On hearing a Discourse from the Rev. John Hargrove.

Her magic the vulture transform'd to the dove,
And Nature again was delighted and blest―
Thus each ruder passion is subject to Love,
The genius that tempers and governs the rest.

TO THE REV. J. H.

On hearing him preach on the Pleasures of Religion.

When o'er the sacred desk, with modest grace And lowly meekness, bends thy reverend form, While the great theme that animates thy face,

Bids every bosom glow with transport warm

How could I listen to the heavenly theme,
Forget the pleasures that entice me here,
View human life a transitory dream,

And wish, with thee, to gain a higher sphere !

Go on, thou champion in the cause of truth,

Arm'd by thy Saviour, still the foe engage; Still charm from vice the steps of ardent youth, And strew with rosy hopes the path of age.

To Miss H. with a volume of Montgomery's Poems.

TO MISS H****,

With a miniature volume of Montgomery's Poems, as published in 1807.

Accept, lovely maid, of this little bequest,
An advocate certain my suit to obtain ;
To the generous, feeling, susceptible breast,
The muse of MONTGOMERY pleads not in vain.

And when that sweet eye of cerulean hue,

Drops the warm tear of pity for virtue distress'd, Then think of the donor, whose sympathy true,

The number thou shed'st will engrave on his breast.

While Switzerland's Wanderer* draws on thy heart For the tribute which sentiment e'er must bestow; Then think of thy friend, in a far distant part,

A Wanderer, press'd with his portion of wo.

And when o'er the Grave thou art bending with pain, But a pain not unmingled with pensive delight,

Let one gem of pity be shed for the swain

Who is buried to pleasure, when banish'd thy sight.

* The words in italics are the titles of the several poems which this ittle volume contained.

To Miss H. with a volume of Montgomery's Poems.

While the tones of the Lyre brighten sadness to joy, And thou hear'st with fond rapture its solacing lays, Remember the youth whose delightful employ

Is to sing to his Lyre while it warbles thy praise.

The Remonstrance to Winter is heard and obey'd,
And Flora unfolds every beautiful hue;
But remember, tho' nature in spring is array'd,
To me all is Winter while absent from you.

The Fowler's simplicity cannot but please,
Religion has beauties that never can cloy ;
While the sweet Joy of Grief enraptures with these,
Think of him who has likewise perus'd them with joy.
Alexandria's fierce Battle admire, not approve,

But haste from the scene to the Pillow for rest;
On the pinion of fancy then pensively rove,

But let thy friend's image still dwell in thy breast.

View Brown with compassion, breathe pity's soft sigh, For sufferings unmerited, cruel, unjust;

But smile on the Thunder-storm rolling on high,

'Tis the voice of thy God, but he wars not with dust.

Hail the brave Volunteers of fam'd Albion's isle,
And cherish the patriot glow in thy breast;
St. Mark's ancient Vigil a tear may beguile,
Thy friend then remember, like Edwin distress'd.

Montgomery's Poems

-Laura of Flatbush.

The Field-flower and Snow-drop have charms for thine

eye,

Sweet emblems of innocence, virtue and love— But the Common Lot waits us-we live but to die ; And die but to live in the mansions above.

Remember thy friend-is the donor's request,
And this Advocate proffers his suit to obtain ;
To the generous, feeling, susceptible breast,
The muse of Montgomery pleads not in vain.

FLATBUSH.

I came when the beauties of Summer were glowing
On the bosom of Nature, the fields and the groves,
When the balm-freighted zephyrs were pleasantly
blowing,

And the sweet woodland choristers warbled their loves :

But when I beheld the angelic expression

That play'd o'er the visage of Laura, the while, I said--for my bosom approved the confession"Tis here that pleased Nature has borrow'd her smile.

Miss Laura A******, of Flatbush, L. I.

And I came when the tempests of Winter were raging O'er the frost-whiten'd meadows, and ravaged the

plains ;

When the fields nor the woodlands were longer engaging,

Nor the groves longer echo'd their choristers' strains.

And I sigh'd at the change, while in accents of sorrow,
I ask'd where the roses of Summer were fled;
Grief rais'd her moist eye, and then pointed to Laura—
Ah! cruel disease!-Laura's roses were dead!

How sadly expressive was each pallid feature!
How meek shone her eye 'neath a forehead of snow!
Like an angel appear'd the sweet suffering creature,
Just quitting, for heaven, the regions below.

And I thought, if some youth was but blest with her favour,

How might he exclaim, in the accents of wo, Take me with her to heaven, if nothing can save her, Or stay, lovely angel! my heaven below!