The New-York Weekly Magazine, or Miscellaneous Repository Part 125

ON INNOCENCE.

Sweet INNOCENCE, thou child of Peace!

Companion of the infant breast, Fond parent of domestic ease, And tranquil rest!

Say, in some solitary cell, Dost thou with Piety reside, Far from the sons of Vice, who dwell With Pomp and Pride?

There dost thou smooth the brow of Care, Beam hope serene on Virtue's woes, And lull the transports of Despair To soft repose?

Dost thou in some sequester'd grove, With rural tenderness retire, There fan the sparks of infant love And pure desire?

Or with the nymphs in jocund play, Hide from their swains amid the bowers, Or with the blooming la.s.ses stray, To cull sweet flowers?

Where, lovely stranger! hast thou fled, Since weeping Eden saw thee rove: Then pensive beauty droop'd her head, And left the grove?

Return, my once beloved guest!

Bring thy fair friend Content with thee, Bring back those happy hours, which blest My infancy.

THE SEASONS OF SORROW.

When hope, when health, when youth prevail, How fleet the dancing moments pa.s.s; Ere grief and care the heart a.s.sail, At ebb the sands of Time's frail gla.s.s!

Once, brightly rose my morning ray, My noon of life serenely shone; Yet clouds on clouds o'ercast the day, Ere yet declin'd the setting sun.

Did gentle zephyrs waft the Spring, How bright each landscape glow'd around!

What sweets could Summer seasons bring, What beauties Autumn, harvest crown'd!

Not h.o.a.ry Winter's dreary form, Shivering in snowy mantle dress'd, Could freeze my joys, or raise a storm To shake the calmness of my breast:

For then my bliss a Brother shar'd, A Friend his comforts could impart; If Fortune's frowns that bliss impair'd, A gentle Mistress sooth'd my heart.

With these, whilst every care was charm'd, The choicest gifts of Heaven combin'd, Higeia's power my bosom warm'd, And love spread sunshine o'er my mind.

In yonder vale Philander lies, Embalm'd with friendship's choicest tear; Where those o'er-arching shades arise, I sorrow'd o'er a brother's bier.

Yet stream'd my eyes, yet bled each wound, When Fate another arrow sped; A timeless grave my Delia found, My love was number'd with the dead!

My love!--a dearer name she own'd, Pattern of constancy end truth!

Her image, in my heart enthron'd, The dear-priz'd consort of my youth!

That heart thus rent--What yet remains, While still our short-liv'd pleasures die?

While grief in mournful notes complains, And sorrow heaves the heart-felt sigh?

The glorious sun puts on in vain His richest robes, and gilds the day; Sad melancholy's sable reign, Prevailing, blots his brightest ray.

With roses crown'd, the blushing spring To every new-born joy invites; Delia more balmy sweets could bring, For her I pine amidst delights.

When Summer radiance paints the skies, Or Autumn swells the l.u.s.ty year; Still flow my tears, still heave my sighs, Philander--Delia--is not here!

When Winter the gay train employs, In scenes of social mirth to blend; Can I forget who shar'd those joys, My Brother, Mistress, and my Friend?

Unheeded still the seasons roll, Unmov'd each various change I see; Can they relieve my troubled soul, Or smile upon a wretch like me?

Ah, no! To sorrow still a prey, My few remaining years I waste; Count by my sighs each pa.s.sing day, And wish that each may be my last.

The torch funereal, cypress gloom, Are now familiar to my sight; These eyes, long gazing on the tomb, Now sicken at the morning light,

Does fancy make the shapes well known, That sudden flit, and disappear?

Does fancy form the solemn tone Which vibrates on my aching ear?

Howe'er it be---aloud they call--- To quit in haste this mortal coil, And rise above the earthly ball, The scene of sorrow, pain, and toil.

Philander, Dorus, Delia bless'd!

I hear the voice, and haste away, To scenes where Sorrow's children rest, In realms of never-ending day.

But Virtue, from the seats on high Descended, shall a.s.sert her reign; Though worlds in mighty ruin lie, And still her sacred sway maintain.

Then shall her sons in every age, In every clime, with l.u.s.tre rise; And quit, at once, this mortal stage, For scenes immortal in the skies.

SONNET TO PUBLIC VIRTUE.

Is this the land for arts and arms renown'd, The Saint's, the Hero's and the Patriot's pride?

Is this where Pulaski, Warren, and Montgomery died?

Where Liberty defends her favourite mound?

Here let me kneel, and kiss the hallow'd ground!

Old Earth shall sooner drink this purple tide, Than faction with impunity shall wound Thy fame, Columbia! parent! patron! guide!

Unlike th' aspiring prelate, meanly proud, The soldier, jealous of a brother's fame; The popularian, voluble and loud; The Christian, martial, patriotic soul, Disdains the vulgar tribute of acclaim, Mean Envy, and Ambition's mad controul!

NEW-YORK: _+Printed by THOMAS BURLING, Jun. No. 115, Cherry-street+-- where +Subscriptions+ for this +Magazine+ (at 6s. per quarter) will be gratefully received--And at No. 33, +Oliver-Street+._

_UTILE DULCI._