No blood here flows, no hero's dying groans,
No squadrons vanquish'd, and no broken bones;
But each more eager to the grog-tub ran,
Than when the foeless contest first began.

Still on our course, the Western-Isles we past,.
And fam❜d Gibraltar heaves in sight, at last;
Close in we stood, at our commander's word,
The harbor enter'd, and the frigate moor'd.
View'd from the ship, what prospects here arise!
The rock's bold summit tow'ring to the skies,
Roll'd in eternal clouds, through time has stood,
Nods, threats and frowns terrific on the flood!
To guard the fortress, and the port command,.
Round its wall' base repulsive batt'ries stand,.
Rows above rows, huge cannon wide extend,
And groves of muskets glitt'ring terrors blend
But flow'ry gardens soon relieve the sight,
And, side by side, lie horror and delight.

THE LOAF.

Written in TRIPOLI, 1804,

THE best of all friends is the friend in distress, And move the rich morsel I prize,

Imparted when hunger and poverty press, 'Than thousands, did fortune suffice.

With gratitude, friend, to the parent above,
And thanks to yourself not a few,

I took the sweet loaf as a token of love,
And ate in remembrance of you.

To life-wasting hunger, to heart-piercing cold,
Το Scourges of tyrants a prey;

'Midst demons of slavery, too fierce to be told,
And comrades more brutish than they,

The least of my wants not a soul has reliev'd,
Nor friendship emitted a beam;

From you the first crust of regard I receiv'd—
From you the first crumb of esteem.

Then take the fond lay as the yeast of return,
For, while I thus indigent live,

Though my breast, like an oven, with gratitude burn, "Tis all I am able to give.

John Hilliard died in the evening"-says Dr. Cowdry.

The Doctor is as laconic in mentioning the death of our seamen, as he was remiss in attending to them. The company of a prince," in a flowergarden, was much more pleasing to the Doctor, than the company of a languishing sailor, in a dreary cell. The gratification of his vanity was obviously anterior to the offices of humanity. He fre quently informs us of his prescriptions for the Ba

shaw and his family, but seldom mentions the sickness or sufferings of his own countrymen. Hilliard died of a flux, which might have been greatly mitigated, if not cured, had he received proper medical attention.

ELEGY

On the death of JOHN HILLIARD, who died Jan. 3d, 1804, in the prison of Tripoli.

[Published in the Port Foto ]
HILLIARD, of painful life bereft

Is now a slave no more;
But here no relative is left,
His exit to deplore!

No parent, no fond brother, stands
Around his clay-cold bed;
No wife, with tender, trembling hands
Supports his dying head.

No sister follows or attends

His melancholy bier;

Nor from a lover's eye descends
The soft distilling tear;—

But foes, and of a barb'rous kind,
Surround him as he dies;

A horror to his fainting mind,

And to his closing eyes,

ELEGY

On the death of Lieutenant JAMES DECATUR, who fell August 3d, 1804, in an action with the Tripolitan gun-boats.

THROUGH these drear walls, where fiends horri

fic reign,

Chill the faint heart and rend the frantic brain!
Where, void of friends, of pleasure, food or rest,
The vulture slavery preys upon the breast;
From yon thick squadron, whence we hope to hear
The voice of freedom charm the captive's ear,
Sounds the sad tale, DECATUR's name deplore,
For that young hopeful hero breathes no more!
He left, to free us from barbarian chains,
His country's blooming groves and peaceful plains;
Forever sacred be those arms he wore,

The cause that mov'd him, and the barque that bore; 'Twas heav'n's own cause---'twas freedom's injur'd

name,

The love of country and the voice of fame
Call'd forth his active martial skill, to go

Scour the wide deep and scourge the tyrant foe:
Dauntless he fights, where dying groans resound-
And thund'ring carnage roars tremendous round-
'Till heav'n beheld him with propitious eyes,
And snatch'd his kindred spirit to the skies.

When from the Turks his mangled form they bore, With glory cover'd, bath'd in streaming gore,

Bewailing friends his ghastly wounds survey'd,
Which bid defiance to all human aid,

When life stood trembling, ling'ring in its flight,
And heav'n's blest visions dawn'd upon his sight;
The radiant shades of heroes hov'ring round,
'Midst harps of angels, with reviving sound,
Sooth'd the last pangs of his undaunted breast,
And wing'd him, convoy'd, to eternal rest.
Could worth have rescu'd, or could virtue save
Her heav'n-born votʼries from the destin'd grave;
Could sacred friendship's hallow'd pray'rs bestow
The gift of immortality below;

Could thousand's sighs and tears, that ceaseless roll,
Call from the shores of bliss th' angelic soul:

(Though the bold wish be impious deem'd and vain) Death ne'er had reach'd him, or he'd live again. But fate's decrees, irrevocably just,

Doom'd his frail body to the mingling dust;
In yon cold deep it finds unwak'd repose,

Far from th' embrace of friends or reach of foes;

Till the last trumpet's loud eternal roar

Call forth its millions from the sea and shore,

Nor till the final blast and awful day,

Shall that brave soul re-animate its clay.