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Bright break thy waves the varied beach upon; Soft rise thy hills, by amorous clouds caress'd; Clear flow thy waters, laughing in the sunWould through such peaceful scenes my life might gently run!

And, lo! the Catskills print the distant sky,
And o'er their airy tops the faint clouds driven,
So softly blending, that the cheated eye
Forgets or which is earth or which is heaven,—
Sometimes, like thunder-clouds, they shade the

even,

Till, as you nearer draw, each wooded height Puts off the azure hues by distance given; And slowly break upon the enamour'd sight Ravine, crag, field, and wood, in colours true and bright.

Mount to the cloud-kiss'd summit. Far below Spreads the vast champaign like a shoreless sea. Mark yonder narrow streamlet feebly flow, Like idle brook that creeps ingloriously; Can that the lovely, lordly Hudson be, Stealing by town and mountain? Who beholds, At break of day this scene, when, silently, Its map of field, wood, hamlet, is unroll'd, While, in the east, the sun uprears his locks of gold,

Till earth receive him never can forget? Even when return'd amid the city's roar, The fairy vision haunts his memory yet, As in the sailor's fancy shines the shore. Imagination cons the moment o'er, When first-discover'd, awe-struck and amazed, Scarce loftier JOVE-whom men and gods adoreOn the extended earth beneath him gazed, Temple, and tower, and town, by human insect raised.

Blow, scented gale, the snowy canvass swell, And flow, thou silver, eddying current on. Grieve we to bid each lovely point farewell, That, ere its graces half are seen, is gone. By woody bluff we steal, by leaning lawn, By palace, village, cot, a sweet surprise, At every turn the vision breaks upon; Till to our wondering and uplifted eyes [rise. The Highland rocks and hills in solemn grandeur Nor clouds in heaven, nor billows in the deep, More graceful shapes did ever heave or roll, Nor came such pictures to a painter's sleep, Nor beam'd such visions on a poet's soul! The pent-up flood, impatient of control, In ages past here broke its granite bound, Then to the sea in broad meanders stole, While ponderous ruins strew'd the broken ground, And these gigantic hills forever closed around.

And ever-wakeful echo here doth dwell, The nymph of sportive mockery, that still Hides behind every rock, in every dell, And softly glides, unseen, from hill to hill, No sound doth rise but mimic it she will,The sturgeon's splash repeating from the shore, Aping the boy's voice with a voice as shrill, The bird's low warble, and the thunder's roar, Always she watches there, each murmur telling o'er.

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But see! the broadening river deeper flows,
Its tribute floods intent to reach the sea,
While, from the west, the fading sunlight throws
Its softening hues on stream, and field, and tree;
All silent nature bathing, wondrously,

In charms that soothe the heart with sweet desires,
And thoughts of friends we ne'er again may see,
Till, lo! ahead Manhatta's bristling spires,
Above her thousand roofs red with day's dying fires.

May greet the wanderer of Columbia's shore,
Proud Venice of the west! no lovelier scene.
Of thy vast throngs now faintly comes the roar,
Though late like beating ocean surf I ween,-
And everywhere thy various barks are seen,
Cleaving the limpid floods that round thee flow,
Encircled by thy banks of sunny green,-
The panting steamer plying to and fro,
Or the tall sea-bound ship abroad on wings of snow.
And radiantly upon the glittering mass
The god of day his parting glances sends,
As some warm soul, from earth about to pass,
Back on its fading scenes and mourning friends
Deep words of love and looks of rapture bends,
More bright and bright, as near their end they be.
On, on, great orb! to earth's remotest ends,
Each land irradiate, and every sea-
But O, my native land, not one, not one like thee!

And 'tis the glory of the master's art.

Some radiance of this inward light to find,
Some touch that to his canvass may impart

A breath, a sparkle of the immortal mind.
Alas! the pencil's noblest power can show

But some faint shadow of a transient thought,
Some waken'd feeling's momentary glow,

Some swift impression in its passage caught.
O that the artist's pencil could portray

A father's inward bosom to your eyes,
What hopes, and fears, and doubts perplex his way,
What aspirations for your welfare rise.
Then might this unsubstantial image prove,
When I am gone, a guardian of your youth,
A friend for ever urging you to move

In paths of honour, holiness, and truth.
Let fond imagination's power supply

The void that baffles all the painter's art;
And when those mimic features meet your eye,

Then fancy that they speak a parent's heart.
Think that you still can trace within those eyes

The kindling of affection's fervid beam,
The searching glance that every fault espies,

The fond anticipation's pleasing dream.
Fancy those lips still utter sounds of praise,

Or kind reproof that checks each wayward will,
The warning voice, or precepts that may raise

Your thoughts above this treacherous world of ill.
And thus shall Art attain her loftiest power;

To noblest purpose shall her efforts tend:
Not the companion of an idle hour,
But Virtue's handmaid and Religion's friend.

C. C. MOORE.*

FROM A FATHER TO HIS CHILDREN, AFTER HAVING HAD HIS PORTRAIT TAKEN FOR THEM.

THIS semblance of your parent's time-worn face
Is but a sad bequest, my children dear:
Its youth and freshness gone, and in their place
The lines of care, the tracks of many a tear!
Amid life's wreck, we struggle to secure

Some floating fragment from oblivion's wave:
We pant for something that may still endure,

And snatch at least a shadow from the grave. Poor, weak, and transient mortals! why so vain

Of manly vigour, or of beauty's bloom?
An empty shade for ages may remain

When we have moulder'd in the silent tomb.
But no! it is not we who moulder there,
We, of essential light that ever burns;
We take our way through untried fields of air,
When to the earth this earth-born frame returns.

475

F. S. KEY.*

THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER.

O! SAY, can you see, by the dawn's early light, What so proudly we hail'd at the twilight's last gleaming;

Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight,

O'er the ramparts we watch'd, were so gallantly streaming?

And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still
there;

O! say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?
On the shore,dimly seen through the mists of the deep,
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence

* CLEMENT C. MOORE, formerly one of the professors in Columbia College, resides in New York. Most of his poems were composed many years ago.

reposes,

What is that which the breeze o'er the towering steep
As it fitfully blows, half-conceals, half-discloses?
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam;
Its full glory reflected now shines on the stream;
'Tis the star-spangled banner, O! long may it wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

*FRANCIS S. KEY is a native of Baltimore. This song is supposed to have been written by a prisoner on board the British fleet, on the morning after the unsuccessful bombardment of Fort McHenry.

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Awake, my lyre, with other themes inspired. Where yon bold point repels the crystal tide, The Briton youth, lamented and admired, His country's hope, her ornament and pride, A traitor's death ingloriously died,

On freedom's altar offer'd; in the sight

Of Gon, by men who will their act abide,

On the great day, and hold their deed aright, To stop the breath would quench young freedom's holy light.

But see the broadening river deeper flows,
Its tribute floods intent to reach the sea,
While, from the west, the fading sunlight throws
Its softening hues on stream, and field, and tree;
All silent nature bathing, wondrously,

In charms that soothe the heart with sweet desires,
And thoughts of friends we ne'er again may see,
Till, lo! ahead Manhatta's bristling spires,
Above her thousand roofs red with day's dying fires.
May greet the wanderer of Columbia's shore,
Proud Venice of the west! no lovelier scene.
Of thy vast throngs now faintly comes the roar,
Though late like beating ocean surf I ween,-
And everywhere thy various barks are seen,
Cleaving the limpid floods that round thee flow,
Encircled by thy banks of sunny green,—
The panting steamer plying to and fro,
Or the tall sea-bound ship abroad on wings of snow.
And radiantly upon the glittering mass
The god of day his parting glances sends,
As some warm soul, from earth about to pass,
Back on its fading scenes and mourning friends
Deep words of love and looks of rapture bends,
More bright and bright, as near their end they be.
On, on, great orb! to earth's remotest ends,
Each land irradiate, and every sea-
But O, my native land, not one, not one like thee!

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And 'tis the glory of the master's art.

Some radiance of this inward light to find, Some touch that to his canvass may impart

A breath, a sparkle of the immortal mind. Alas! the pencil's noblest power can show

But some faint shadow of a transient thought, Some waken'd feeling's momentary glow,

Some swift impression in its passage caught. O that the artist's pencil could portray

A father's inward bosom to your eyes, What hopes, and fears, and doubts perplex his way, What aspirations for your welfare rise. Then might this unsubstantial image prove, When I am gone, a guardian of your youth, A friend for ever urging you to move

In paths of honour, holiness, and truth. Let fond imagination's power supply

The void that baffles all the painter's art; And when those mimic features meet your eye. Then fancy that they speak a parent's hear Think that you still can trace within those exes

The kindling of affection's fervid beam. The searching glance that every fault espes

The fond anticipation's pleasing dream. Fancy those lips still utter sounds of praise.

Or kind reproof that checks each woman.
The warning voice, or precepts that mes" Ther
Your thoughts above this treacherTC.
And thus shall Art attain her infas par

To noblest purpose shal, ner ef- 06.
Not the companion of at ide
But Virtue's handmaid an e

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And where is the band who so vauntingly swore,
Mid the havoc of war and the battle's confusion,
A home and a country they'd leave us no more?
Their blood hath wash'd out their foul footsteps'
pollution;

No refuge could save the hireling and slave
From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave,
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.
O! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand
Between their loved home and the war's deso-
lation;

Bless'd with victory and peace, may the heavenrescued land

Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation.

Then conquer we must, for our cause it is just, And this be our motto, "In Gon is our trust," And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

JOSEPH HOPKINSON.*

HAIL, COLUMBIA.

HAIL, Columbia! happy land!
Hail, ye heroes! heaven-born band!

Who fought and bled in Freedom's cause, Who fought and bled in Freedom's cause, And when the storm of war was gone, Enjoy'd the peace your valour won.

Let independence be our boast,
Ever mindful what it cost;
Ever grateful for the prize,
Let its altar reach the skies.

Firm-united-let us be, Rallying round our Liberty; As a band of brothers join'd, Peace and safety we shall find.

With the popular national songs, "The Star-spangled Banner" and "Hail, Columbia," I bring to a close this volume of specimens of American poetry. These lyrics have not much poetic merit, but they are as well known throughout the United States as the Rhine Song is in Germany, or the Marseilles Hymn in France. The late excellent Judge HOPKINSON,† a few months before his death, addressed to me a letter from which I quote the following account of the circumstances attending the composition of "Hail, Columbia:"

"It was written in the summer of 1798, when war with France was thought to be inevitable. Congress was then in session in Philadelphia,deliberating upon that important subject, and acts of hostility had actually taken place. The contest between England and France was raging, and the people of the United States were divided into parties for the one side or the other, some thinking that policy and duty required us to espouse the cause of republican France, as she was called; while others were for connecting ourselves with England, under the belief that she was the great preservative power of good principles and safe government. The violation of our rights by both belligerents was forcing us from the just and wise policy of President WASHINGTON, which was to do equal justice

The Honourable Joseph Hopkinson, LL. D. Vice-President of the Ame rican Philosophical Society, and President of the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts, etc., died in Philadelphia on the fifteenth of January, 1842, in the seventy-second year of his age. He was a son of Francis Hopkinson, one of the most distinguished patriots of the Revolution.

Stereotyped by L. Johnson, Philadelphia.

Immortal patriots! rise once more;
Defend your rights, defend your shore;
Let no rude foe, with impious hand,
Let no rude foe, with impious hand,
Invade the shrine where sacred lies
Of toil and blood the well-earn'd prize.

While offering peace sincere and just, In Heaven we place a manly trust, That truth and justice will prevail, And every scheme of bondage fail. Firm-united, &c.

Sound, sound the trump of Fame!
Let WASHINGTON'S great name

Ring through the world with loud applause,
Ring through the world with loud applause:
Let every clime to Freedom dear
Listen with a joyful ear.

With equal skill, and godlike power,
He governs in the fearful hour
Of horrid war; or guides, with ease,
The happier times of honest peace.
Firm-united, &c.

Behold the chief who now commands, Once more to serve his country, stands

The rock on which the storm will beat, The rock on which the storm will beat: But, arm'd in virtue firm and true, His hopes are fix'd on Heaven and you. When Hope was sinking in dismay, And glooms obscured Columbia's day, His steady mind, from changes free, Resolved on death or liberty. Firm-united, &c.

to both, to take part with neither, but to preserve a strict and honest neutrality between them. The prospect of a rupture with France was exceedingly offensive to the portion of the people who espoused her cause, and the violence of the spirit of party has never risen higher, I think not so high, in our country, as it did at that time, upon that question. The theatre was then open in our city. A young man belonging to it, whose talent was as a singer, was about to take his benefit. I had known him when he was at school. On this acquaintance, he called on me one Saturday afternoon, his benefit being announced for the following Monday. His prospects were very disheartening; but he said that if he could get a patriotic song adapted to the tune of the "President's March," he did not doubt of a full house; that the poets of the theatrical corps had been trying to accomplish it, but had not suc ceeded. I told him I would try what I could do for him. He came the next afternoon; and the song, such as it is, was ready for him. The object of the author was to get up an American spirit, which should be independent of, and above the interests, passions, and policy of both belligerents: and look and feel exclusively for our own honour and rights. No allusion is made to France or England, or the quarrel between them: or to the question, which was most in fault in their treatment of us: of course the song found favour with both parties, for both were Americans; at least neither could disavow the sentiments and feelings it inculcated. Such is the history of this song, which has endured infinitely beyond the expectation of the author, as it is beyond any merit it can boast of, except that of being truly and exclusively patriotic in its sentiments and spirit.

"Very respectfully, your most obedient servant,

"Jos. HOPKINSON.

"Rev. RUFUS W. GRISWOLD."

Printed by C. Sherman.

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