AMERICA, COMMERCE, AND FREEDOM.

How blest a life a sailor leads,

From clime to clime still ranging;
For as the calm the storm succeeds,
The scene delights by changing!
When tempests howl along the main,
Some object will remind us,

And cheer with hopes to meet again

Those friends we've left behind us.
Then, under snug sail, we laugh at the gale,
And though landsmen look pale, never heed'em;
But toss off a glass to a favorite lass,

To America, commerce, and freedom!

And when arrived in sight of land,

Or safe in port rejoicing,

Our ship we moor, our sails we hand,

Whilst out the boat is hoisting.
With eager haste the shore we reach,

Our friends delighted greet us;
And, tripping lightly o'er the beach,
The pretty lasses meet us.

When the full-flowing bowl has enlivened the soul,
To foot it we merrily lead 'em,

And each bonny lass will drink off a glass
To America, commerce, and freedom!

Our cargo sold, the chink we share,
And gladly we receive it;
And if we meet a brother tar

Who wants, we freely give it.
No freeborn sailor yet had store,
But cheerfully would lend it;

And when 't is gone, to sea for more-
We earn it but to spend it.

Then drink round, my boys, 't is the first of our joys
To relieve the distressed, clothe and feed 'em:
Tis a task which we share with the brave and the fair
In this land of commerce and freedom!

KISS THE BRIM, AND BID IT PASS.

WHEN Columbia's shores, receding,
Lessen to the gazing eye,
Cape nor island intervening

Break th' expanse of sea and sky;
When the evening shades, descending,
Shed a softness o'er the mind,
When the yearning heart will wander
To the circle left behind-

Ah, then to Friendship fill the glass,
Kiss the brim, and bid it pass.

When, the social board surrounding,
At the evening's slight repast,

Often will our bosoms tremble
As we listen to the blast;
Gazing on the moon's pale lustre,

Fervent shall our prayers arise
For thy peace, thy health, thy safety,
Unto Him who formed the skies:
To Friendship oft we'll fill the glass,
Kiss the brim, and bid it pass.

When in India's sultry climate,
Mid the burning torrid zone,
Will not oft thy fancy wander

From her bowers to thine own?
When, her richest fruits partaking,
Thy unvitiated taste

Oft shall sigh for dear Columbia,
And her frugal, neat repast:
Ah, then to Friendship fill the glass,
Kiss the brim, and bid it pass!

When the gentle eastern breezes

Fill the homebound vessel's sails,
Undulating soft the ocean,

Oh, propitious be the gales!
Then, when every danger's over,

Rapture shall each heart expand;
Tears of unmixed joy shall bid thee
Welcome to thy native land:

To Friendship, then, we'll fill the glass,
Kiss the brim, and bid it pass.

THANKSGIVING.

AUTUMN, receding, throws aside
Her robe of many a varied dye,
And Winter in majestic pride

Advances in the lowering sky.
The laborer in his granary stores
The golden sheaves all safe from spoil,
While from her horn gay Plenty pours
Her treasures to reward his toil.
To solemn temples let us now repair,
And bow in grateful adoration there;
Bid the full strain in hallelujahs rise,
To waft the sacred incense to the skies.

Now the hospitable board

Groans beneath the rich repast—
All that luxury can afford

Grateful to the eye or taste;
While the orchard's sparkling juice
And the vintage join their powers;
All that nature can produce,

Bounteous Heaven bids be ours.

Let us give thanks: Yes, yes, be sure,
Send for the widow and the orphan poor;
Give them wherewith to purchase clothes and food:
This the best way to prove our gratitude.

On the hearth high flames the fire,
Sparkling tapers lend their light,
Wit and Genius now aspire

On Fancy's gay and rapid flight;
Now the viol's sprightly lay,

As the moments light advance,
Bids us revel, sport, and play,

Raise the song, or lead the dance.

Come, sportive Love, and sacred Friendship come,
Help us to celebrate our harvest home;

In vain the year its annual tribute pours, [hours.
Unless
you grace the scene, and lead the laughing

MARGARETTA V. FAUGERES.

MARGARETTA V. BLEECKER was a daugh- | devotion of her attention to this kind of liter

ature; and in the third number of the New York Weekly Magazine, for the same year, is an extract from a MS. comedy by her, but this appears never to have been printed.

Belisarius was evidently suggested by the fine romance of Marmontel, but Mrs. Faugeres combines the tradition of the putting out of the eyes of the great Byzantine, with that of Theophanes and Malala, that after a short imprisonment he was restored to his honors. Though unsuited to the stage, this tragedy has considerable merit, and is much superior to the earlier compositions of the author. The style is generally dignified and correct, and free from the extravagant declamation into which the subject would have seduced a writer of less taste and judgment. We have but a glimpse of the private intrigues that are revealed in the secret history by Procopius. Some time after the marriage of Belisarius to Antonina, they are referred to in conversation between Arsaces, a Bulgarian noble, and Julia, the niece of Justinian, of whom Belisarius had been a lover:

acter of a beggar, and in wandering through
the country he is thus introduced to Gelimer,
the captive king of Carthage, whom he him-
self had long before brought in triumph to
Byzantium:

Gelimer, at daybreak, in a garden. Enter Amala, his wife.
Amala. "Tis yet too soon to labor, love; come, sit.
This air blows fresh, and these sweet, bending flow-
Heavy with dew, shed such a fragrance round, [ers,
And so melodious sings the early lark,
'T would be a pity not to enjoy the hour.
Come, sit upon this sod. See, the morn breaks
In streams of quivering light upon the hills,
And the loose clouds, in changeful colors gay,
Now tinged with crimson, and with amber now,
Sail slow along the brightening horizon.

Gelimer. Yes, my Amala, 'tis a lovely morn,
And might inspire me with these calm ideas,
But that my thoughts are dwelling on the stranger,
Who claimed your hospitality, last night.
You said he was a soldier-old, and poor-
And that excites compassion; for I grieve
To see a veteran, who has spent his strength
In the big perils of uncertain war,
Far from his home, his country, and his friends;
Who oft has slept upon the frozen earth,
And suffered grievous want....That he, whose age
Has made him bald, and chilled his sickly veins,
And rendered him quite useless to himself,
Should be turned out upon the world, adrift,
To seek a scanty sustenance from alms!....
"Tis much to be lamented.

In the following scene the degraded chiefs
recognise each other, and Belisarius relates
the story of his barbarous punishment:

Bel. When I first heard it my full heart beat slow,
My wonted fortitude forsook me; and when I thought
It was Justinian that urged the blow,
Casting my hopeless eyes to yon bright heaven,
As 't were to take a lasting leave of light,
I wrung my hands, and bathed me in my tears.
The executioner, touched with my sorrows,
Sank on the ground and cried, "You are undone !
Wretched old man, why does your heart not break,
And give you a release from such a wo!"
But it is past, and, tranquil as the flood
When gently kissed by Twilight's softliest gale,
My spirit rests, and scarce consents to weep
When Memory would the piteous tale recall.

That most striking virtue of Belisarius, which appeared to Gibbon "above or below the character of a man," is happily illustrated, though by incidents that would seem very extraordinary were the historians upon this point less explicit and particular. The Prince of Bulgaria endeavors to enlist the blind old general against the Byzantines, and causes his proposals to be accompanied with a flourish of martial instruments, to renew in him

-the memory of past scenes,

When his proud steed, champing his golden bit,
Bore him o'er heaps of slaughtered enemies,
While vanquished thousands at his presence knelt
And kissed the dust o'er which the conqueror rode.
Belisarius says, declining
Shall I now

Sully the glories of a long life's toil,
And justify the cruelty of my foes?
And then-

-Music, such as lulls my wayward cares,
Is often heard within the peasant's hamlet,
What time gray Twilight veils the eastern sky,
When the blithe maiden carols rustic songs
To soothe the infirmities of peevish age,
Or, when the moon shines on the dew-gemm'd plain,
Attunes her voice to chant some lightsome air
For those who dance upon the tufted green.
Such are the strains I love, and such as float
On the cool gale from a far mountain's side,
Where some lone shepherd fills his simple pipe,
Calling the echoes from their dewy beds,
To chase mute sleep away. Ah! blessed is he
If his choice melody be ne'er disturbed
By the death-breathing trumpet's woful tone.

Prince. If thou wert ever thus averse to war,
General, why didst thou fight?

Bel. To purchase peace, not to extend dominion. Peace was the crown of conquest.

The heroine of the piece is the empress Theodosia, who in the third act inquires of her creature Barsames the result of his last efforts to detect a conspiracy:

Theodosia. Did you see Phædrus?

Barsames. Yes: but he did not know me.
He sat upon a heap of mouldering bones
With his shrunk hands, thus, folded on his breast;
And his sunk eyes were fixed on the ground
Half shut, and o'er his bosom streamed his beard,
Hoary and long. I twice accosted him
Ere he regarded me; then, looking up,
He eyed me with a vague and senseless gaze,
And heaving a most lamentable sigh,
Dropped his pale face upon his breast again.

Theo. I'll go myself, this moment, and give orders
For his removal to some cheerful place,
Where kind attendance, and my best physician,
May woo his scattered senses back again.......
When Reason rises cloudless in his brain,
Embracing courteous Hope, then I will go
And break the vain enchantment......
This will be sweet revenge! Then let him try
If the bright wit that jeered a woman's foibles
Will light the dungeon where her fury dwells!

After the publication of Belisarius, Mrs. Faugeres was an occasional contributor to the New York Monthly Magazine, and some other periodicals. She appears to have been a favorite among her literary acquaintances, and is frequently referred to in their published poems in terms of sympathy and admiration.

THE HUDSON.

FROM A POEM PUBLISHED IN 1793.

NILE's beauteous waves and Tiber's swelling tide
Have been recorded by the hand of Fame,
And various floods, which through earth's channels
glide,

From some enraptured bard have gained a name:
E'en Thames and Wye have been the poet's theme,
And to their charms has many a harp been strung,
Whilst, oh hoar Genius of old Hudson's stream,
Thy mighty river never has been sung!
Say, shall a female string her trembling lyre,
And to thy praise devote the adventurous song?
Fired with the theme, her genius shall aspire,
And the notes sweeten as they float along......

Through many a blooming wild and woodland green
The Hudson's sleeping waters winding stray;
Now mongst the hills its silvery waves are seen,
Through arching willows now they steal away:
Now more majestic rolls the ample tide,

Tall waving elms its clovery borders shade,
And many a stately dome, in ancient pride
And hoary grandeur, there exalts its head.
There trace the marks of Culture's sunburnt hand,
The honeyed buckwheat's clustering blossoms
view-

Dripping rich odors, mark the beard-grain bland,
The loaded orchard, and the flax-field blue;
The grassy hill, the quivering poplar grove,

The

copse of hazel, and the tufted bank,
The long green valley where the white flocks rove,
The jutting rock, o'erhung with ivy dank:
The tall pines waving on the mountain's brow,
Whose lofty spires catch day's last lingering beam;
The bending willow weeping o'er the stream,
The brook's soft gurglings, and the garden's glow.

Low sunk between the Alleganian hills,
For many a league the sullen waters glide,
And the deep murmur of the crowded tide
With pleasing awe the wondering voyager fills.
On the green summit of yon lofty clift

A peaceful runnel gurgles clear and slow,
Then down the craggy steep-side dashing swift,
Tumultuous falls in the white surge below.
Here spreads a clovery lawn its verdure far,
Beyond it mountains vast their forests rear,
And long ere Day hath left her burnished car,
The dews of night have shed their odors there.
There hangs a lowering rock across the deep;
Hoarse roar the waves its broken base around;
Through its dark caverns noisy whirlwinds sweep,
While Horror startles at the fearful sound.
The shivering sails that cut the fluttering breeze,
Glide through these winding rocks with airy

VERSES

ADDRESSED TO THE MEMBERS OF THE CINCINNATI
OF THE STATE OF NEW YORK ON THE 4TH OF JULY.

COME, round Freedom's sacred shrine,
Flowery garlands let us twine;
And while we our tribute bring,
Grateful pæans let us sing:
Sons of Freedom, join the lay-
"Tis Columbia's natal day!
Banish all the plagues of life,
Fretful Care and restless Strife,
Let the memory of your woes
Sink this day in sweet repose;
Even let Grief itself be gay
On Columbia's natal day.

Late a despot's cruel hand
Sent oppression through your land;
Piteous plaints and tearful moan
Found not access to his throne;
Or if heard, the poor, forlorn,
Met but with reproach and scorn.
Paine, with eager virtue, then
Snatched from Truth her diamond pen-
Bade the slaves of tyranny
Spurn their bonds, and dare be free.
Glad they burst their chains away:
"T was Columbia's natal day!
Vengeance, who had slept too long,
Waked to vindicate our wrong;
Led her veterans to the field,
Sworn to perish ere to yield:
Weeping Memory yet can tell
How they fought and how they fell!
Lured by virtuous Washington-
Liberty's most favored son-
Victory gave your sword a sheath,
Binding on your brows a wreath
Which can never know decay
While you hail this blissful day.
Ever be its name revered;
Let the shouts of joy be heard
From where Hampshire's bleak winds blow
Down to Georgia's fervid glow;
Let them all in this agree:

"Hail the day which made us free!"

Bend your eyes toward that shore
Where Bellona's thunders roar:
There your Gallic brethren see
Struggling, bleeding to be free!
Oh! unite your prayers that they
May soon announce their natal day.
O thou Power! to whom we owe
All the blessings that we know,
Strengthen thou our rising youth,
Teach them wisdom, virtue, truth-
That when we are sunk in clay,
They may keep this glorious day!

ELIZA TOWNSEND.

ELIZA TOWNSEND, descended from a stock that for two centuries has occupied a distinguished and honorable position in American society, was the first native poet of her sex whose writings commanded the applause of judicious critics;- the first whose poems evinced any real inspiration, or rose from the merely mechanical into the domain of

art.

The late Mr. Nicholas Biddle, whose judgment in literature was frequently illustrated by the most admirable criticisms, once mentioned to me that a prize ode which Miss Townsend wrote for the Port Folio while he himself was editor of that miscellany, soon after the death of Dennie, was in his opinion the finest poem of its kind which at that time had been written in this country, and many of her other pieces received the best approval of the period, but, as she kept her authorship a secret, without securing for her any personal reputation.

She was born in Boston, and her youth was passed in the troubled times which succeeded the Revolution, when our own country was distracted by the strifes of parties, and Europe was convulsed with the tumultuous overthrows of governments whose subjects had caught from us the spirit of liberty. She sympathized with the feelings which were popular in New England, in regard both to our own and to foreign affairs, as is shown by her Occasional Ode, written in June, 1809, in which Napoleon is denounced with a vehemence and power which remind us of the celebrated ode of Southey, written nearly five years afterward, during the negotiations of 1814. This poem was first printed in the seventh volume of the Monthly Anthology, and though it bears the marks of hasty composition, in some minute defects, it is altogether a fine performance. The splendid genius of Napoleon was not yet revealed in all its magnificence even to those who were the immediate instruments of his will, but to all mankind his name was a word of division, and in this country those whose opinions were fruits of anything else than passion were commonly led by a conservative spirit

to distrust the man and to credit the worst
views of his actions. This was most true
in Boston, where, at the beginning of Mr.
Madison's administration, Miss Townsend's
poetical.
ode was probably deemed not less just than

Among the pieces which she published
about this time was Another Castle in the
Air, suggested by Professor Frisbie's agree-
able poem referred to in its title; Stanzas
commemorative of Charles Brockden Brown;
Lines on the Burning of the Richmond The-
atre; and a poem to Southey, upon the ap-
period she published several poems of a more
pearance of his Curse of Kehama. At a later
prehensibility of God, she is best known. Of
religious cast, by one of which, The Incom-
this, the Rev. Dr. Cheever remarks, that "it
Bryant," and that "it will not suffer by com-
is equal in grandeur to the Thanatopsis of
Wordsworth or of Coleridge."
parison with the most sublime pieces of

Miss Townsend has not written, at least been no collection of the poems with which, for the public, in many years, and there has in the earlier part of this century, she enFolio, The Unitarian Miscellany, and other riched The Monthly Anthology, The Port periodicals which were then supported by the contributions of the youthful Adams, Allston, Buckminster, Webster, Ticknor, Greenwood, Edward Channing, Alexander Everett, and others of whose early hopes the fulfilment is collection would undoubtedly be well rewritten in our intellectual history. Such a

ceived.

There is a religious and poetical dignity, with all the evidences of a fine and richlycultivated understanding, in most of the poems of Miss Townsend, which entitle her to be ranked among the distinguished liter ary women who were her contemporaries, and in advance of all who in her own coun> try preceded her.

with her sister, also maiden, in the old famShe is still living, in a secluded manner, ily mansion in Boston. They are the last of their race.