For once they see his fearful den,
'Tis a dark cloud that slowly moves
By night around the homes of men,
By day-along the stream it loves.

Again the dog is on his track,

The hunters chase o'er dale and hill, They may not, though they would, look back, They must go forward-forward still.

Onward they go, and never turn,
Spending a night that meets no day;
For them shall never morning sun,
Light them upon their endless way.

The hut is desolate, and there

The famish'd dog alone returns ; On the cold steps he makes his lair, By the shut door he lays his bones.

Now the tir'd sportsman leans his gun
Against the ruins of the site,

And ponders on the hunting done

By the lost wanderers of the night.

And there the little country girls

Will stop to whisper, and listen, and look, And tell, while dressing their sunny curls, Of the Black Fox of Salmon Brook.

WITH gallant sail and streamer gay,
Sweeping along the splendid bay,

That, throng'd by thousands, seems to greet
The bearer of a precious freight,

The Cadmus comes; and every wave

Is glad the welcom'd prow to lave.

What are the ship and freight to me

I look for one that's on the sea.

"Welcome FAYETTE," the million cries;
From heart to heart the ardour flies,
And drum, and bell, and cannon noise,
In concord with a nation's voice,
Is pealing through a grateful land,
And all go with him.-Here I stand,

Musing on one that's dear to me,
Yet sailing on the dangerous sea.

Be thy days happy here, FAYETTE—–
Long may they be so-long-but yet
To me there's one that, dearest still,
Clings to my heart and chains my will.
His languid limbs and feverish head
Are laid upon a sea-sick bed.

Perhaps his thoughts are fix'd on rne,
While toss'd upon the mighty sea.

I am alone. Let thousands throng
The noisy, crowded streets along:
Sweet be the beam of Beauty's gaze-
Loud be the shout that Freemen raise--
Let Patriots grasp thy noble hand,
And welcome thee to Freedom's land ;-
Alas! I think of none but he

Who sails across the foaming sea.

So, when the moon is shedding light
Upon the stars, and all is bright
And beautiful; when every eye
Looks upwards to the glorious sky;
How have I turn'd my silent gaze
To catch one little taper's blaze:-

'Twas from a spot too dear to me,
The home of him that's on the sea.

PRESIDENTIAL COTILLION.

Carmina tum melius, cum venerit IPSE canemus.

VIRG. Bucolica, Ecl. ix.

CASTLE GARDEN was splendid one night-though

the wet

Put off for some evenings the ball for FAYETTE. The arrangements were rich, the occasion was pat, And the whole was in style ;—but I sing not of that.

Ye Graces, attend to a poet's condition,

And bring your right heels to the second position ;
I sing of a dance such as never was seen
On fairy-tripped meadow, or muse-haunted green.

The length of the room, and the height of the hall,
The price of the tickets, the cost of the ball,
And the sums due for dresses, I'm glad to forget-
I'd rather pay off the whole national debt.

The fiddlers were Editors, rang'd on the spot,

There were strings that were rosin'd, and strings that

were not;

Who furnish'd the instruments I do not know,
But each of the band drew a very long bow.

They screw'd up their pegs, and they shoulder'd their fiddles ;

They finger'd the notes of their hey-diddle-diddles ;
Spectators look'd on-they were many a million,
To see the performers in this great cotillion.

One Adams first led Miss Diplomacy out,
And Crawford Miss Money-an heiress no doubt;
And Jackson Miss Dangerous, a tragical actor,
And Clay, Madam Tariff, of home manufacture.

There was room for a set just below, and each buck Had a belle by his side, like a drake with his duck; But the first set attracted the whole room's attention, For they cut the capers most worthy of mention.

They bow'd and they curtsied, round went all eight,

Right foot was the word, and chasse was the gait;