AMERICA AND ENGLAND.

BY WASHINGTON ALLSTON, ESQ.

THOUGH ages long have past,

Since our fathers left their home, Their pilot in the blast,

O'er untravelled seas to roam,

Yet lives the blood of England in our veins;
And shall we not proclaim

That blood of honest fame,
Which no tyranny can tame

By its chains?

While the language free and bold
Which the bard of Avon sung,
In which our Milton told

How the vault of Heaven rung,

When Satan, blasted, fell with all his host; While these with reverence meet,

Ten thousand echoes greet,

And from rock to rock repeat,

Round our coast!

While the manners, while the arts,

That mould a nation's soul,

Still cling around our hearts,

Between, let ocean roll,

Our joint communion breaking with the sun;

Yet still from either beach

The voice of blood shall reach,—

More audible than speech,

We are one!

ODE TO A STEAM-BOAT.

BY T. DOUBLEDAY, ESQ.

ON such an eve, perchance, as this,
When not a zephyr skims the deep,
And sea-birds rest upon the' abyss,
Scarce by its heaving rocked to sleep,-
On such an eve as this, perchance,
Might Scylla eye the blue expanse.

The languid ocean scarce at all

Amongst the sparkling pebbles hissing,— The lucid wavelets, as they fall,

The sunny beach in whispers kissing,
Leave not a furrow,-as they say
Oft haps, when pleasure ebbs away.

Full many a broad, but delicate tint
Is spread upon the liquid plain;
Hues, rich as aught from fancy's mint,

Enamelled meads, or golden grain ;-
Flowers sub-marine, or purple heath,
Are mirrored from the world beneath.

One tiny star-beam, faintly trembling,
Gems the still waters' tranquil breast;
Mark the dim sparklet, so resembling

Its parent in the shadowing east ;—
It seems-so pure, so bright the trace,—
As sea and sky had changed their place.

Hushed is the loud tongue of the deep :

Yon glittering sail, far o'er the tide, Amid its course appears to sleep ;

We watch, but only know it glide

Still on, by a bright track afar,
Like genius, or a falling star!

:

Oh! such an eve is sorrow's balm,
Yon lake the poet's Hippocrene;
And who would ruffle such a calm,

Or cast a cloud o'er such a scene!
"T is done;—and nature weeps thereat,
Thou boisterous progeny of Watt!

Wast thou a grampus,-nay, a whale,—
Or ork one sees in Ariosto;
Went'st thou by rudder, oar, or sail,

Still wouldst thou not so outrage gusto!
But when did gusto ever dream

Of seeing ships propelled by steam?

Now blazing like a dozen comets,

And rushing as if nought could bind thee,
The while thy strange internal vomits
A sooty train of smoke behind thee;
Tearing along the azure vast,
With a great chimney for a mast!

Satan, when scheming to betray us
He left of old his dark dominions,
And winged his murky way through chaos,
And waved o'er Paradise his pinions;
Whilst Death and Sin came at his back,
Would leave, methinks, just such a track!

Was there no quirk,-one can't tell how,-
No stiff-necked flaw,-no quiddit latent,
Thou worst of all sea monsters, thou!
That might have undermined thy patent,-
Or kept it in the' inventor's desk,-
Fell bane of all that 's picturesque ?

Should Neptune, in his turn, invade thee,
And at a pinch old Vulcan fail thee,
The sooty mechanist who made thee
May hold it duty to bewail thee;-
But I shall bring a garland votive,
Thou execrable locomotive!

He must be long-tongued, with a witness,
Whoe'er shall prove, to my poor notion,
It sorts with universal fitness

To make yon clear, pellucid ocean,
That holds not one polluted drop,
Bear on its breast a blacksmith's shop!

Philosophers may talk of science,

And mechanicians of utility,-
In such I have but faint reliance:
To admire thee passeth my ability;
My taste is left at double distance,
At the first sea-quake of thy pistons.

It may be orthodox, and wise,

And catholic, and transcendental,
To the useful still to sacrifice,
Without a sigh, the ornamental;
But be it granted me, at least,
That I may never be the priest !

Literary Souvenir.

THE VISION.

THERE is a blest voice in the Sabbath air,
Of souls rejoicing on their Maker's day,
And my dark spirit, on her mortal way,
In holy thought a moment hovers there;

And well forgets this vain earth's gloom and glare,
Her shews of transient date, and guards, and play,
Beating her prison-house and bonds of clay,
She strives to mingle with the good and fair.
O, earthless visions! dear to my sad soul,
Pour your rich beams with more celestial fire,
And chase these shades of doubt and vain desire,
That o'er my spirit thus their darkness roll;
And lead me, pure in heart, the path to God-

And I will drink the cup, and kiss the rod.

New Monthly Magazine.

THE INCONSTANT'S APOLOGY.

BY THE LATE M. G. LEWIS, ESQ.

LOVE, I've loved you passing well, Loved you long, and loved sincerely; How I loved no tongue can tell,

'T was so truly, 't was so dearly; But my fond delirium o'er, Love, adieu;—we'll meet no more!

When I owned your beauty's sway,
All my vows were gospel-true, love;
That I'm changed, no doubt, you'll say,
And, believe me, so are you, love;
Bloom departing, youth removed,
You're no more the love I loved!

Can I still the casket prize,

When the gem by Time is plundered? Can the stalk delight mine eyes,

Whence the rose for aye is sundered?

These possess no charms for me,
And, alas! are types of thee!

Parting lip and melting eye,

Teeth of pearl, and cheeks of roses,
Limbs that might with Paphia's vie,
Bosom where delight reposes;
These the love I love must shew;
Say, can you, love? No, love, no!

Now in Aura's blooming form,

Charms once yours mine eyes discover;

Since my soul they still can warm,

Wherefore call me faithless lover?

What you were, and she is now,

Still obtains my fervent vow.