now in the

focus of American politics. The controversy with Great Britain was rapidly approaching a crisis, and he entered with characteristic ardour into all the discussions of the time, employing his leisure hours in writing for the gazettes and in partisan correspondence. In 1774, he published anonymously his " Essay on the Times," and soon after returned to New Haven, and with the most flattering prospects commenced the practice of his profession.

The first gun of the revolution echoed along the continent in the following year, and private pursuits were abandoned in the general devotion to the cause of liberty. TRUMBULL wrote the first part of McFingal," which was immediately printed in Philadelphia, where the Congress was then in session, and soon after republished in numerous editions in different parts of this country and in England. It was not finished until 1782, when it was issued complete in three cantos at Hartford, to which place TRUMBULL had removed in the preceding year.

McFingal" is in the Hudibrastic vein, and much the best imitation of the great satire of BUTLER that has been written. The hero is a Scotish justice of the peace residing in the vicinity of Boston at the beginning of the revolution, and the first two cantos are principally occupied with a discussion between him and one HONORIUS on the course of the British government, in which MCFINGAL, an unyielding loyalist, endeavours to