With sterling worth the PLANT OF SENSE shall rise,
And teach the curious to philosophize;

The keen-eyed wit shall claim the SCENTED BRIAR,
And sober cits the SOLID GRAIN admire;

While generous juices sparkling from the VINE,
Shall warm the audience till they cry-divine!
And when the scenes of one gay month are o'er,
Shall clap their hands, and shout-encore ! encore !

CRITIC.

All this is mighty fine! but prithee when,
The frost returns, how fight ye then your men?

SNOW-DROP.

I'll tell you, sir! we'll garnish out the scenes,
With stately rows of hardy EVERGREENS,

Trees that will bear the frost and deck their tops

With everlasting flowers, like diamond drops,

We'll draw, and paint, and carve, with so much skill,
That wondering wits shall cry, diviner still!

CRITIC.

Better, and better, yet! but now suppose,

Some critic wight in mighty verse, or prose,

Should draw his gray goose weapon, dipt in gall,

And mow ye down PLANTS, FLOWERS, TREES, and ALL.

SNOW-DROP.

Why then, we'll die like FLOWERS OF SWEET PERFUME, And yield a fragrance, even in the TOMB!

IMPROMPTU

ON

BACHELORS' HALL,

At Philadelphia, being destroyed by Lightning, 1775.

Fair VENUS So often was mist from the skies,
And BACCHUS as frequently absent likewise,
That the synod began to enquire out the reason,
Suspecting the culprits were plotting of treason.
At length it was found they had open'd a ball
At a place by the mortals call'd BACHELORS' HALL;
Where VENUS disclosed every fun she could think of,
And BACCHUS made nectar for mortals to drink of.
JOVE highly displeas'd at such riotous doings,
Sent TIME to reduce the whole building to ruins;
But TIME was so slack with his traces and dashes,
That Jove in a passion consumed it to ashes.

LIBERTY TREE,

A Song, written early in the American Revolution.

Tune-"Gods of the Greeks."

In a chariot of light, from the regions of day,
The GODDESS of LIBERTY came,

Ten thousand celestials directed her way,

And hither conducted the dame.

A fair budding branch from the gardens above,
Where millions with millions agree,

She brought in her hand as a pledge of her love,
And the plant she named LIBERTY TREE.

The celestial exotic struck deep in the ground,
Like a native it flourish'd and bore:

The fame of its fruit drew the nations around,
To seek out this peaceable shore.

Unmindful of names or distinctions they came,
For freemen like brothers agree;

With one spirit endued, they one friendship pursued,
And their temple was LIBERTY TREE.

Beneath this fair tree, like the patriarchs of old,
Their bread in contentment they ate,
Unvexed with the troubles of silver or gold,
The cares of the grand and the great.
With timber and tar they Old England supplied,
And supported her power on the sea:

Her battles they fought, without getting a groat,
For the honour of LIBERTY TREE.

But hear, O ye swains (tis a tale most profane),
How all the tyrannical powers,

King, commons, and lords, are uniting amain,
To cut down this guardian of ours.

From the east to the west blow the trumpet to arms,
Thro the land let the sound of it flee:

Let the far and the near all unite with a cheer,

In defence of our LIBERTY TREE.

VERSES TO A FRIEND,

AFTER A LONG CONVERSATION ON WAR.

THE raiu pours down, the city looks forlorn,
And gloomy subjects suit the howling morn;
Close by my fire, with door and window fast,
And safely shelter'd from the driving blast,
To gayer thoughts I bid a day's adieu,
To spend a scene of solitude with you,

So oft has black revenge engross'd the care Of all the leisure hours man finds to spare; So oft has guilt in all her thousand dens, Call'd for the vengeance of chastising pens; That while I fain would ease my heart on you, No thought is left untold, no passion new.

From flight to flight the mental path appears,
Worn with the steps of near six thousand years,
And fill'd throughout with every scene of pain,
From modern murderers down to murderous Cain.
Alike in cruelty, alike in hate,

In guilt alike, but more alike in fate,

Cursed supremely for the blood they drew,

Each from the rising world, while each was new.

Go, men of blood! true likeness of the first, And strew your blasted heads with homely dust: In ashes sit-in wretched sackcloth weep, And with unpitied sorrows cease to sleep. Go haunt the tombs, and single out the place Where earth itself shall suffer a disgrace. Go spell the letters on some mouldering urn, And ask if he who sleeps there can return. Go count the numbers that in silence lie, And learn by study what it is to die; For sure your heart, if any heart you own, Conceits that man expires without a groan ; That he who lives receives from you a grace, Or death is nothing but a change of place : That peace is dull, that joy from sorrow springs, And war the most desirable of things.

Else why these scenes that wound the feeling mind, This sport of death-this cockpit of mankind! Why sobs the widow in perpetual pain?

Why cries the orphan,-"Oh! my father's slain !"
Why hangs the sire his paralytic head,

And nods with manly grief-"My son is dead!"
Why drops the tear from off the sister's cheek,
And sweetly tells the misery she would speak?
Or why, in sorrow sunk, does pensive John
To all the neighbours tell," Poor master's gone?"

Oh! could I paint the passion that I feel, Or point a horror that would wound like steel,