RETROSPECTION.

OFT Memory turns to vanished days,

Despite of present pain,
And in their sunshine fancy plays,

Till they seem ours again;
With all their unalloyed content,

With friends sincerely prized,
With joyous heart and innocent,

And hopes unrealized.
Before we jostled with the crowd

That ne'er for others feel,
When every thought we spoke aloud,

Uncareful to conceal.
For then, unlearned in worldly art,

Too credulous, we deemed
That every one was in the heart

As honest as he seemed.
But Time hath in his ceaseless tread

Unhappy changes wrought,
And we have lived to doubt and dread,

By disappointments taught.

Are mouldering now within the dull,

Inexorable grave!
A chill hath o'er our feelings come,

And o'er our hearts a blight;
Unblessed and cheerless is the home

That once was our delight:
For they are gone, the cherished pride

And pleasure of our days;
How happy were we by their side,

To listen and to praise!
And sorrow oft, with poignant sting,

A tribute tear will claim,
As we behold each treasured thing

Familiar with their name.

We once had friends, but now must weep

They are no longer ours;
They sleep, where we at last shall sleep,

Among the perished flowers.
The gentle and the beautiful,

The manly and the brave, New-York.

A DISCOURSE:

IN WHICH I ENDEAVORED TO PERSUADE VIRTUE, WHEN SHE WAS DEAD, TO COME TO LIFE AGAIN.

now

The decease of Virtue is no longer any more of a novelty, than that of the king of Prussia ; and every one lamented her death with sufficient propriety. It has also been known, for a long time, that her heart was not torn out of her body, as many were inclined to believe, at first, in some provinces of Germany; for she sank gently to sleep, under a natural malady, and died in her bed. The disease which carried her off is by no means an uncommon one, but the so-called French fever, which every one, from the greatest to the least, has. It is nothing less than the sea-sickness to which every man, in his voyage through life, must sooner or later submit. Virtue caught it at the masquerade, of a domino, which a distinguished man had previously infected with it. For it is a well known privilege of the nobility, that not the hangman himself can compel them to undergo quarantine. The doctor did his best for Virtue, and, contrary to the universal apprehension, rescued her from the fever ; but she gave up under the very weight of the cure. The Muses were her good sick, nurses. The devil rushed, like mad, into the sick chamber, and leaped about the sick-bed, and had arrayed himself as her death-angel; but we all knew him very well, and told him, at last, that he need not disguise himself on our account.

6

But it was time Virtue should cause the will to be drawn up. It is very unpleasant to me, to hear now, from many sources, that several of the seven mortal Sins, who were to be present as witnesses, failed to attend; for perhaps it is meant to be insinuated, that the bumbailiff of Paris, and the informer-general of Vienna, were not considered as rightful representatives of the two mortal Sins by whom they were expressly sent. I am appointed executor : I will not, however, do the business knavishly, but every one shall have what Virtue bequeathed to him : our superintendent, her face, our Moravian sister, her eyes, and the dead kings, her heart; “because,' as she directed to be written, it is the universal custom to cut theirs out after death, and deposite them in a golden vase ; and the living, upon whom I would otherwise gladly have bestowed mine, could have no use for it, since they fortunately have yet hearts of their own.' What remains of the body, as is very well known, is to be embalmed as a mummy, in order that it may, like other mummies, be pounded up and used for brown die, the manly color. I am not the first to remark, that her clothes could not come into the will at all, since she died in Paris, and consequently, as a stranger, must leave her whole attire to the king of France, according to the Right of Aubaine ;' and this also I will not withhold from France.

I wish she had not forgotten no one in her will less than me and my wife.

When she had fallen asleep, and we all were still, and to some of us the very earth grew narrower, I said to Satan, who stood near me, pinching his tail at the same time with my foot : “My dear Sir, it is customary in England, by way of conveying to those who live in the neighborhood of London, information of the execution of a friend, to despatch a pigeon from the place of execution. How shall we manage it? The world must certainly be apprized of the afflicting event. “Of course,' said he, “and I will do it myself, this very moment.' He immediately transformed himself into a great raven, (he needed not to change his black color,) and shot forth, sailed slowly along over the world, in token that Virtue was now dead, and had flown away to that better world, where the early Greeks, the old Romans, and the first Christians are.

Hypocrisy kept the customary watch, that night, over the corpse ; and the philosophers of the eighteenth century brought and lighted the candles, which surrounded the coffin, and gleamed upon the pale form. The mourners, who were all mankind - that is to say, one thousand millions beside myself - wished to have some funeral coins and medals struck off; but I asked them whether the coins already in existence would not answer the purpose, particularly the shrovepence, and subsidy money. As, among the Romans, a slave stood by to brush away the flies from the dead body with a fly-fan, so stood I, with a long satirical whip, close by the side of dead Virtue, and snapped it from time to time, to clear away the philosophic and courtvermin, that were continually striving to fasten themselves, and leave their slime, upon it. It is true, heavenly Virtue! that is the least which I, or any other author, could do for thee! I heard a few days since, for the first time, that she had, in case the clergy should not be willing to bury her gratis, paid several florins to the Hildesheim

not.

Burial Company, and the same into a Death-Lottery, and also to the Göttingen Auxiliary Burial Association, which last, however, if I am rightly informed, broke long ago. I therefore request persons who know any thing of this matter, to do me the very great favor of informing me by letter, or word of mouth, whether the story be true or

The Jesuits wanted to deposit her in the Holy Sepulchre, and teased me very much on that score; but I asked them whether that was not in Palestine, or still farther off, and whether it would not be more convenient for thousands of Christians, and nearer, if she were buried in the court-church. And there it was, I made the following address to Virtue, which, if I were lecturer (and I am one, too,) should never be forgotten by me.

• DepartED VIRTUE!. The common Irish, and many other savages, boldly reprove the Dead, and ask him how he could make up his mind to lie down and die. They beseech him, by every thing in the world, calmly to consider whether his death can possibly have been the most rational act of his life, when he has a cow, and wife, and children, and potatoes enough. I must confess, dear Virtue ! thy departure from life is not, of all thy actions, the one which pleases either me or Reason most. Did we men ever do otherwise than render thee the honor which Reason and Propriety dictated ? Were we perchance wanting in incense ? Were not the courtiers as courteous toward thee as toward Vice ? Truly, I suspect we did more than was necessary; but thou wert very negligent; thou didst despise the two chambers which our hearts opened for thy entertainment, and saidst thou couldst see nothing there but gold-dross and Album Græcum, caca du Dauphin, and assafætida, which it could not but disgust many to hear you remark : however, we thought nothing at all of it, but continued well and kindly disposed toward thee, and gladly employed thee, as the Mexicans use their ineffable gold, out of pure veneration, merely for the decoration of the finest temples, but never at all in trade and traffic. We hoped, but alas ! all in vain, to move thee by another piece of attention, in selecting thee, as we have for many years, as Prima Donna of our national family, and puppettheatres and school-dramas. Yes, we went as far as our most intense exertions could carry- us, and composed so many fine verses upon thy charms, that the uninitiated must have sworn thou wert a queen or a mistress, and we thy subjects or lovers. At least, it never was possible for discerning and well-informed persons to imagine thou wouldst remain indifferent, when the mightiest potentates gladly announced themselves as thy patrons ; often quoted thy name, in their treaties of peace and declarations of war, and negotiations, and ostensible instructions of ministers; and, with more reference to thy glory than their own, ascribed simply to thee the greatest undertakings, which, as is very well known, only their own policy had so successfully conducted; that policy which perhaps — as, according to Simonides, only the Deity understands metaphysics perfectly Satan alone is intimately acquainted with, of whom the best Italian courts can give no better representation than distinct echoes. It cannot be that before thy death, thou hadst thought seriously enough of this ; that for thy sake we have long kept a great body of men, whom we call the clergy, clothed in black, at great expense, arrayed their

:

pulpits in various colors, and put several pieces of confession-money into their bags. This cloth and this money show, more plainly than express arguments, that men have always been, perhaps, as much interested in thee, as in Vice, if not more. But I assure thee, in behalf of many well-disposed Christians, that we are to-morrow morning, to make a contribution, and newly dress the present pulpit, together with the altar, in order haply to restore thee quite to life, by this light and innocent domestic medicine ; which, however, says the good afternoon preacher, works none the less effectually on that account. I should be glad to know what thou thinkest of this. But as I see, all too plainly, that thou wilt not come to life, and despisest my whole discourse, which to be sure is made by a mortal, I do this

the thread thereof.

instant snap

C. B. T.

Now is the witching time to rove,
The sun is low in the west, my love!

Few shafts are left in his golden quiver,
And we must cross, ere we reach the cove

Yon old red bridge that spans the river.'
The youthful twain stroll forth while day

of valley and hill takes blushing leave,
And the red-breast chaunts a pensive lay,

That tells of the coming hush of eve.
They reach the place where rankly waves
The springing grass on rified graves;
Where the bleaching bones of ihe forest lord
Pierce through the vegetating sward;
They pass the old elm tree, whose bough

Is green with a robe of clinging moss,

With flagging pace ihe bridge they cross,
And the place they seek is before them now.

Sweet Lillian ! let thy rustic seat

Be this old walnut's fallen trunk,
And shrink not, though beneath your feet

The dark, rich aoil hath carnage drunk ;
For here your roving eyes behold
The scenery of that legend old,
Which thou hast urged me oft to tell :
Now list, and heed its import well!

"This bending cove, and the river near,

An isle from the level mainland sever,
Where the blue bird first salutes the ear
With song, when the vernal clouds appear,

And a quiet beauty lingers ever.
On the low and richly wooded shore
Are visible remains of yore,
And often, when the shelving clay
Is worn by the wash of waves away,
Rude implements of other days,
And skeletons, arrest the gaze.

53

VOL. XIV,

Your glance direct where the river bends,
And the bank with a gentle slope descends,
For there, encircled by the wood,
The village of the red man stood.
Yon aged group of maples mark,
Flinging shadows long and dark,
While round their leaning stems entwine
The folding arms of the leafy vine:
Long, long ago Conésus made
His dwelling in their grateful shade;
Above them curls, as in time of yore,
The smoke of his cone-like lodge no more,
With its rude walls hung with trophies torn

From the heads of fallen foes,
But his name by a rapid stream is borne,
Which in the channel, deeply worn,

Near Avon foams and rows.

The rank of chief Conésus won

By eloquence and skill in war;
Within his veins full proudly ran

The blood of no famed ancestor.
The Chippewas would turn and tly,
When caught their ears his battle-cry;
Oft drank his weighty battle axe
The blood of the bold Adirondacks, *
And his name alone had power to wake
Dread in the Hurons of ihe Lake;
For a whizzing shaft from his deadly bow,
In dust their youthful chief laid low ;-
I stand on the spot where he gaspingly fell,
By one it was shown me who knoweth full well.'

Why did the warrior venture nigh
The home of his savage enemy?
What madness tempted him to stray
Froin his own tribe so far away ?'
The lady, with a shudder, said.

' A band, by old Conésus led,
The country of the Hurons sought,

When the deep green of summer Aed,
And back a beanteous captive brought.
She was the bride of a noted chief,
And his heart was madly wrung with grief,
When he came with his warriors from the chase,
And found his home a ruined place;
The huts of his people in ashes, and gone
The young bride he tenderly doated upon.

Did the chieftain arm with dart and bow,
And follow the relentless foe?'
'Yes, Lillian, on their path he sped,
But few were the warriors he led :
He threaded, with unwearied limb,
The mazes of the forest dim,
Nor rested in his swift career,
Like panther on the trail of deer,
But climbed the hill, the river cross'd
In quet of the bride of his bosom lost,
And the ruffians at whose girdles hung
'The reeking scalps of old and young.'
Did the Huron rescue from the power
Of ravishers his forest flower ?'
Suspecting danger in his rear,
The crafty Seneca, when near
The village of his tribe, sent out
His fleetest runner, as a scout,
Who soon, with bound of fear, came back,
And told him, foes were on his track.

* A tribe that dwelt on the St. Lawrence, and were declared enemies of the Six Nations.