The BRITISH STRIPLING's WAR-SONG.

Yes, noble old Warrior! this heart has beat high
Since you told of the deeds which our countrymen wrought;
O lend me the sabre that hung by thy thigh,

And I too will fight as my Forefathers fought.

Despise not my youth, for my spirit is steel'd,

And I know there is strength in the grasp of my hand; Yea, as firm as thyself would I march to the field, And as proudly would die for my dear native land.

In the sports of my childhood I mimick'd the fight,
The sound of a trumpet suspended my breath;
And my fancy still wandered by day and by night,

Amid battle and tumult, mid conquest and death.

My own shout of onset, when the Armies advance,
How oft it awakes me from visions of glory;
When I meant to have leapt on the Hero of France,
And have dash'd him to earth, pale and breathless and gory.

As late thro' the city with banners all streaming,
To the music of trumpets the Warriors flew by,
With helmet and scymetars naked and gleaming,
On their proud-trampling, thunder-hoof'd steeds did they fly;

I sped to yon heath that is lonely and bare,

For each nerve was unquiet, each pulse in alarm; And I hurl'd the mock-lance thro' the objectless air, And in open-eyed dream proved the strength of my arm.

Yes, noble old Warrior! this heart has beat high,
Since you told of the deeds that our Countrymen wrought;
O lend me the Sabre that hung by thy thigh,

And I too will fight as my Forefathers fought!

ESTEESI.

The Fair DEMOCRATE.

The wish, that fills thy generous mind,
The Liberty of Human-kind,

I love; and, as thy voice inspires
My Soul, I burn with Freedom's fires!
But, when I view those melting eyes,
The rude and hardy spirit dies;
Striking my pensive breast, I swear
That thou shalt reign despotic there;
Bend to thy charms the ready knee,
And, captive, sue not to be free
From chains, more dear than Liberty!

C. H. S.

The OLD BATCHELOR.

After the manner of SPENSER.

This Poem is reprinted from the Town and Country Magazine for 1777. The Editor has never seen it elsewhere, though its excellence ought to have rescued it from obscurity.

I.

In Phoebus' region while some bards there be
That sing of battles, and the trumpets roar;
Yet these, I ween, more powerful bards than me,
Above my ken, on eagle pinions soar!
Haply a scene of meaner view to scan,

Beneath their laurel'd praise my verse may give, To trace the features of unnoticed man;

Deeds, else forgotten, in the verse may live! Her lore, mayhap, instructive sense may teach, From weeds of humbler growth within my lowly reach.

II.

A wight there was, who single and alone

Had crept from vigorous youth to waning age, Nor e'er was worth, nor e'er was beauty known His heart to captive, or his thought engage: Some feeble joyaunce, tho' his conscious mind Might female worth or beauty give to wear, Yet to the nobler sex he held confin'd

The genuine graces of the soul sincere, And well could show with saw or proverb quaint, All semblance woman's soul, and all her beauty paint.

III.

In plain attire this wight apparel'd was,

(For much he conn'd of frugal lore and knew) Nor, till some day of larger note might cause, From iron-bound chest his better garb he drew: But when the Sabbath-day might challenge more, Or feast, or birth-day, should it chance to be, A glossy suit devoid of stain he wore,

And gold his buttons glanced so fair to see, Gold clasp'd his shoon, by maiden brush'd so sheen,

And his rough beard he shav'd, and donn'd his linen clean.

M