ST. JOHN HONEYWOOD was a native of Leicester, Massachusetts, and was educated at Yale College. In 1785, being at that time about twenty years old, he removed to Schenectady, New York, where, during the two succeeding years, he was the principal of a classical school. In 1787 he became a law student in the office of PETER W. YATES, Esquire, of Albany, and on being admitted to the bar removed to Salem, in the same state, where he remained until his death, in September, 1798. He was one of the electors of President of the United States when Mr.

ADAMS became the successor of General WASHINGTON, and he held other honourable offices. He was a man of much professional and general learning, rare conversational abilities, and scrupulous integrity; and would probably have been distinguished as a man of letters and a jurist, had he lived to a riper age. The poems embraced in the volume of his writings published in 1801, are generally political, and are distinguished for wit and vigour. The longest in the collection was addressed to M. ADET, on his leaving this country for France.

CRIMES AND PUNISHMENTS.*

Or crimes, empoison'd source of human woes, Whence the black flood of shame and sorrow flows, How best to check the venom's deadly force, To stem its torrent, or direct its course, To scan the merits of vindictive codes, Nor pass the faults humanity explodes, I sing what theme more worthy to engage The poet's song, the wisdom of the sage? Ah! were I equal to the great design, Were thy bold genius, blest BECCARIA! mine, Then should my work, ennobled as my aim, Like thine, receive the meed of deathless fame. O JAY! deserving of a purer age, Pride of thy country, statesman, patriot, sage, Beneath whose guardian care our laws assume A milder form, and lose their Gothic gloom, Read with indulgent eyes, nor yet refuse This humble tribute of an artless muse.

Great is the question which the learn'd contest, What grade, what mode of punishment is best; In two famed sects the disputants decide, These ranged on Terror's, those on Reason's side; Ancient as empire Terror's temple stood, Capt with black clouds, and founded deep in blood; Grim despots here their trembling honours paid, And guilty offerings to their idol made: The monarch led-a servile crowd ensued, Their robes distain'd in gore, in gore imbrued; O'er mangled limbs they held infernal feast, MOLOCH the god, and DRACO's self the priest. Mild Reason's fane, in later ages rear'd, With sunbeams crown'd, in Attic grace appear'd; In just proportion finish'd every part, With the fine touches of enlighten'd art. A thinking few, selected from the crowd, At the fair shrine with filial rev'rence bow'd; The sage of Milan led the virtuous choir, To them sublime he strung the tuneful lyre:

This poem was found among the author's manuscripts, after his decease; and was, doubtless, unfinished.

Of laws, of crimes, and punishments he sung,
And on his glowing lips persuasion hung:
From Reason's source each inference just he drew,
Full in the front, in vestal robes array'd,
While truths fresh polish'd struck the mind as new:
The holy form of Justice stood display'd:
Firm was her eye, not vengeful, though severe,
And e'er she frown'd she check'd the starting tear.
A sister form, of more benignant face,
Celestial Mercy, held the second place;
Her hands outspread, in suppliant guise she stood,
And oft with eloquence resistless sued;
But where 'twas impious e'en to deprecate,
She sigh'd assent, and wept the wretch's fate.

In savage times, fair Freedom yet unknown,
The despot, clad in vengeance, fill'd the throne;
His gloomy caprice scrawl'd the ambiguous code,
And dyed each page in characters of blood:
The laws transgress'd, the prince in judgment sat,
And Rage decided on the culprit's fate:
Nor stopp'd he here, but, skill'd in murderous art,
The scepter'd brute usurp'd the hangman's part;
With his own hands the trembling victim hew'd,
And basely wallow'd in a subject's blood.
Pleased with the fatal game, the royal mind
On modes of death and cruelty refined:
Hence the dank caverns of the cheerless mine,
Where, shut from light, the famish'd wretches

pine;

The face divine, in seams unsightly sear'd,
The eyeballs gouged, the wheel with gore besmear'd,
The Russian knout, the suffocating flame,
And forms of torture wanting yet a name.
Nor was this rage to savage times confined;
It reach'd to later years and courts refined.
Blush, polish'd France, nor let the muse relate
The tragic story of your DAMIEN's fate;
The bed of steel, where long the assassin lay,
In the dark vault, secluded from the day;
The quivering flesh which burning pincers tore,
The pitch, pour'd flaming in the recent sore;
His carcase, warm with life, convulsed with pain,
By steeds dismember'd, dragg'd along the plain.

As daring quacks, unskill'd in medic lore, Prescribed the nostrums quacks prescribed before; Careless of age or sex, whate'er befall, The same dull recipe must serve for all: Our senates thus, with reverence be it said, Have been too long by blind tradition led: Our civil code, from feudal dross refined, Proclaims the liberal and enlighten'd mind; But till of late the penal statutes stood In Gothic rudeness, smear'd with civic blood; What base memorials of a barbarous age, What monkish whimsies sullied every page! The clergy's benefit, a trifling brand, Jest of the law, a holy sleight of hand: Beneath this saintly cloak what crimes abhorr'd, Of sable dye, were shelter'd from the lord; While the poor starveling, who a cent purloin'd, No reading saved, no juggling trick essoin'd; His was the servile lash, a foul disgrace, Through time transmitted to his hapless race; The fort and dure, the traitor's motley doom, Might blot the story of imperial Rome. What late disgraced our laws yet stand to stain The splendid annals of a GEORGE's reign.

Say, legislators, for what end design'd
This waste of lives, this havoc of mankind?
Say, by what right (one case exempt alone)
Do ye prescribe, that blood can crimes atone?
If, when our fortunes frown, and dangers press,
To act the Roman's part be to transgress;
For man the use of life alone commands,
The fee residing in the grantor's hands.
Could man, what time the social pact he seal'd,
Cede to the state a right he never held?
For all the powers which in the state reside,
Result from compact, actual or implied.
Too well the savage policy we trace
To times remote, Humanity's disgrace;
E'en while I ask, the trite response recurs,
Example warns, severity deters.

No milder means can keep the vile in awe,
And state necessity compels the law.

But let Experience speak, she claims our trust;
The data false, the inference is unjust.
Ills at a distance, men but slightly fear;
Delusive Fancy never thinks them near:
With stronger force than fear temptations draw,
And Cunning thinks to parry with the law.

My brother swung, poor novice in his art,

He blindly stumbled on a hangman's cart;
But wiser I, assuming every shape,
As PROTEUS erst, am certain to escape."
The knave, thus jeering, on his skill relies,
For never villain deem'd himself unwise.

When earth convulsive heaved, and, yawning
wide,

| Engulf'd in darkness Lisbon's spiry pride,
At that dread hour of ruin and dismay,
"Tis famed the harden'd felon prowl'd for prey;
Nor trembling earth, nor thunders could restrain
His daring feet, which trod the sinking fane;
Whence, while the fabric to its centre shook,
By impious stealth the hallow'd vase he took.
What time the gaping vulgar throng to see
Some wretch expire on Tyburn's fatal tree;

Fast by the crowd the luckier villain clings,
And pilfers while the hapless culprit swings.
If then the knave can view, with careless eyes,
The bolt of vengeance darting from the skies,
If Death, with all the pomp of Justice join'd,
Scarce strikes a panic in the guilty mind,
What can we hope, though every penal code,
AS DRACO's once, were stamp'd in civic blood?

The blinded wretch, whose mind is bent on ill,
Would laugh at threats, and sport with halters still;
Temptations gain more vigour as they throng,
Crime fosters crime, and wrong engenders wrong;
Fondly he hopes the threaten'd fate to shun,
Nor sees his fatal error till undone.
Wise is the law, and godlike is its aim,
Which frowns to mend, and chastens to reclaim,
Which seeks the storms of passion to control,
And wake the latent virtues of the soul;
For all, perhaps, the vilest of our race,
Bear in their breasts some smother'd sparks of grace;
Nor vain the hope, nor mad the attempt to raise
Those smother'd sparks to Virtue's purer blaze.
When, on the cross accursed, the robber writhed,
The parting prayer of penitence he breathed;
Cheer'd by the Saviour's smile, to grace restored,
He died distinguish'd with his suffering Lord.
As seeds long sterile in a poisonous soil,
If nurs'd by culture and assiduous toil,
May wake to life and vegetative power,
Protrude the germ and yield a fragrant flower:
E'en thus may man, rapacious and unjust,
The slave of sin, the prey of lawless lust,
In the drear prison's gloomy round confined,
To awful solitude and toil consign'd;
Debarr'd from social intercourse, nor less
From the vain world's seductions and caress,
With late and trembling steps he measures back
Life's narrow road, a long abandon'd track;
By Conscience roused, and left to keen Remorse,
The mind at length acquires its pristine force:
Then pardoning Mercy, with cherubic smile,
Dispels the gloom, and smooths the brow of Toil,
Till friendly Death, full oft implored in vain,
Shall burst the ponderous bar and loose the chain;
Fraught with fresh life, an offering meet for God,
The rescued spirit leaves the dread abode.

Nor yet can laws, though SOLON's self should frame,

Each shade of guilt discriminate and name;
For senates well their sacred trust fulfil,
Who general cures provide for general ill.
Much must by his direction be supplied,

In whom the laws the pardoning power confide;
He best can measure every varying grade

Of guilt, and mark the bounds of light and shade;
Weigh each essoin, each incident review,
And yield to Mercy, where she claims her due:
And wise it were so to extend his trust,
With power to mitigate-when 't were unjust
Full amnesty to give-for though so dear
The name of Mercy to a mortal's ear,

Yet should the chief, to human weakness steel'd,
Rarely indeed to suits for pardon yield;
For neither laws nor pardons can efface
The sense of guilt and memory of disgrace.

Say, can the man whom Justice doom'd to shame,
With front erect, his country's honours claim?
Can he with cheek unblushing join the crowd,
Claim equal rights, and have his claim allow'd?
What though he mourn, a penitent sincere ;
Though every dawn be usher'd with a tear;
The world, more prone to censure than forgive,
Quick to suspect, and tardy to believe,
Will still the hapless penitent despise,
And watch his conduct with invidious eyes:
But the chief end of justice once achieved,
The public weal secured, a soul reprieved,
"T were wise in laws, 't were generous to provide
Some place where blushing penitence might hide;
Yes, 't were humane, 't were godlike to protect
Returning virtue from the world's neglect
And taunting scorn, which pierce with keener pains
The feeling mind, than dungeons, racks, and chains:
Enlarge their bounds; admit a purer air;
Dismiss the servile badge and scanty fare;
The stint of labour lessen or suspend,
Admit at times the sympathizing friend.

Repentance courts the shade; alone she roves
By ruin'd towers and night-embrowning groves;
Or midst dark vaults, by Melancholy led,
She holds ideal converse with the dead:
Lost to the world and each profaner joy,
Her solace tears, and prayer her best employ.

A RADICAL SONG OF 1786.

HUZZA, my Jo Bunkers! no taxes we'll pay; Here's a pardon for WHEELER, SHAYS, PARSONS, and DAY;*

Put green boughs in your hats, and renew the old

cause;

Stop the courts in each county, and bully the laws:
Constitutions and oaths, sir, we mind not a rush;
Such trifles must yield to us lads of the bush.
New laws and new charters our books shall display,
Composed by conventions and Counsellor GREY.
Since Boston and Salem so haughty have grown,
We'll make them to know we can let them alone.
Of Glasgow or Pelham we 'll make a seaport,
And there we'll assemble our General Court:
Our governor, now, boys, shall turn out to work,
And live, like ourselves, on molasses and pork;
In Adams or Greenwich he'll live like a peer
On three hundred pounds, paper money, a year.
Grand jurors, and sheriffs, and lawyers we'll spurn,
As judges, we'll all take the bench in our turn,
And sit the whole term, without pension or fee,
Nor CUSHING or SEWAL look graver than we.
Our wigs, though they're rusty, are decent enough;
Our aprons, though black, are of durable stuff';

* Names of the leaders of the insurrection that arose, in 1786, in the state of Massachusetts, chiefly in the coun ties of Hampshire, Berkshire, and Worcester; which, after convulsing the state for about a year, was finally quelled by a military force under the command of General LINCOLN and General SHEPHERD. The leaders fled from the state, and were afterwards pardoned. See MINOT's History of the Insurrection in Massachusetts.

Array'd in such gear, the laws we'll explain, That poor people no more shall have cause to complain.

To Congress and impost we'll plead a release; The French we can beat half-a-dozen a piece; We want not their guineas, their arms, or alliance; And as for the Dutchmen, we bid them defiance. Then huzza, my Jo Bunkers! no taxes we'll pay; Here's a pardon for WHEELER, SHAYS, PARSONS, and DAY;

Put green boughs in your hats, and renew the old

cause;

Stop the courts in each county, and bully the laws.

REFLECTIONS ON SEEING A BULL SLAIN IN THE COUNTRY.

THE Sottish clown who never knew a charm Beyond the powers of his nervous arm, Proud of his might, with self-importance full, Or climbs the spire, or fights the maddening bull; The love of praise, impatient of control, O'erflows the scanty limits of his soul; In uncouth jargon, turbulently loud,

66

He bawls his triumphs to the wondering crowd:
This well-strung arm dispensed the deadly blow,
Fell'd the proud bull and sunk his glories low:"
Not thoughts more towering fill'd PELIDES' breast,
When thus to Greece his haughty vaunts express'd:
"I sack'd twelve ample cities on the main,
And six lay smoking on the Trojan plain;"
Thus full and fervid throbb'd the pulse of pride,
When "Veni, vidi, vici," CÆSAR cried.
Each vain alike, and differing but in names;
These poets flatter-those the mob acclaims;
Impartial Death soon stops the proud career,
And bids LEGENDRE rot with DUMOURIER.
The God whose sovereign care o'er all extends,
Sees whence their madness springs, and where it
ends;

From his blest height, with just contempt, looks down

On thundering heroes and the swaggering clown:
But if our erring reason may presume
The future to divine, more mild his doom
Whose pride was wreck'd on vanquish'd brutes

alone,

Than his whose conquests made whole nations groan.

Can Ganges' sacred wave, or Lethe's flood,
Wash clear the garments smear'd with civic blood!
What hand from heaven's dread register shall tear
The page where, stamp'd in blood, the conqueror's
crimes appear?

IMPROMPTU ON AN ORDER TO KILL THE DOGS IN ALBANY.

"TIs done! the dreadful sentence is decreed! The town is mad, and all the dogs must bleed! Ah me! what boots it that the dogs are slain, Since the whole race of puppies yet remain!

THE father of WILLIAM CLIFFTON Was a wealthy member of the society of Friends, in Philadelphia. The poet, from his childhood, had little physical strength, and was generally a sufferer from disease; but his mind was vigorous and carefully educated, and had he lived to a mature age, he would probably have won an enduring reputation as an author. His life was marked by few incidents. He made himself acquainted with the classical studies pursued in the universities, and with music, painting, and such field-sports as he supposed he could indulge in with most advantage to his health. He was considered an amiable and accomplished gentleman, and his society was courted alike by

the fashionable and the learned. He died in December, 1799, in the twenty-seventh year of his age.

The poetry of CLIFFTON has more energy of thought and diction, and is generally more correct and harmonious, than any which had been previously written in this country. Much of it is satirical, and relates to persons and events of the period in which he lived; and the small volume of his writings published after his death doubtless contains some pieces which would have been excluded from an edition prepared by himself, for this reason, and because they were unfinished and not originally intended to meet the eye of the world.

TO WILLIAM GIFFORD, ESQ.*

In these cold shades, beneath these shifting skies, Where Fancy sickens, and where Genius dies; Where few and feeble are the muse's strains, And no fine frenzy riots in the veins, There still are found a few to whom belong The fire of virtue and the soul of song; Whose kindling ardour still can wake the strings, When learning triumphs, and when GIFFORD Sings. To thee the lowliest bard his tribute pays, His little wild-flower to thy wreath conveys; Pleased, if permitted round thy name to bloom, To boast one effort rescued from the tomb.

While this delirious age enchanted seems With hectic Fancy's desultory dreams; While wearing fast away is every trace Of Grecian vigour, and of Roman grace, With fond delight, we yet one bard behold, As Horace polish'd, and as Perseus bold, Reclaim the art, assert the muse divine, And drive obtrusive dulness from the shrine. Since that great day which saw the Tablet rise, A thinking block, and whisper to the eyes, No time has been that touch'd the muse so near, No Age when Learning had so much to fear, As now, when love-lorn ladies light verse frame, And every rebus-weaver talks of Fame.

When Truth in classic majesty appear'd, And Greece, on high, the dome of science rear'd, Patience and perseverance, care and pain Alone the steep, the rough ascent could gain: None but the great the sun-clad summit found; The weak were baffled, and the strong were crown'd.

Prefixed to WILLIAM COBBETT's edition of the "Baviad and Mæviad,” published in Philadelphia, in 1799.

The tardy transcript's high-wrought page confined
To one pursuit the undivided mind.
No venal critic fatten'd on the trade;
Books for delight, and not for sale were made;
Then shone, superior, in the realms of thought,
The chief who govern'd, and the sage who taught:
The drama then with deathless bays was wreath'd,
The statue quicken'd, and the canvass breathed.
The poet, then, with unresisted art,

Sway'd every impulse of the captive heart.
Touch'd with a beam of Heaven's creative mind,
His spirit kindled, and his taste refined:
Incessant toil inform'd his rising youth;
Thought grew to thought, and truth attracted truth,
Till, all complete, his perfect soul display'd
Some bloom of genius which could never fade.
So the sage oak, to Nature's mandate true,
Advanced but slow, and strengthen'd as it grew!
But when, at length, (full many a season o'er,)
Its virile head, in pride, aloft it bore;
When steadfast were its roots, and sound its heart,
It bade defiance to the insect's art,
And, storm and time resisting, still remains
The never-dying glory of the plains.

Then, if some thoughtless BAVIUS dared appear,
Short was his date, and limited his sphere;
He could but please the changeling mob a day,
Then, like his noxious labours, pass away:
So, near a forest tall, some worthless flower
Enjoys the triumph of its gaudy hour,
Scatters its little poison through the skies,
Then droops its empty, hated head, and dies.

Still, as from famed Ilyssus' classic shore, To Mincius' banks, the muse her laurel bore, The sacred plant to hands divine was given, And deathless MARO nursed the boon of Heaven. Exalted bard! to hear thy gentler voice, The valleys listen, and their swains rejoice;

But when, on some wild mountain's awful form,
We hear thy spirit chanting to the storm,
Of battling chiefs, and armies laid in gore,
We rage, we sigh, we wonder, and adore.
Thus Rome with Greece in rival splendour shone,
But claim'd immortal satire for her own;
While HORACE pierced, full oft, the wanton breast
With sportive censure, and resistless jest;
And that Etrurian, whose indignant lay
Thy kindred genius can so well display,
With many a well-aim'd thought, and pointed line,
Drove the bold villain from his black design.
For, as those mighty masters of the lyre,
With temper'd dignity, or quenchless ire,
Through all the various paths of science trod,
Their school was NATURE and their teacher Gon.
Nor did the muse decline till, o'er her head,
The savage tempest of the north was spread;
Till arm'd with desolation's bolt it came,
And wrapp'd her temple in funereal flame.

But soon the arts once more a dawn diffuse,
And DANTE hail'd it with his morning muse;
PETRARCH and BOCCACE join'd the choral lay,
And Arno glisten'd with returning day.
Thus science rose; and, all her troubles pass'd,
She hoped a steady, tranquil reign at last;
But FAUSTUS Came: (indulge the painful thought,)
Were not his countless volumes dearly bought?
For, while to every clime and class they flew,
Their worth diminish'd as their numbers grew.
Some pressman, rich in HOMER's glowing page,
Could give ten epics to one wondering age;
A single thought supplied the great design,
And clouds of Iliads spread from every line.
Nor HOMER'S glowing page, nor VIRGIL's fire
Could one lone breast with equal flame inspire,
But, lost in books, irregular and wild,
The poet wonder'd, and the critic smiled:
The friendly smile, a bulkier work repays;
For fools will print, while greater fools will praise.
Touch'd with the mania, now, what millions rage
To shine the laureat blockheads of the age.
The dire contagion creeps through every grade;
Girls, coxcombs, peers, and patriots drive the trade:
And e'en the hind, his fruitful fields forgot,
For rhyme and misery leaves his wife and cot.
Ere to his breast the wasteful mischief spread,
Content and plenty cheer'd his little shed;
And, while no thoughts of state perplex'd his mind,
His harvests ripening, and Pastora kind,

He laugh'd at toil, with health and vigour bless'd,
For days of labour brought their nights of rest:
But now in rags, ambitious for a name,
The fool of faction, and the dupe of fame,
His conscience haunts him with his guilty life,
His starving children, and his ruin'd wife.
Thus swarming wits, of all materials made,
Their Gothic hands on social quiet laid,
And, as they rave, unmindful of the storm,
Call lust, refinement; anarchy, reform.

No love to foster, no dear friend to wrong, Wild as the mountain flood, they drive along: And sweep, remorseless, every social bloom To the dark level of an endless tomb.

By arms assail'd we still can arms oppose, And rescue learning from her brutal foes; But when those foes to friendship make pretence, And tempt the judgment with the baits of sense, Carouse with passion, laugh at Gon's control, And sack the little empire of the soul, What warning voice can save? Alas! 'tis o'er, The age of virtue will return no more; The doating world, its manly vigour flown, Wanders in mind, and dreams on folly's throne. Come then, sweet bard, again the cause defend, Be still the muses' and religion's friend; Again the banner of thy wrath display, And save the world from DARWIN's tinsel lay. A soul like thine no listless pause should know; Truth bids thee strike, and virtue guides the blow. From every conquest still more dreadful come, Till dulness fly, and folly's self be dumb.

MARY WILL SMILE.

THE morn was fresh, and pure the gale,
When MARY, from her cot a rover,
Pluck'd many a wild rose of the vale
To bind the temples of her lover.
As near his little farm she stray'd,

Where birds of love were ever pairing,
She saw her WILLIAM in the shade,

The arms of ruthless war preparing. "Though now," he cried, "I seek the hostile plain, MARY shall smile, and all be fair again."

She seized his hand, and "Ah!" she cried, "Wilt thou, to camps and war a stranger, Desert thy MARY's faithful side,

And bare thy life to every danger? Yet, go, brave youth! to arms away!

My maiden hands for fight shall dress thee, And when the drum beats far away,

I'll drop a silent tear, and bless thee. Return'd with honour, from the hostile plain, MARY will smile, and all be fair again.

"The bugles through the forest wind, The woodland soldiers call to battle: Be some protecting angel kind,

And guard thy life when cannons rattle!" She sung-and as the rose appears

In sunshine, when the storm is over, A smile beam'd sweetly through her tearsThe blush of promise to her lover. Return'd in triumph from the hostile plain, All shall be fair, and MARY smile again.