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OH the lad from Tuckahoe
Is the lad whom I love dearly,
I tell it you sincerely,
That all the truth may know.

From the day that first I knew him,
He struck my fancy so,
That my love shall still pursue him,
The lad from Tuckahoe.

He alighted at the door
Where my aunt and I were spinning,
And his looks they were so winning,
I thought of work no more.

My aunt her anger hiding,
Ask'd what made me trifle so,
But I never mind her chiding,
When he comes from Tuckahoe.

* This poem and all the subsequent ones (the Cricket er cepted) have been copied from scraps of paper, since the death of Dr. Shaw.


NOW forty years have pass'd with flowing tide, Since I was cradled on this '

mountain's side, Half of my fated journey now is done, And to th' horizon now declines my sun.

Now frequent tremors lead the hand astray,
The brow now wrinkles, and the head turns gras:
Regrets of hours mispent the mind annoy,
Fears of the future mingle with each joy;

For soon the fountain shall no stream supply,
And the spent taper in the socket die;
What now remains, but linger some years more,
And then the last faint struggle shall be o'er.
And one short hour shall finish all the cares,
The joys and passions of so many years.

Hopes! fears! desires! and joys! perfidious crew!
And idle love! I bid you all adieu!
And fame,--so long, so fondly sought-away!
What art thou worth, poor meteor of a day!


WHITHER fairest, hast thou stray'd? What retreat conceals


love? Đost thou seek the poplar's shade,

In the bosom of the grove?

Tell me now what cooling air

O’er thy hearing bosom strays? Or disparts thy flowing hair,

And with the glossy ringlets plays.

Dost thou by the streamlet's side

Gently stealing slumbers provelFlow thou stream with silent tide, Do not!do not wake



Should she then in slumber deep

One kind thought on me bestow, Lest thy waves should break her sleep,

Let them almost cease to flow.

But if present to her eyes

Should my hated rival seem, Rise!_with hoarser murmur rise!

Rouse her from the guilty dream!

FROM clime to clime a ranger

My hours I've wasted longTo peace and home a stranger,

The desert woods among.

Yet oft when day is over,

Some whispering spirit cries, Return, return, thou rover,

To hail thy native skies.

How swift the hours have hasted,

Since thou began'st to roam, Before thy youth be wasted

Return thee to thy home.

There that lost peace shall find thee,

And gild each passing day, Which thou did'st leave behind thee,

And hasten'd far away.

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THRO' the forest the sound of the axe has been

heard, And the elms wave no more their high tops to the

gale, The pines on the hill that so tow'ring appear'd,

And the poplars are fallen, that shaded the vale.

For the plough drives its course, and the harvest shall

wave O'er each breeze-courted hill and each interval dell, Where once the fierce Mohawk and Seneca grave

And the wily Oneida delighted to dwell.

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To the fields, where his fathers establish'd their home, To the woods, where the chase they were wont to

pursue, To the streams, where himself was accustom'd to

roam, The wandering native has bidden adieu!

Forthe steps of the white men have printed the ground,

Where never before they had ventur’d to stray, Independence awaken'd his fears at the sound,

And bore him afar to new regions away.

Yet the sigh to an exile that ever is due,
Tho' breath'd by a stranger, shall follow him still;-


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