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“ Could ye wi' my feelings sport,
WHERE THE CHILLING NORTH WINE
Where the chilling north wind howls,
Mourn’d by the weeping willow,
Wash'd by the beating billow,
* This is another very valuable little poem, for which we must do homage to the genius of America. It serves to confirm the opinion, which we have formerly stated, respecting the talents and improvement of our brethrerin that far distant land. The merits of the piece indeed, cannot but be highly appreciated by every man of taste, as well as by every lover of poetry. They are of such a nature as widely to distinguish it from the general tenor of e. legiac compositions, which, for the most part, are either begun without interest, or conducted without ability. On the contrary, we are here presented
Beneath yon little eminence,
The winding sheet his form encloses,
On the cold stone his head reposes, And near him foams the troubl'd surf.
« Roars round its base the ocean," Pensive sleeps the moon-beam there,
Naiads love to wreathe his urn,
Dryads thither hie to mourn, And fairies' wild-notes melt in air!
with the effusions of a mind glowing with all the ardour of the most genera ous feeling, assisted by the dictates of an exuberant fancy, and adorned with the embellishments of classical refinement.
Of the author of so respectable a production, we are sorry to confess our selves to be very ignorant. The only particular indeed, which we can state respecting him, is, that at the time when he composed the present poem, he had scarcely completed his fifteenth year.
Our information concerning the youth who is here so feelingly commemorated, has, however, been more satisfactory and complete. He was a Mr. George Sjirrin, a native of the state of New York in America. His father, who was by profession a clergyman, and who had discharged the duties of his office for many years in the district referred to, immediately after the birth of his son, removed with his family to South Carolina. As George was an only, and, of course, a beloved son, his father took his education solely into his own hands, and was, indeed the only instructor which he had in his juvenile studies. The attention of the father was amply rewarded by the unprecedented application, and progress of the extraordinary youth. At the age of seven, he read Cæsar's Commentaries, and before he had attair. ed his ninth year, had perused the works of Horace. From his earliest infancy, he took no delight in the sports of his playful companions, but was often known to steal, even from the most engaging Fastime, to wander with a
O'er his tomb, the village virgins
Stealing from the alleys 'round,
Soft they tread the hallow'd ground,
By the cold earth mantlid,
Cold and lifeless lies his form,
Here the child of genius slumbers,
friend, and listen to the stories of the Niad. He possessed a dignity of de meanour, and an energy of character, which commanded both the admiration and respect of all who knew him. At the early age of sixteen years and eight months, while eagerly engaged in the study of the law, and promising to have become one of the brightest ornaments to his country and profession, he fell a victim to the ravages of the yellow fever, and was in. terred in Sillivan's island, opposite the city of Charleston.
To his other endowments was added, that of a rich and happy talent for poetical composition. After his death, his poems, which form a small volume, were collected and published by his disconsolate friends. These reflect the highest honour upon his name and genius, and we are particularly in. formed, that the present piece was originally composed after reading one of them entitled “ Eliza's grave” a chaste effort of taste and sensibility.
RISE, MY LOVE, MY CELIA, RISE.
Rise, my love, my Celia, rise,
And let us taste the sweets of morn,
Crystal dew bedecks the thorn.
Sol, emerging from the main,
Shakes effulgence from his wings,
Nature smiles, and nature sings.
Down yon green embroider'd vale,
Bright with dew-with violets gay, Let us 'meet the morning gale,
Let us share the morning ray,
Beauty blooms in every flower,
Verdure smiles in every grove, Music rings in every bower,
All is beauty-all is love!
THE HEALTH I ONCE SO MUCH ENJOYD.
The health I once so much enjoy'd
Is gone,--for ever gone;
That once so brightly shone.
The hectic flush that mantles o'er
This cheek of living clay,
Can hope itself betray.
Then twine for me no flowery wreath,
To bind my flowing hair,
Will mock thy every care.
By me the love that thou hast shown
Can never be repaid,
When I am lowly laid.