English

BY JAMES H. PERKINS .

Oh! merry, merry be the day,
 And bright the star of even—
For 't is our duty to be gay,
And tread in holy joy our way;
 Grief never came from Heaven,
My love—
 It never came from Heaven.

Then let us not, though woes betide,
 Complain of Fortune's spite, love;
As rock-encircled trees combine,
And nearer grow, and closer twine,
 So let our hearts unite,
My love—
 So let our hearts unite.

O whence dost thou come—thou golden dove,
Thy wings are weary—thy plumes are wet—
Whence, wanderer! dost thou come?
“All over the seas I sought my love,
And I am hasting—hasting yet,
To our own—our mountain home.”

Say Tyrant Custom, why must we obey,
The impositions of thy haughty Sway;
From the first dawn of Life, unto the Grave,
Poor Womankind's in every State, a Slave.
The Nurse, the Mistress, Parent and the Swain,
For Love she must, there's none escape that Pain;
Then comes the last, the fatal Slavery,
The Husband with insulting Tyranny
Can have ill Manners justify'd by Law;
For Men all join to keep the Wife in awe.
Moses who first our Freedom did rebuke,
Was Marry'd when he writ the Pentateuch;

BY GEORGE D. PRENTICE .

Why swell a million hearts as one
With memories of the past?
Why rings out yon deep thunder gun
Upon the rushing blast?
Why hold the beautiful and brave
The jubilee of earth?
It is, it is the day that gave
Our patriot hero birth.

We offer here a sacrifice
Of hearts to him who came
To guard young Freedom's paradise
With sword of living flame!
To him who in War's whirlwind loud
Rode like an angel form,
And set his glory on the cloud,

O, MAIDEN , maiden,
Thou hast black eyes:
Will they deceive me,
Will they despise?

" No! were they blacker,
Never would they,
Never — despise thee,
Never betray! "

Crows gather acorns
On the oak-tree;
God alone knoweth
Whose she shall be.

W HOSE but mine — she swore
Mine to be of yore;
'Twas behind our dwelling, she
Swore it 'neath the greenwood tree,
Mine alone to be.

C OME — be the meadows
Love's vernal scene —
And I will buy thee

Would you know these royal knaves
Of free-men would turn us slaves;
Who our union do defame
With rebellion's wicked name?
Read these verses, and ye will spring them,
Then on gibbets straight cause hing them.
They complain of sin and folly,
In these times, so passing holy,
They their substance will not give
Libertines that we may live.
Hold those subjects too too wanton,
Under an old king dare canton.
Neglect they do our circular tables,
Scorn our acts and laws as fables,
Of our battels talk but meekly,

Say, noble Youth, thou Glory of the Stage,
Gay soft Delight of the admiring Age;
What would'st thou give thou didst thy Delia know,
Or that the Nymph who writ the Billet Deau,
Could have oblig'd you with Heroicks too?
To purchase your Esteem they all agreed,
And tho' one Scroul, 'twas a Tripartite Deed.
Methinks in you I royal Paris see,
Like him employ'd ill suiting your Degree;
In his Disguise he rural Conquests won,
But you brave Youth have greater Wonders done;
Your Power by neither Sex can be withstood,

The shame-faced maiden fain would shy
The modest youth — but ah! she knows
He saw her — and she hurries by,
Deep-blushing like a scarlet rose.

O, SILLY youth — are you afraid,
And could you not your thoughts disguise?
For when you pass'd the blushing maid,
You pull'd your klobuk o'er your eyes.

In the wisht Close of Evening's welcome gloom,
My longing steps reacht an inviting Bloom;
Whose untrod Paths the sadning Cypress grac't,
And in small Plats were softer Myrtles plac't.
The lofty Cedars with extended Arms,
Twine to keep off the force of roughest Storms;
And numerous tow'ring Arbourets they made,
The solemn Glory of the pleasing Shade:
On verdant Moss, Nature's rich cloth of State,
By a clear thrilling Stream supine I sate:
Upon my Hand my thoughtful Head reclin'd,
Sad soft Ideas entertain'd my Mind,

BY JAMES H. PERKINS .

Can ye be slaves! (and as he spoke,
His proud lip curled, and from his eye
The light of conscious triumph broke,)
Will ye be slaves, when ye can die? —
The mountains that our Maker gave
To be our home, are bald and steep,
But there is room there for a grave;
The curling mist, and drifting cloud —
Are they too cold to be wrrior's shroud?
No. To that land our hearts are knit;
There do our loved ones' ashes sleep;
And floating on the midnight air,