Oh! hail once more, the wild clad shore,
Of clear Passaic's stream;
Where once I rov'd, where once I lov'd,
In Fancy's youthful dream-
Welcome again, the oft trod glen,
(To me no happier rove)
The mountain steep, the valley deep,
And all my native fields so green.

Down in the shade, of youder glade,
That fronts the river's side,

How op ning to my searching view,
I've stray'd at evning tide.-
How bright and fair, the footsteps there,
Of childhood still appear,
And still the song, erst pour'd along,

Sounds in the branches sweet and clear.

'Neath that rude tree, where infancy,
Beguil'd each passing day.

Oft have 1 lain, and mock'd the strain-
The robin's plaintive lay!

But that dear strain, will ne'er again
Beguile the flying hour,

For absence long has lost the song,

That once possessed such magic power.

The tears that fell, when from thy well
And dear known scenes I flew,
Were those of pain, for ne'er again,
I thought those scenes to view!
But now, the tear that drops so clear,
Flows not from mis'ry's store;
For there's no bliss, so sweet as this,
To hail a long lost native shore.

From the New York Evening Post.

A LOVING EPISTLE TO MR. WILLIAM COBBETT, OF NORTH HEMPSTEAD, LONG ISLAND.

"Belov'd of Heaven! the smiling Muse shall shed

"Her moonlight halo on thy beauteous head!” Campbell's Pleasures of Hope.

Pride, boast, and glory of each hemisphere! Well known, and lord in both-great Cobbett hail!

Hero of Botley there, and Hempstead hereOf Newgate, and a Pennsylvania jail! Long shall this grateful nation bless the hour, When by the beadle and your debts pursa'd, The victim-like fam'd Barrington, of power, "You left your country for your country's good!"

Terrour of Borough-mongers, Banks and Crowns!

Thorburn the seedsman, and Lord Castlereagh!

"Potatoe tops" fall withering at your frowns(Grand" Ruta Baga Turnip" of your day) Banish the memory of that Lockhart's cane, And Philadelphia "pole-cats" from your mind,

Let the world scoff-still you and Hunt remainYourselves a host-the envy of mankind!

Whether, as once in " Peter Porcupine,"

You curse the country, whose free air you breathe,

Or, as plain" William Cobbett," toil to twine Around your brows sedition's poison'd wreath, Or in your letter to Sir Francis, tear

All moral ties asunder with your pen, We trace you, gentle spirit, every where, And greet you, first of scribblers and of men. Well may our hearts with pride and pleasure swell,

To know that face to face we soon shall meet: We'll gaze upon you as you stand and sell "Grammars" and " Garden seeds" in Fulton

street!

And praise your book that tells about the weather,

"Our laws, religion, hogs, and things" to boot,

Where your immortal talents teach together
Turnips and "young ideas how to shoot!"

In recompense, that you've designed to make
Choice of our soil above all other lands,
A purse we'll raise to pay your debts, and take
Your unsold Registers all off your hands.
For this we ask that you, for once, will show
Some gratitude, and, if you can, be civil;
Burn all your books, sell all your pigs, and go-
No matter where--to England or the devil!
CROAKER & CO.

* Vide his letter to Lord Stanhope in his Regis

ter.

PARODY.

Ye Mariners of England. Ye gentlemen and ladies,

Who live at home at ease, In rural quiet snugly fix'd, Among the pigs and fleas. Give ear to a Director,

And he will plainly show, What dismay, rules the day, When the stock is getting low.

When Congress sends committees,
To fumble o'er our books;
You'd think ten thousand pities,
To see our piteous looks;
The President and Cashier

Depress'd with care and wo,
Hop about, in and out,

While the stock is getting low.

Or if some members bolder,

Do threaten and denounce; And on each poor stockholder, Are ready down to pounce; Then shivering agues seize us, Rheumatic pains shoot through The aching bones, of Bidy J-s, For the stock is getting low.

Each check-book, ledger, journal,
Is now thrown open wide:
And the balance sheet diurnal,
Is in the balance tried;
The tellers, runners, watchmen,
Are cap'ring to and fro,
While the clerk, with a jerk,
Exclaims," the stock is low."

But courage brave directors!

And never be dismay'dWhile we have cash or credit left, We ne'er shall want a trade: Our merchants will employ us, To raise the wind you know; Up we must, kick a dust. Although the stock is low.

-

TO SPRING.

FROM THE DANISH.

0.

By Professor Thomas Thaarup.
Thy beams are sweet, beloved Spring!
The winter shades before thee fly;
The bough smiles green, the young birds sing,
The chainless current glistens by;
"Till countless flowers, like stars, illume
The deepening vale and forest-gloom.

Oh! welcome, gentle guest from high,
Sent to cheer our world below,
To lighten Sorrow's faded eye,
To kindle Nature's social glow:
Oh! he is o'er his fellows blest,

Who feels thee in a guiltless breast.

Peace to the generous heart, essaying

With deeds of love to win our praise! He smiles the spring of life surveying,

Nor fears her cold and wintry days.
To his high goal, with triumph bright,
The calm years waft him in their flight.

Thou, glorious goal! that shin'st afar,
And seem'st to smile us on our way:
Bright is the hope that crowns our war,
The dawn-bush of eternal day!
There shall we meet, this dark world o'er
And mix in love evermore.

THE NEGRO'S SONG.

FROM THE DANISH.
By Professor Thomas Thaarup.

I will fly the social room,

I will weep in lonely sadness; The poor negro's cherish'd gloom Must not mar the hour of giadness; Let my fate your sighs command, Fetter'd in a distant land.

Say what is the negro's crime,
Ye who in our blood engrave it?
Can the colour of our clime
Plead for sin with him who gave it?
Gloomy is the negro's breast,

Robb'd of her he loves the best.

God of Christians, God of Men!
Thou canst melt the heart of scoru;
May none e'er the bridegroom chain,
From the new-spoused torn!
Let our fate thy pity move
Robb'd of country and of love!

SENTIMENTAL AGONIES.

When first to dear Chloe I mentioned the pain, Her coldness had left in my breast;

She call'd me her shepherd, her ghost and her swain,

And turn'd all my sorrows to jest.

When I press'd my sad suit as we trip'd through the dance,

Her features were clouded with wo, And hope swell'd my bosom-but ah she exclaim'd,

"The deuce take the corn on my toe."

How strange is the heart of a woman I cried, Of vanity made up and show;

They feel not the pangs they inflict on the

heart,

But feel for the corn on the toe.