PHILIP FRENAU. 1752-1832. (Manual, pp. 486, 511.)

252. From "An Indian Burying-ground."

In spite of all the learned have said,
I still my old opinion keep;
The posture that we give the dead,
Points out the soul's eternal sleep.

DAVID HUMPHREYS. 1753-1818. (Manual, p. 512.)

253. From "The Happiness of America."

I TOO, perhaps, should Heaven prolong my date,
The oft-repeated tale shall oft relate;

Shall tell the feelings in the first alarms,

Of some bold enterprise the unequalled charms;
Shall tell from whom I learnt the martial art,
With what high chiefs I played my early part-
With Parsons first

Death-daring Putnam

then immortal Greene

Then how great Washington my youth approved,
In rank preferred, and as a parent loved.

With him what hours on warlike plains I spent,
Beneath the shadow of th' imperial tent;
With him how oft I went the nightly round
Through moving hosts, or slept on tented ground;
From him how oft — (nor far below the first,
In high behests and confidential trust) —
From him how oft I bore the dread commands,
Which destined for the fight the eager bands;
With him how oft I passed the eventful day,
Rode by his side, as down the long array
His awful voice the columns taught to form,
To point the thunders and direct the storm.
But, thanks to Heaven! those days of blood are o'er ;
The trumpet's clangor, the loud cannon's roar.

No more this hand, since happier days succeed,
Waves the bright blade, or reins the fiery steed.
No more for martial fame this bosom burns;
Now white-robed Peace to bless a world returns;
Now fostering Freedom all her bliss bestows,
Unnumbered blessings for unnumbered woes.

SAMUEL J. SMITH.' 1771-1835.

254. PEACE, BE STILL.

WHEN, on his mission from his home in heaven,
In the frail bark the Saviour deigned to sleep,
The tempest rose - with headlong fury driven,
The wave-tossed vessel whirled along the deep:
Wild shrieked the storm amid the parting shrouds,
And the vexed billows dashed the darkening clouds.

Ah! then how futile human skill and power,

"Save us! we perish in the o'erwhelming wave!"
They cried, and found in that tremendous hour,
"An eye to pity, and an arm to save.”

He spoke, and lo! obedient to his will,
The raging waters and the winds were still.

1 A gentleman of fortune and literary culture; a life-long resident in the country, in his native state, New Jersey.

And thou, poor trembler on life's stormy sea,
Where dark the waves of sin and sorrow roll,
To Him for refuge from the tempest flee,

To Him, confiding, trust the sinking soul;
For O, he came to calm the tempest-tossed,
To seek the wandering, and to save the lost.

For thee, and such as thee, impelled by love,

He left the mansions of the blessed on high;
Mid sin, and pain, and grief, and fear, to move,

With lingering anguish, and with shame to die.
The debt to Justice, boundless Mercy paid,
For hopeless guilt, complete atonement made.

O, in return for such surpassing grace,

Poor, blind, and naked, what canst thou impart ?
Canst thou no offering on his altar place?

Yes, lowly mourner; give him all thy heart :

That simple offering he will not disown,

That living incense may approach his throne.

WILLIAM CLIFTON. 1772-1799. (Manual, p. 512.)

255. From lines "To Fancy."

Is my lonely pittance past?
Fleeting good too light to last?

Lifts my friend the latch no more?
Fancy, thou canst all restore;
Thou canst, with thy airy shell,
To a palace raise my cell.

With thee to guide my steps, I'll creep
In some old haunted nook to sleep,
Lulled by the dreary night-bird's scream,
That flits along the wizard stream,
And there, till morning 'gins appear,
The tales of troubled spirits hear.

Sweet's the dawn's ambiguous light,
Quiet pause 'tween day and night,
When afar the mellow horn
Chides the tardy gaited morn,

And asleep is yet the gale

On sea-beat mount, and rivered vale.

But the morn, though sweet and fair,
Sweeter is when thou art there;
Hymning stars successive fade,
Fairies hurtle through the shade,
Lovelorn flowers I weeping see,
If the scene is touched by thee.

Thus through life with thee I'll glide,
Happy still whate’er betide,

And while plodding sots complain
Of ceaseless toil and slender gain,
Every passing hour shall be

Worth a golden age to me.

ROBERT TREAT PAINE. 1773-1811. (Manual, p. 512.)

From "The Ruling Passion."

256. THE MISER.

NEXT Comes the miser; palsied, jealous, lean,

He looks the very skeleton of Spleen!

'Mid forests drear, he haunts, in spectred gloom,
Some desert abbey or some druid's tomb ;

Where hearsed in earth, his occult riches lay,
Fleeced from the world, and buried from the day.
With crutch in hand, he points his mineral rod,
Limps to the spot, and turns the well-known sod;
While there, involved in night, he counts his store
By the soft tinklings of the golden ore;

He shakes with terror lest the moon should spy,
And the breeze whisper, where his treasures lie.

This wretch, who, dying, would not take one pill,
If, living, he must pay a doctor's bill,
Still clings to life, of every joy bereft ;
His god is gold, and his religion theft!

And, as of yore, when modern vice was strange,
Could leathern money current pass on 'change,
His reptile soul, whose reasoning powers are pent
Within the logic bounds of cent. per cent.,
Would sooner coin his ears than stocks should fall,
And cheat the pillory, than not cheat at all!

JOHN BLAIR LINN.' 1777-1804.

257. From "The Powers of Genius."

THE human fabric early from its birth,
Feels some fond influence from its parent earth;
In different regions different forms we trace,
Here dwells a feeble, there an iron race;
Here genius lives, and wakeful fancies play,
Here noiseless stupor sleeps its life away.

Chill through his trackless pines the hunter passed,
His yell arose upon the howling blast ;

Before him fled, with all the speed of fear,
His wealth and victim, yonder helpless deer.
Saw you the savage man, how fell and wild,
With what grim pleasure, as he passed, he smiled?
Unhappy man! a wretched wigwam's shed
Is his poor shelter, some dry skins his bed;
Sometimes alone upon the woodless height
He strikes his fire, and spends his watchful night;
His dog with howling bays the moon's red beam,
And starts the wild deer in his nightly dream.
Poor savage man! for him no yellow grain
Waves its bright billows o'er the fruitful plain;
For him no harvest yields its full supply,

When winter hurls his tempest through the sky.
No joys he knows but those which spring from strife,
Unknown to him the charms of social life.
Rage, malice, envy, all his thoughts control,
And every dreadful passion burns his soul.
Should culture meliorate his darksome home,
And cheer those wilds where he is wont to roam;

Should fields of tillage yield their rich increase,
And through his wastes walk forth the arts of peace,
His sullen soul would feel a genial glow,
Joy would break in upon the night of woe;
Knowledge would spread her mild, reviving ray,
And on his wigwam rise the dawn of day.

1 A Presbyterian clergyman, who died prematurely; an associate and connection of Charles Brockden Brown. Has left several poems of merit. A native of Pennsylvania.