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One of thy kind and gentle looks,

Thy smiles, devoid of art,

Avail beyond all crabbed books,
To regulate my heart.

Thou need'st not call some fairy elf,

On any April day,

To make thy bard forget himself,
Or wander from his way.

One thing he never can forget,
Whatever change may be,-

The sacred hour when first he met,
And fondly gaz'd on thee.

A seed then fell into his breast;
Thy spirit plac'd it there:
Need I, my JULIA, tell the rest?

Thou seest the blossoms here.

TO A LADY WHO ASKED FOR HER SHOE-STRING, WHICH WAS AC-
CIDENTALLY BROKEN OFF IN DANCING, AND TAKEN BY THE
WRITER.

THE string! the string! come, give it back, she cries,
While o'er her face the varying colour flies;
Come, will you? No; it ne'er again shall bind
Thy slipper'd foot, the mazy dance to wind;
But near my heart, by day, the prize I'll keep,
And place it on my pillow when I sleep.
Give back, indeed! when aught that touches thee,
Can boast a charm ineffable for me!

Oh! would thy heart were thus within my pow'r,
And thou with pray'r beguiledst thus the hour!
For ah! how sweet, how passing sweet, to hear
The pray'r that beauty pours into the ear;
To see the pallid cheek, the tearful eye,
And Hope, half dubious, breathe the fearful sigh.

Sweet only to relieve, and soothly chase

The clouds and tears that hang on Beauty's face,
And where pale Sorrow holds her mournful reign,
To plant the blushing rose of Joy again.

But for thy heart, no tears should soften me,
No pray'rs prevail, to give it back to thee;

I'd lodge it safe within my breast, and there
Would watch and keep it with a miser's care;
From all would guard it; none should dare essay
To steal from me the treasur'd prize away.

A.

MIDNIGHT HYMN AT SEA.

By thy dusky mantle streaming,
By the stars that there are gleaming,
By thy lone and solemn sky,
Darkening on the pensive eye,
By thy wild waves, as they sweep
Constant thro' the gloomy deep,
Night! we hail thy solemn noon,
Sky without or cloud or moon!

Swiftly gliding o'er the ocean,
Rides the bark, with rapid motion,
Waves are foaming at the prow,
Trembling waters round her flow;
Midnight hears the lonely sound,
Thro' her ocean caves profound:
Night! we hail thy solemn noon,
Sky without or cloud or moon!

Sailor, on thy restless pillow,
Why so tranquil on the billow?

Sailor, when thy vessels roam,

Think'st thou not of native home?

-But, when midnight shuts the scene,

Hark! he sings with heart serene,
Night, we hail thy solemn noon,
Sky without or cloud or moon!

Weary wand'rer, sadly roving,

Far from home, and all that's loving,
Midnight lulls thy soul to peace,
Then thy grief and sorrows cease;
Join us then in that wild strain,
Sighing o'er the heaving main,

Night! we hail thy solemn noon,

Sky without or cloud or moon!

New York, 20th Sept. 1816.

E.

STANZAS TO A LADY ON HER SINGING A SONG, WRITTEN BY THE

AUTHOR.

WHEN with thy harp's enchanting swell,

My lay you thus combine,

Wrapt in the sweet, melodious spell,

I deem it ne'er was mine.

As the rude blast to blandness dies,
O'er strings Eolian blown,
So my crude numbers melodize,

In thy mellifluent tone.

At critics' laud, or laureat bays
Let other bards rejoice,

Be mine the higher meed of praise,
To wake thy dulcet voice.

Chain'd, lady, in its magic sway,

The night unheeded wanes:
Oh! chas'd is every care away,
By thy sweet varied strains.

EPIGRAM.

CONNUBIAL RECKONING.

I TOOK you, deceiver, "for better for worse,"

Submitting to wedlock's hard fetter;

While your worse part has daily grown worse than perverse, I have not discover'd your better.

OBITUARY.

DIED, on the 20th ult. Miss SARAH GRATZ; a young lady who was eminently distinguished for benevolence of heart and suavity of manners.

THE late GEORGE A. Baker, esq. was born in Germantown, county of Philadelphia, on the 27th July, 1756. He was brought up to the mercantile business, in the counting-house of Messrs. James and Drinker, one of the most respectable houses in this city. When the war of the revolution took place, he, like many other high spirited young men of the time, glowing with ardour in the cause of their country, was impatient to avenge her wrongs. Accordingly, at the early age of twenty years, he joined the revolutionary army (in which he afterwards received a commission) under general Washington, as a volunteer. He was present, and had a share in the battles of Brandywine, Germantown, and Monmouth; and his letters from the army to his brother, the late Hilary Baker, esq. several of which the writer of this has perused, bespeak the intrepidity and zeal of the young soldier, anxious to serve, and ready, if necessary, to die in the cause of his country.

But the talents of Mr. Baker were such as soon to designate him as fit for more important and arduous duties. At the urgent request of his friends, he was induced to enter the quartermastergeneral's department, and in the same year (1776) he was ap pointed assistant deputy-quartermaster-general to colonel Biddle, and was stationed with colonel commandant Edward Hand's bri gade. After filling this station for a considerable time, with great credit, he was removed to the commissary-general's department. At the time the British threatened Philadelphia, he marched to Princeton as lieutenant of a rifle company, of which his future father-in-law was then captain, to await their approach.

Mr. Baker served as a member of the common council of Philadelphia, and was elected by successive councils to the office of city treasurer, for a period of thirteen years. Since the death of general Muhlenburgh, he has been annually elected president of the Incorporated German Society, for the relief and assistance of Germans in distress. During twenty years he has filled the important office of grand secretary of the Grand Lodge of Pennsylvania; and for three years past he was also grand recorder of the Pennsylvania Grand Encampment of Knight Templars.

DIED lately at Paris, at an advanced age, sir HERBERT CROFT, an English author of some celebrity, and one of the few remaining friends of Dr. Johnson. He had resided for the last fifteen years in France. Dr. Johnson, in his Lives of the Poets, acknowledges himself to be indebted to sir Herbert for the life of Young. All the biographers of Dr. Johnson speak in high terms of the literary and social talents of his friend Croft.

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