exhibiting his natural feelings, and the method he pursued to control them.

"THE BURLESQUE" is in the style of SWIFT, and is not unworthy even of him. It is light and airy in its versification; and expresses rather the importance we should attach primarily to our own exertions and achievements, than the real regard and veneration which the author ever felt and exhibited for his progenitors, in devout appreciation of the Scripture-"the glory of children are their fathers."

Mr. CLEVELAND died suddenly while on a visit to New Haven, September 21st, 1815, and lies buried in the cemetery there. He left behind him a stainless and a beloved name; and is here associated (though with many greater,) with none better, or more valued in private life. Not a few who knew him, and still survive, will be gratified to read this little sketch of his history and character, and will prize the reliques of his graceful verse, which are here presented them.

THE PHILOSOPHER AND BOY.

Anno Etatis 19.

I.

Botanic search had led me far afield,

Where various plants the hills and vallies yield.
I strayed meand'ring o'er the pathless ground,
Till far from home my weary self I found.
A mount before me I unconscious trod,
With steps half taken, as I searched the clod.
The summit gained, I sat me down to breathe,
And view the landscape spreading wide beneath;
Far o'er a concave mead, and hill o'er hill,
Far as the eye could reach, new objects still!
There graceful waves the ponderous golden corn,
And orchards there the sloping hills adorn;
There fleecy tribes the craggy steeps ascend,
Or browsing, on the verdant cliff's depend;
O'er scallop'd hills a steeple lifts its head,
And tells, far-off, a village there is spread!

II.

Mine eyes were feasting-but, as Science bid,
I left the mount, to search the lowly mead.

With steps descending through a sidelong grove,
I reach the vale, where fancy loves to rove;
The lawn extending wide from east to west,
The verdure waving, as by zephyrs press'd,
Give to the eye in one resplendent show,
All that the thought in visions can bestow.

III.

Through thickest willows, hidden from the day,
A brook serpentine gently steals away.

There tim'rous birds have hung their straw-built cells,
While underneath the trout securely dwells;

There sings the robin when Aurora's born,

And every songster hails the rising morn.

High on some elm, the thrush, with various note
And rapturous strains, swells out his tuneful throat;

The bobalincon skims the vale along,

Salutes each shrub, and rattles o'er his song;
Hid 'neath some hedge, the am'rous quail elate,
Whistles responsive to her distant mate;
While mountain-birds join chorus all around,
And hills to hills their melody resound.

IV.

Such is the concert, such each morning-scene,
Till Sol withdraws, and Autumn fades the green.
But now an elm invites me to her shade,
To cool my bosom and to rest my head.
Beneath her base a bubbling spring arose ;

I drank the stream, and stretched me to repose;
And fanned by zephyrs, drowsy soon I grew,
When half-heard sobs my waked attention drew:
I raised me up—all silence o'er the plain,
A dream! I said, and laid me down again:
Another sob-and broken accents heard,
Upright I stood-a pensive lad appear'd.

From whence-what grieves thee, then, my lad, I cried;
If thou art lost, I'll be thy faithful guide;
For well I know the grounds, the trees, the brook,
And yonder hills, as far as thou canst look.

Cheer up, my boy, and stay those falling tears,
I'll soon divest thee of these needless fears;

Name but thy father, and I'll point his dome,
And lead thee safely to thy wished-for home.

V.

With sobs obtruding, scarce the lad could say
I am not lost, kind sir, I know the way;
But pity-pity! Here his grief renewed,
And pearly drops his ruddy cheeks bedewed.

VI.

Come, hush my boy, and tell me all thy grief,
And let me give thy sorrows quick relief;
Hath some dire serpent bit thee? Tell me where,
I'll ply my balsam, and the wound repair;
Stung by a bee? I'll soon extract the sting,
Ease all thy smart, and thou again shalt sing;
Here, with my kerchief wipe thy pretty face,
And tell me all the troubles of thy case.

VII.

I have no wound, the bashful boy replied,

Save such as grief can give, and shame would hide.
Here lies the bird my wanton hands have slain;
Oh! could thy balsam give it life again,
With grateful heart I'd own thy gen'rous aid,
As would the mother whom I've disobey'd!
For she, kind woman, taught my soul to feel
Another's woe, another's wound to heal,
And by example, led my happy mind
To hate the cruel, and to love the kind.
Hear me, kind sir, in patience hear the whole,
Nor smile at this keen anguish of my soul;
Hither I ran in chase of straying sheep,
For know, my father doth an hundred keep;
In playful mood, with whistle and with song,
I danced and leaped and skipped my way along;
My guiltless life had never known a stain,
Till this poor bird my wanton hand had slain!
From yonder tree it wing'd its airy way,
And perched upon the willow's topmost spray;
Thoughtless I took, and aimless cast the stone,
Nor knew the deed, alas! till it was done;

Oft had I thrown before, in playful mood,
But ne'er till now I shed the guiltless blood.
I ran and snatched the victim from the ground,
Trembling and gasping, dying of its wound:
My heart relented, and I trembled too,
When lo! a nest of young appear'd in view.
Five little bills were oped in vain for food,
And, fixed in grief, I watched them as I stood;
Sweet innocents, I said, what have I done-
What can I do-or how the deed atone!
Not yet 'tis dead—it gasps, it must not die;
Hear me, kind HEAVEN, that hear'st the ravens cry!
With anxious heart to re-inspire its breath,
And bring it back from trembling and from death,
Within my mouth I placed its gasping bill,
And gently blew, its life to re-instil;
But vain my efforts; nothing could restore
The dying bird, and soon it gasp'd no more;

While still with piteous eye I watched the nest,
Blamed the rash deed, and heaved the sobbing breast.
Poor orphan birds, my bursting heart exclaimed,
The fatal deed was not from baseness aimed;
Yet have I robbed you of the only friend
On whom your little beings might depend.
How faithful was her trust to feed by light,
Or brood you snugly from the chills of night,
To choose the food her tender young might eat,
And far and near to search the dainty meat.
I'll take her place, and till the morrow's sun,
Make part atonement for the deed I've done.
No watching hawk with hostile fangs by day,
Nor owl by night shall bear the prize away;
With flies and worms each day I'll see them fed,
And when 't is dark, my hat I'll o'er them spread
Oh, do not smile-with me come view the nest,
You will not wonder that I'm thus oppress'd.

VIII.

The breasts in which no tenderness we find,
Can own no virtue of the noble mind;

I love, said I, dear boy, the feeling heart,

Where sense with sentiment may share its part;
But when the feelings thus untempered flow,

We wrong ourselves, and wrong our neighbor too;
Let moderation, then, thy grief direct,
And first the rule of happiness respect.
To man subordinate we rank the brute,

Yet kindly treat them, as their natures suit;
And true compassion for their servile race,
In man, the master, should demand its place.
Yet guiltless all, we take their lives away,
When need or chance has marked them for a prey:
Thy sportive hand hath slain without design;
Let pity move-but guilt may not be thine.
Suffice the grief-enough the tears you've shed,
To make amends, and weep the hapless dead:
And now to give your burdened mind relief,
And in a word to cancel all your grief,
Know that her mate, with equal care and skill
To feed and nurse, is hovering round us still.
With watchful eye and fluttering for the brood,
He waits our leave to waft the needed food:
On yonder bough-behold, he seems to say
Touch not my young-go strangers, haste away:
Recluse behind these willows let us lie,
And watch his visit to his family.

IX.

He's come! he's come! the boy in rapture said,
And from his beak the crying ones are fed,
And now with speed again he wings away;
There see him make the butterfly his prey!
With rapid flight, at once returned again,
Look, he divides the little captive slain;
See each extended bill receive its part,

See instinct operate, surpassing art!

Where now, my boy, your feelings fine, I said;
For the poor butterfly no tears are shed!

Are birds alone the objects of your care,

While the poor insect claims no humble share?