To be compelled, by force, to lead
A life of single cursedness.

The fops and beaus of fairy race,
With shame and anger did repine,
And, envious of such female grace,
O, how they hated Valentine!

They slander'd him; they bit their nails;
They spit their venom o'er and o'er;
But still, as virtue never fails,

The smiling ladies lov'd him more.

These were the parties of the state,
Which my poor muse has thus display'd;
When Fairies thus in grave debate,
Assembled in the toad-stool shade.

The Monarch, rising from his throne,
Exclaim'd, henceforth let rancour flee;
Your voices only shall make known,
Ye Fairies, who your king shall be.

Your voices shall your sovereign shew-
Shall Valentine enjoy the bliss?

The males-the brutes-they answered, ne,
The ladies blush'd, and whisper'd, yes.

The males, they chose their Oberon,
That Fairy quarrell'd with his wife;
And hence so oft the nuptial sun,
Descends in darkness and in strife.

This was the day, the very same,
The male and female spirits strove,
Whom they should choose, by loud acclaim,
To be thenceforth the Fairy Jove.

Not numbers-brutal strength prevail'd,
From party what dire feuds will spring!
The beaus their favourite Oberon hail'd,
And he again was crown'd their king.
Shame, cried the Ladies, we will tell,
To all our sex of mortal birth,
What dire injustice has befel,

And Valentine shall rule the earth.

And annual on this very day,

They whisper to the female line;
Whatever brutal man may say,
O, call your lover Valentine.

BALTIMORE, February 14.

WHERE IS HE?

[Daily Advertiser. Boston.]

Heu quanto minus est cum reliquis versari quam tui meminisse.
His way was on the water's deep,

For lands far distant, and unknown!
His heart could feel-his eye could weep-
For sufferings other than his own;
And he could seem what others be,
Yet only seem-but WHERE IS HE?

I wander through this grove of love,

The valley lone-and climb the hill,
Where he was wont in life to rove,→→

And all looks calm and pleasant still!
And there his bower and cypress tree,
That tree of gloom! But WHERE IS HE?

The sun above shines now as bright

Through Heaven's blue depths-as e'er it shone ;
The clouds roll beautiful in light,

Sweeping around the Eternal's throne!

The singing birds are full of glee,

Their songs as sweet-but WHERE IS HE?

The mirror of the moon on high,

That bright lake, seems as softly calm;
The stars as richly throng the sky;

The night winds breathe their fragrant balm ;
Rolls on as bright that deep blue sea
Its mighty waves-but WHERE IS HE?

Here is the wreath he twin'd-but now
This rosy wreath is twin'd in vain!
Tears, nor the bosom's warmest glow,
Will ever give it life again!

All this is dark and strange to me,
Yet still, I ask-but WHERE IS HE?
I touch his HARP-the magic strings,
The loveliest sounds of music pour!
But sadly wild-as if the wings

Of DEATH'S DARK ANGEL swept them o'er !
The chords are lull'd! It may not be !

And spirits whisper-WHERE IS HE?

His way was on the water's deep!

His corse is on an unknown shore!

He sleeps a long and wakeless sleep,
And we shall see his face no more!
'Tis a sad tale! he died for me!
Oh! God! enough!-but WHERE IS HE?

W.

LEGAL LYRICS.

[Northern Whig. Hudson.]

UNDER this title a merry writer in the London Magazine pretends to maintain the hypothesis, that "poetry pervades the whole system of nature," and that it may be elicited from one subject as well as another. Being, as he says, a lawyer, he makes his professional business a subject to illustrate his theory by example. 66 It would," he says, "indeed, be difficult to appropriate it to any particular class of poetry. It could not be called strictly didactic; for where shall we find its morality? nor descriptive; for who can understand it? nor humorous; at least, suitors deny that; nor pathetic, unless we look at its consequences. It has a touch, perhaps, of the pastoral, in the settlement of cases; and of the dramatic, in the uncertainty of its issues. Its dulness, it is said, has nothing analogous to poetic genius, whatever it may have to some of its professors.' However, in the following parody of one of the most popular of Moore's Irish Melodies, if he fails to prove litigation harmonious, or special pleadings poetical, he shows, at least, that he has himself caught a portion of the musical humour that distinguishes the effusions of Coleman and Croaker. It will be observed that the epistle is designed for a formal notice to a brother attorney of an intention to file a de

murrer.

OH! think not your pleadings are really so sly,

And as free from a flaw as they seem to you now;

For, believe, a demurrer will certainly lie

The return of to-morrow will quickly show how.

No: law is a waste of impertinent reading,

Which seldom produces but quibbles and broils;
And the lawyer, who thinks he's the nicest in pleading,
Is the likeliest far to be caught in its toils.

But, brother attorney, how happy are we!

May we never meet worse, in our practice of law, Than the flaw a demurrer can gild with a fee,

And the fee that a conscience can earn from a flaw!

Yet our doors would not often be dark, on my soul,
If Equity did not to Law lend its àid;

And I care not how soon I am struck off the roll,
When I for these blessings shall cease to be paid!

But they, who have fought for the weakest, or strongest,
Too often have wept o'er the credit they gave:
Even he, who has slumber'd in Chanc'ry the longest,
Is happy if always his costs he can save.

But, my brother in law! while a quarrelling germ
Is in man, or in woman, this prayer shall be ours-
That actions-at-law may employ every term,
And equity-suits cheer vacational hours!

SPELLING.

[Portsmouth Journal.]

ONE, who had met with some disaster,
Which forc'd him to become school-master,
Within a village kept a school,

Taught children how to spell by rule,
And oft invited parents in,

To see their children learning win;
A mother call'd to see her boy,

Her solace, comfort, and her joy,

And hear him spell. The master said,
"Stand up, good boy; hold up your head;
Hold up your book, so you can see-
Spell on." The boy whines, " B, E, D."'
"Well," says the master,

very well-
But what do these three letters spell ?"

Says boy, "I don't know, and can't tell.”
"What do you sleep upon, you cur?"

"I always sleep on sheep skins, sir."

PEQUOT WAR SONG.

From an unpublished Poem by Adam Thornbush.
[Connecticut Mirror.]

THE leaves of the forest, when summer is past,
Fly scattered and wild before autumn's chill blast
So fled the pale Englishmen, scattered and far,
Before the stern Pequots, resistless in war.

Ye sons of Pekoah, now rush on your foes,

Loud sound ye the war-cry, and bend ye your bows;
Hark! the war-spirit breathes on the gale, and his breath
Shall be to the white men the music of death.

In terror they flee-now in vengeance pursue--
Their widows, their orphans the battle shall rue-
They fled like the shadowy forms of a dream,
Like atoms that dance in the sun's parting beam.

Now the blood thirsty vulture with gore shall be fed,
And the wolf and the raven shall feast on the dead;
Hobbomaco* shall smile when your offerings ye bring,
And the victims, all trembling, their death-song shall sing.

MR. COOPER.

[New-England Galaxy.]

MR. COOPER'S Virginius is a performance of transcendant merit. It is a creation of mighty power, enlivened, moved, and directed by a judgement, which, though not infallible, is seldom wrong. Whatever success may attend this tragedy, the author can claim little more than to have drawn an outline of his hero, and to have placed his personages in affecting situations. He has not given to one of them a line that is worth repeating. The language is familiar and colloquial to a fault. It is not, perhaps, unnatural, though, in some instances, it is puerile without being poetical. There is nothing in it of that loftiness, or grandeur, which has been supposed, by some, as peculiarly appropriate, if not absolutely necessary, to help to constitute a good tragedy. The effect, if any, must be produced entirely by the power of the actor. Would any thing less than the unsubdued and unconquerable spirit of freedom, which reigned in the breasts of ancient Romans, have placed before us the living image of Virginius, swelling with indignation at the news of the disgraceful claim, which had been set up by Claudius against his daughter? The effect produced by Mr. Cooper in this scene is powerful beyond description. The soul of the indignant father flashes from the eye, inflames every feature, and strains every nerve, to spurn the wretch, who offered the contumelious imputation.

The last scene of the fourth act, though it may require less power in the actor, operates more strongly on the spectator, and, from the intensity of the feeling here produced by Mr. Cooper, we are relieved only by the closing of the scene. We wish that all those, who accuse him of inability to excite sympathetic emotions, could have been witnesses of the tenderness with which

* Hobbomaco, the evil spirit, whom the Indians worshipped.