THE DEAD OF 1832.

Oh Time and Death! with certain pace,
Though still unequal, hurrying on,
O'erturning, in your awful race,

The cot, the palace, and the throne!
Not always in the storm of war,

Nor by the pestilence that sweeps
From the plague-smitten realms afar,
Beyond the old and solemn deeps:
In crowds the good and mighty go,

And to those vast dim chambers hie,
Where, mingled with the high and low,
Dead Cæsars and dead Shakspeares lie.
Dread Ministers of God! sometimes

Ye smite at once, to do His will,
In all earth's ocean-sever'd climes,
Those whose renown ye cannot kill!

When all the brightest stars that burn
At once are banished from their spheres,
Men sadly ask, when shall return

Such lustre to the coming years?

For where is he'-who lived so long-
Who raised the modern Titan's ghost,
And showed his fate, in powerful song,
Whose soul for learning's sake was lost?
Where he who backwards to the birth
Of Time itself, adventurous trod,
And in the mingled mass of earth

Found out the handiwork of God??

Where he who in the mortal head,3

Ordained to gaze on heaven, could trace
The soul's vast features, that shall tread
The stars, when earth is nothingness?
Where he who struck old Albyn's lyre,
Till round the world its echoes roll,
And swept, with all a prophet's fire,

The diapason of the soul?

Where he who read the mystic lore,"
Buried, where buried Pharaohs sleep;
And dared presumptuous to explore
Secrets four thousand years could keep?

Where he who with a poet's eye'
Of truth, on lowly nature gazed,
And made even sordid Poverty

Classic, when in His numbers glazed?
Where that old sage so hale and staid,2
The "greatest good" who sought to find;
Who in his garden mused, and made
All forms of rule, for all mankind?
And thou-whom millions far removed'
Revered the hierarch meek and wise,
Thy ashes sleep, adored, beloved,
Near where thy Wesley's coffin lies.
He too-the heir of glory-where
Hath great Napoleon's scion fled?
Ah! glory goes not to an heir!

Take him, ye noble, vulgar dead!
But hark! a nation sighs! for he,
Last of the brave, who perilled all
To make an infant empire free,
Obeys the inevitable call!

They go-and with them is a crowd,
For human rights who THOUGHT and did,
We rear to them no temples proud,
Each hath his mental pyramid.

All earth is now their sepulchre,

The MIND, their monument sublime;

Young in eternal fame they are

Such are YOUR triumphs, Death and Time.

GOOD-NIGHT.

Good-night to all the world! there's none,
Beneath the "over-going sun,"
To whom I feel or hate or spite,
And so to all a fair good-night.

Would I could say good-night to pain,
Good-night to conscience and her train,
To cheerless poverty, and shame
That I am yet unknown to fame!

Would I could say good-night to dreams
That haunt me with delusive gleams,
That through the sable future's veil
Like meteors glimmer, but to fail!

1 Crabbe.

3 Adam Clarke.

2

Jeremy Bentham.
Charles Carroll.

Would I could say a long good-night
To halting between wrong and right,
And, like a giant with new force,
Awake prepared to run my course!

But time o'er good and ill sweeps on,
And when few years have come and gone,
The past will be to me as naught,
Whether remembered or forgot.

Yet let me hope one faithful friend
O'er my last couch shall tearful bend;
And, though no day for me was bright,
Shall bid me then a long good-night.

PHILIP FRENEAU, 1752-1832.

PHILIP FRENEAU was a celebrated poet in the period of the American Revolution, for most of his pieces were written between the years 1768 and 1793. He was of French extraction, his grandfather, a Huguenot, having come to this country, soon after the Revocation of the Edict of Nantz, 1598. He was born in New York in the year 1752, and after the usual preparatory studies, in which he distinguished himself, he entered Princeton College, New Jersey, and graduated there in 1771, at the age of nineteen. Before leaving college, he had not only written many fugitive pieces, but had planned an epic poem on the life and discoveries of Columbus, which, however, was never executed, though we doubtless have, in some of his detached pieces, portions which he intended to interweave into the body of the work. After leaving college, he went to Philadelphia, and spent his time chiefly in writing upon public political characters and events, taking strong ground for the Republican side, and holding the "Tories," as the favorers of Great Britain were called, up to ridicule and contempt. He enjoyed the friendship of some of the first men of the day—of Adams, Franklin, Jefferson, Madison, Francis Hopkinson, and others; and Mr. Jefferson, on coming to the Presidency, gave him a place in the Department of State. He soon, however, resigned his post, not finding its duties agreeable to him, and removed to Philadelphia, to conduct a paper entitled the "Freeman's Journal." Finding this unprofitable, he took the command of a merchant ship, in 1793, and made several voyages to Madeira, the West Indies, and other places.

Of his subsequent history, we know but little. The latter part of his life he lived at Mount Pleasant, and then at Freehold, in New Jer sey, at which latter place he died on the 18th of December, 1832.

THE DYING INDIAN.1

"On yonder lake I spread the sail no more!
Vigor, and youth, and active days are past;
Relentless demons urge me to that shore
On whose black forests all the dead are cast;
Ye solemn train, prepare the funeral song,
For I must go to shades below,
Where all is strange, and all is new;
Companion to the airy throng!
What solitary streams,

In dull and dreary dreams,

All melancholy, must I rove along!

To what strange lands must Chequi take his way!
Groves of the dead departed mortals trace;
No deer along those gloomy forests stray,
No huntsmen there take pleasure in the chase,
But all are empty, unsubstantial shades,
That ramble through those visionary glades;
No spongy fruits from verdant trees depend,
But sickly orchards there

Do fruits as sickly bear,

And apples a consumptive visage shew,
And withered hangs the hurtleberry blue.

Ah me! what mischiefs on the dead attend!
Wandering a stranger to the shores below,
Where shall I brook or real fountain find?
Lazy and sad deluding waters flow:
Such is the picture in my boding mind!
Fine tales, indeed, they tell
Of shades and purling rills,
Where our dead fathers dwell
Beyond the western hills;

But when did ghost return his state to show,
Or who can promise half the tale is true?

I, too, must be a fleeting ghost! no more;
None, none but shadows to those mansions go;
I leave my woods, I leave the Huron shore,
For emptier groves below!

Ye charming solitudes,

Ye tall ascending woods,

Ye glassy lakes and prattling streams,
Whose aspect still was sweet,

Whether the sun did greet,

Or the pale moon embraced you with her beams-
Adieu to all!

To all that charmed me where I strayed,

The winding stream, the dark sequestered shade:
Adieu all triumphs here!

Adieu, the mountain's lofty swell,
Adieu, thou little verdant hill,
And seas, and stars, and skies-farewell,
For some remoter sphere!

Perplexed with doubts, and tortured with despair,
Why so dejected at this hopeless sleep?

Nature at last these ruins may repair,

When fate's long dream is o'er, and she forgets to weep;
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 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.

By Nature's self in white array'd,
She bade thee shun the vulzar 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;