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In wines, in furniture, and dress,

In arts and sciences, no less,
All that is native is despis'd,

And all that's foreign highly priz'd:
In vain the poet wooes his muse,
His countrymen their praise refuse;
The painter bids his canvass glow,
With Nature's forms of joy or wo;
In vain, obliged to ply his tools
In copying works of foreign schools.
The fields of Science and of Taste,
For want of culture, there, lay waste;
While Fashion all her plaudits lends
To praise whatever Europe sends.
Thus Trumbull's wit, and Barlow's sense,

To rivalry make no pretence

With Byron's splenetic abuse,

And Scott's degraded trifling muse.

Paine is forgot, and Wilson dies,
Without a poet's obsequies.
In vain the hills majestic rise,
They please no partial gazer's eyes;
In vain the graceful streams are roll❜d,
Their beauties in no verse are told.
In vain, my country, art thou blest,
With all the charms of all the rest;
If we behold in thee alone,

A country to itself unknown."

FOR THE PORT FOLIO.

LOVE AND JOY.

The design taken from an ancient story.

WHEN o'er the earth celestial Virtue reigned,

And Pride and Passion were alike restrained;

VIVIAN.

• The sagacious herb probably intended Paine the poet, not the politician.

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When he would paint the glowing vision near,
With look so sweet, his gloomy life to cheer,

HOPE whispered soft, and while she still pursued,
Alternate smiles and tears his hours renewed.
When SORROW wounded, HoPE would heal the smart,
And pour her balsam in his bleeding heart.

From the sad union of this fated pair;
One virgin sprung, and she supremely fair.
Her pensive aspect, and benignant mien,
Spoke the soft feeling, and the soul serene,
Which o'er her form, and mild seraphic face,
Shed the pure light of Heaven's inspiring grace.
On her fair head, a mingling wreath was wove,
Of SORROW's cypress, and the flowers of Love;
The father's sweetness, and the mother's gloom,
So formed and blended with her native bloom,
That when she smiled, a sad and mournful ray
Beamed from her eye, and chased the smile away.
Her plaintive voice, that o'er the senses stole,
Poured such a tranquil pleasure through the soul,
That all who saw and felt her magic aid,
Called her sweet PITY, and adored the maid.

Yet not the splendid court, where Pleasure's train,

In one unclouded sunshine, seem to reign,

Can tempt the nymph, or prompt the secret sigh,

Or rouse unsought her bosom's sympathy.

On the cold bank of some deserted stream,

Where the pale moon sheds forth her faintest beam, She loves to sit, and with her lute she tries

To blend the music of her softest sighs;

So

pure

the strain, that when Misfortune's near, Adoring angels leave their heaven to hear. Beloved and loving, she delights to be

The guardian friend, and staff of Misery;
And when she listens to the tale of Wo,

Her tears unchecked, in bitter streams will flow.

Oh! what were man, deserted and forlorn,
A prey to SORROW, and by Passion torn,
If Heaven in mercy, had not promised rest,
And sent sweet PITY to assuage his breast.
Where'er he roams, her spirit never sleeps,
And PITY still is found, where SORROW weeps.

Through the sad world, as SORROW bends her way,
To wound mankind, and lead the heart astray;
With restless power to lacerate and tear

The breast, that Love would rescue from Despair,
Kind PITY follows, while she seeks to find
The roughest path that SORROW leaves behind.
O'er faded flowers, and many a rankling thorn,
With bosom throbbing, and with garments torn,
Still, still unwearied, she no danger heeds,

But treads the steps, where gloomy SORROW leads.
And oft she pauses, while her heart bewails
Full many a scene that o'er her power prevails;
Yet long she strives, and can with HOPE sustain
The heaviest yoke of SORROW's wretched train.
There the poor maniac mourns the wreck of mind,
There Death destroys, and leaves the blow behind;
There Slander stings, there Malice points the dart,
And Envy's scorpion rankles in the heart;
There the waste form, just sinking to the grave,
Pleads through the famished eye, "oh! PITY save!”
And not forsaken while each pang they feel,
Her generous hand can mitigate and heal;
While from the cheek she wipes the bitter tear,
And pours her voice like music on the ear.
Safe on her bosom, may the wearied head

Recline in peace, when every blessing's fled.

There, though the wanderer seek for HOPE in vain,

And find delusion aggravate his pain,

There, may he feel the balm her power bestows,

And rest on PITY, and forget his woes.

Such is thy task, sweet PITY! to assuage
The storms of youth, and sooth the cares of age.

But the blest time is near, when powers unkind,
No more shall triumph o'er the human mind;
When sin and suffering shall be done away,
And clouds no more obscure the face of day;
When with dark SORROW, man no more shall mourn,
From dust she came, to dust she must return.
Then shall meek PITY, doubtful of her birth,
Raise her soft eyes to heaven, then sink to earth,
As from a mortal parent she arose,

Her work fulfilled, shall sleep in soft repose.
But HOPE, fair HOPE, aspiring still to rise,
Shall soar in air, but never reach the skies;
Her radiant spirit, which to earth was given,
Shall melt and vanish at the gate of heaven.
Then once again, the beams of Joy, more bright,
Shall bless the world with renovating light;
Millennial glory, give perfection birth,

And a new Eden blossom on the earth;

While Love absolved, shall every cloud destroy,
And live forever with immortal Joy.

FOR THE PORT FOLIO.

WHEN pleasure beams from Emma's eyes,

Inspiring all with social glee,

I cannot check obtrusive sighs;

Can this be purely Sympathy?

When Pity fills those eyes with tears,

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I joy the precious gems to see;

Her sorrow more than mirth endears;

Can this be purely Sympathy?

When trembling chords, touch'd by her hand,

Aid her sweet voice with harmony,

I cannot join the applauding band:

Can this be purely Sympathy?

When but one look, one word's convey'd
With affable regard to me,
Tremors my fainting frame pervade:
Can this be purely Sympathy?

'Tis more-but Hope no gleam bestows, Nor will Despair e'en set me free;

Death only can relieve my woes:
My tomb alone claim Sympathy.

Yet why do visions still impart,

What waking sure can never be; When clasping Emma to my heart, Her bosom beats with Sympathy.

Last night, methought, Oh dream divine!
Emma and I, with bended knee,
Receiv'd a wreath at Virtue's shrine,
Bestow'd by Love and Sympathy.

Leave me, oh leave me, genial pow'rs,
To Emma's gentle bosom flee;
Before her path strew all your flow'rs,
Oh! yield me to my destiny.

TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN.

DISSATISFIED, I scarce knew why,
A leaf from off a rose I tore,
And on it wrote, but with a sigh,
That I would never see you more.

A sudden storm propitious blows,
And sure it heaven-directed blew,
Away the wounded rose-leaf goes,

And with it all my anger too.

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