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THE clouds that range o'er yonder hill
Have cover'd o'er thy grave with snow; But faithful pity lingers still
To muse where thou art laid below.
And while around the wild winds blow,
And through the echoing forest sleep, She marks thy tale, as fraught with woe
As ever mov'd the eye to weep.
No stone adorns thy cold remains,
No friends here bid the cypress wave, No
poet wakes his fervent strains
But a rude bed to thee they gave,
Where the tall pines o'erhang the rill, Where howling loud the night winds rave,
And wild deer wander o'er the hill.
Oh fair was she who by the rill,
FROM rich Patapsco's yellow wave
The issuing fleets may press the ocean, And blue Potomac's banks may crave
For their lov'd hero due devotion.
But dearer far to me the groves
Which to the breeze of Severn tremble; Where morn when first abroad she roves
Sees charms which her's do ill resemble,
And dearer far yon poplar shade,
By Severn's silver wave reflected, " Where in my youth I careless play'd,
“With spirits gay and uncorrected!”
And Love there roves with timid eye,
Oft secret side-long glances stealing, And prompting of the sudden sigh,
The throbbing bosom thus revealing.
'TIS dark, and the thick clouds are rolling,
And chill is the comfortless breeze, And slow as it sighs through the forest,
It shakes the big drops from the trees.
How weary the day and unlovely,
It pours its chill force o'er my frame, And fancy and hope are departed,
And quench'd is delight's feeble flame.
Dull mortal! and do they annoy thee?
These rain drops that fall from the tree, This breeze that slow moans thro' the forest,
Does it whisper no pleasure to thee?
Not a single appearance of nature,
Not a zephyr that strays thro' the air, Not a drop on the beech leaf that trembles,
But reminds me of love and my fair.
When I hung on her hand as we parted,
Such drops from her eyelids did roll, And sad as the breeze of the forest,
Were the sighs from her bosom that stole.
And slow as time performs his distant round,
AND let the warrior's laurel fade!
Let his bloody wreath decay! 'Tis not these that grace the dead,
'Tis not these that prompt the lay.
The patriot's civic crown in vain
Shall time and envy fierce assail; Nobler is the patriot's claim
To the foremost rank of fame.
Too oft the warrior's wreath is borne
THE NEWS-MAN'S ADDRESS
TO ALL HIS WORTHY CUSTOMERS.
WHILE the snows are fast falling, and winds whistle
shrill, And naked the trees nod on every hill, Through the wet and the cold see the Newsman
Brings his best of good wishes to lay at your door;
around; And, while you thus pass unconcerned your lives, He, half dead with the cold, at your threshhold ar
rives. “ See who knocks at the door"_" 'Tis the News
man is come.” " Take his paper, and bid him come into the room“ A glass of good liquor will do him much good, “ And freshen his spirits and quicken his blood. • But what's here?-a Petition!-Petition!— Why
• In the name of good sense, would the fellow be ati