Sweeps the long tract of day.

Then high she soars

The blue profound, and hovering round the sun, |
Beholds him pouring the redundant stream
Of light; beholds his unrelenting sway |
Bend the reluctant planets to absolve

The fated rounds of time. Thence far effused |
She darts her swiftness up the long career
Of devious comets: thro' its burning signs
Exulting measures the perennial wheel

Of Nature, and looks back on all the stars, |
Whose blended light, as with a milky zone,
Invests the orient. |

Now amazed she views
The empyreal waste, where happy spirits hold,!
Beyond this concave heaven, their calm abode; |
And fields of radiance, whose unfading light |
Has travell'd the profound six thousand years, |
Nor yet arrives in sight of mortal things. |
E'en on the barriers of the world untired |
She meditates the eternal depth below,
Till, half recoiling, down the headlong steep
She plunges; soon o'erwhelm'd and swallowed up |
In that immense of being. I

There her hopes Rest at the fatal goal: for, from the birth Of mortal man, the sovereign Maker said, | That not in humble nor in brief delight,| Not in the fading echoes of renown, |

Power's purple robes, nor Pleasure's flowery lap, |
The soul should find enjoyment; | but, from these
Turning disdainful to an equal good, I

Thro' all the ascent of things enlarge her view, |
Till every bound at length should disappear, |
And infinite perfection close the scene.

PAPER.

[A CONVERSATIONAL PLEASANTRY.]

(FRANKLIN.)

Some wit of old such wits of old there were,
| |
Whose hints show'd meaning, whose allusions care,
By one brave stroke, to mark all human kind, |
Call'd clear blank paper ev'ry infant mind; |
Where, still, as opening sense her dictates wrote,
Fair Virtue put a seal, or Vice, a blot. |
The thought was happy, pertinent, and true;|
Methinks a genius might the plan pursue. |

I (can you pardon my presumption ?), | I,
No wit, no genius, yet, for once, will try. |
Various the paper, various wants produce; |
The wants of fashion | elegance, and use.
Men are as various; and if right I scan, |
Each sort of paper represents some man. |

Pray note the fop, I half powder and half lace; |
Nice, as a band-box were his dwelling place; |
He's the gilt-paper, which apart you store,
And lock from vulgar hands in the scrutoire."
Mechanics, farmers, servants, and so forth, |
Are copy-paper, of inferior worth; |

Less priz'd, more useful, for your desk decreed;
Free to all pens, | and prompt at ev'ry need. |

The wretch, whom avarice bids to pinch and spare |
Starve, cheat, and pilfer, to enrich an heir, |

Is coarse brown paper, such as pedlars choose |
I
To wrap up wares, which better men will use. I
Take next the miser's contrast, who destroys |
Health, fame, and fortune, in a round of joys; |

Will any paper match him? | Yes, throughout; |
He's a true sinking paper, past all doubt. |

The retail politician's anxious thought |

Deems this side always right, and that stark nought;
He foams with censure; with applause he raves; |
A dupe to rumors, and a tool of knaves; |
He'll want no type his weakness to proclaim, {
While such a thing as foolscap has a name.
The hasty gentleman, whose blood runs high, |
Who picks a quarrel if you step awry, |
Who can't a jest, a hint, or look, endure; |
What is he? What? | Touch-paper to be sure. |

What are our poets, take them as they fall,
Good, bad, rich, poor, much read, not read at all?
Them and their works in the same class you'll find :|
They are the mere waste-paper of mankind. I

Observe the maiden, | innocently sweet;

She's fair white paper, an unsullied sheet; }
i

On which the happy man whom fate ordains, |
May write his name, and take her for his pains. |

One instance more, and only one, I'll bring: |
'Tis the great man who scorns a little thing; |
Whose thoughts, whose deeds, whose maxims are his

own,

Form'd on the feelings of his heart alone: |

True, genuine, royal-paper is his breast; |
Of all the kinds most precious, | purest, | best. |

MOSES SMITING THE ROCK.

(W. A. VAN VRANKEN.)

On the parch'd plains the tribes of Israel lay, |
Fatigued and sad, to raging thirst a prey: |
In that lone region, in that desert drear, |
No streamlet's murmur stole upon the ear; ]
No brook pellucid glanc'd its light along, |
To cheer the vision of that fainting throng. |

Nought met the eye save Horeb's rock that frown'd, |
In gloomy grandeur, on the scene around. ¦

At its broad base, behold the patriarch stand, |
And with his rod, at the Divine command, |
Smite its dark front: | o'erawed by Power Supreme, }
Its riven breast expell'd a copious stream; |
The new-born waters pour'd their torrents wide, |
And foam'd, and thunder'd, down its craggy side. |
At the glad sound each Hebrew mother there |
Her infant clasp'd, and look'd to Heaven a prayer:]
Joy thrill'd all hearts; for lo! the sunbeams play, |
In radiant glory, on the flashing spray |

That dash'd its crystals o'er the rocky pile, |
A beauteous emblem of Jehovah's smile. |

TIME.

(W. A. VAN VRANKEN.)

My silent and mysterious flight |
Reveals each morn the glorious light |
That gilds the passing year; |
I never stop to rest my wing:|
Triumphant on the blast I spring-|
My plumage, dark and sere. I

Onward I speed my flight sublime ; |
Before me withers manhood's prime, |
While pillar, dome, and tower, |
And massy piles, and temples grand, |
Lie crush'd beneath my iron hand — |
Resistless is my power. I

Remorseless boaster, hold! thy wings |
May sweep aside earth's mightiest things, |
Mere creatures of an hour: |

Thou canst not reach the Heavenly bloom, |
Celestial tints, and rich perfume, |

Of virtue's lovely flower. |

TO THE AMERICAN FLAG.

(DRAKE AND HALLECK.)

When freedom from her mountain height |
Unfurl'd her standard to the air, |
She tore the azure robe of night, |
And set the stars of glory there! |
She mingled with its gorgeous dyes |
The milky baldric of the skies,
And striped its pure celestial white, |
With streakings from the morning light! |
Then, from his mansion in the sun,
She called her eagle-bearer down,
And gave into his mighty hand |
The symbol of her chosen land! |
Majestic monarch of the cloud! |

Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, |
To hear the tempest trumping loud,]

And see the lightning lances driven, |
When strides the warrior of the storm, |
And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven!
Child of the sun! | to thee 't is given |
To guard the banner of the free-
To hover in the sulphur smoke,
To ward away the battle-stroke, |
And bid its blendings shine afar, |
Like rainbows on the cloud of war, |
The harbinger of victory! |

Flag of the brave! | thy folds shall fly,
The sign of hope and triumph high!|
When speaks the signal-trumpet's tone,
And the long line comes gleaming on;
Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet,|
Has dimm'd the glistening bayonet-!
Each soldier's eye shall brightly turn,
To where thy meteor glories burn, |