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Here, as in ancient and illustrious Rome,
Cheered with the rural sweets on every side,
We pause to mark amid this valley green How changed the tenants, how improved the scene! Where wretched wigwams late like kennels stood, Where bark canoes stole skulking o'er the flood, Where mangled prisoners groaned, and hatchets glared; And blood-stained savages the fire prepard,
There glittering towns and villages extend,
(To be continued.)
FOR THE PORT FOLIO.
Tribute to the memory of Anna Smedes.
Where twilight's sad and ling’ring ray,
With faint flush tints yon shad’wy hill;
O'er which Affection muses still.
Enshrin'd within its bosom cold,
The corse of buried Anna lies;
A lovelier form, a fairer prize.
In this expedition against the hostile Indians, which was committed to the management of general Sullivan, and crowned with the most complete success, the only stand made by the savages was at this place, August 29th, 1799. After a short skirmish they were driven from this their last hold, and pursued beyond the Gennesee river. Forty of their towns, and upwards of one hundred and sixty thousand bushels of Indian corn were destroyed. The remnant of the tribes took refuge in Canada ; and thus an immense extent of the most fertile country of the United States was laid open to the enterprise of our active and industrious settlers. The white population of these parts of the State of New-York, settled since, may be fairly estimated at three times the number of all the Indians within fire hundred miles of the place.
FOR THE PORT FOLIO.
Touch not again thy sacred lyre,
Forbear that meiting hallow'd strain;
That heart which once, with youthful glow,
'Tis when Cynthia's rising beam, Sheds on lake or rippling stream
Her silver gleams, When some pale lover, wand'ring far, Seeks the bright Hesperian star,
In fancy's dreams:
'Tis when the rais'd romantic mind, To peace, to love, to heaven resigned,
Loves to repair
Released from care.
'Tis when the fairy orb, serene, Divinely blends each rural scene
Of hill and dale, When by the heav’nly visioned light, From perfum'd spray, the bird of night
Descants his tale.
'Tis when the grief-worn pilgrim hies To commune with his kindred skies
To seek relief In pious pray’r- and fancy tells That there the form regretted dwells,
Releas'd from grief.
"Tis when the sentient, wounded heart, Pierced by Slander's keenest dart,
O’erwhelmed with woes, Flies from the busy haunts of men, Eager t’escape their vulgar ken,
And seek repose.
'Tis that blest hour when lovers stray To taste those joys that shun the day,
Congenial hour, When timid maids their lovers bless, When by this light they first confess
Love's gentle power.
'Tis when the poet, Passion's child, In Fancy's world now wanders wild,