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Character of the American General GREENE,

Major WILLIAM PIERCE, of Georgia.

WHO can forbear to express their sorrow for that great and illustrious character, Major-gener ral GREENE? Who is there that could boast his acquaintance, but must lament that those great and amiable qualities with which he was endued, should sleep in dumb forgetfulness ? On whom should a grateful country more liberally bestow her praises, than on a man who contributed to her freedom and peace? The memory of such a man ought to be treasured in our hearts. Formed for the duties of public, life, he discharged the great trusts reposed in him with fidelity and honour. Splendid as a soldier, he figured through the revolution as one of the most distinguished of our generals; his military achievements formed a bright track in the annals of his country, that marks his career from the blockade of Boston to the battle of the Eutaws. With a mind that teemed with resources, he had always the means of surmounting difficulties; in every situation of danger he had the address to meet it to advantage ; and, when pressed by necessity or duty in action, he “ taught the




doubtful battle where to tage,” with an equanimity of mind, and a steadiness of soul, that defied its terrors. The Southern States hailed him as their deliverer, and received him as the best friend of their oppressed country. He valued the rights of mankind, founded on rational principles; he knew them well, and respected those privileges that secured their civil happiness. A fortunate experience, and a well-directed intercourse with the world, had corrected his judgment, and fitted him for all the purposes of society. He was gentle, free, and correct in his manners, and was benevolent and friendly in his nature : objects of magnitude engaged his attention, but he could at all times unbend to social purposes. In private Tife he was as much esteemed as he was respected in his public station. When that awful stroke was given which numbered him with the dead, the sons and daughters of America wept over his bier. Cut off, as it were, in the bloom of life, with the most pleasing prospect of domestic felicity before him, his fall was every where lamented—his loss every where regretted! Dear departed Greene, over thy relics shall sorrow. ing Friendship mourn !-at'thy tomb shall Liberty and Virtue weep!

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THADDEUS Ruddy was the last of the Irish bards :this was uttered with a sigh, and I now record it with a tear. He was born near Lake Clean, the fountain of the Shannon, in the county of Leitrim,' in 1623. I was told at first, that he could scarcely read his own language (Irish), nor even speak English ; but on farther inquiry, I learnt that he had studied his mother tongue grammatically, and that towards the latter end of his life he could read a little English, but could not be prevailed on even to attempt to speak it. He was descended of a good family, but, to use his own expression, he first saw the light through the chinks of a ruined house, that once flourished in peace and plenty.

The following passage is taken from the introduction to one of his poems, called “ The Spring and Summer of Life.”

“ The sixteenth Lent had scarce passed over my head, when the best of mothers was called to receive the reward that is promised to the pious. Death did not long separate those whom early love had united: my father soon followed, and they now sleep in one grave together, which is a great consolation to me. I was glad to hire

myo self out to a farmer in the neighbourhood, in



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whom I found an indulgent father. In this situ

. ation the muse used to visit me, as it were, by stealth, for I was ashamed and afraid to acknowledge, that a ploughman should dare to approach the fountain of Aganippe ; but it was love that first led me to it."

I could collect little more of his life than what I have just transcribed. Bridget Brady, it seems, was the object of his fruitless passion; she was the daughter of a purse-proud miller, ; almost all the young women could repeat a number of the verses that he poured forth in praise of this inexorable beauty. I have attempted the translation of a few, in which I have endeavoured to preserve the local comparisons. : 1

Bridget Brady. She's as straight as a pine on the mountains of Kilman

nan, She's as fair as the lilies on the banks of the Shannon ; Her breath is as sweet as the blossoms of Drumcallan, And her breast gently 'swells like the waves of lake


eyes are as mild as the dews of Dunsany'; Her veins are as pure as the blue-bells of Slaney ; Her words are as smooth as the pebbles of Terwinny, And her hair flows adown like the streamlets of Finny.


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I won't compare you to the spring,

Nor summer, yet in golden hue;
Nor morning clouds, on milkwhite wing,

Nor noontide clouds of heav'nly blue;
Nor winter yet, of stars untold,

That sparkle in her snowy vest ;
Yet, when I feel the piercing cold,

'T is not so cold as Bridget's breast.
Then I'll compare you to the snow,

And cold that binds the headlong flood;
Yet, when the sun begins to glow-

Oh, may the simile hold good!

Fair Bridget, listen to my strain,

Though you should even slight it;
I know the power of verse is vain,

Though love should e'en indite it.

If you should turn your ear aside,

And flout my faithful numbers,
Remember, vengeance waits on pride,

And vengeance only slumbers,
Remember, beauty will decay,

At best a short-liv'd flower ;
And when it fades and dies away,

Then, Bridget, where's your power ?


To these I shall beg leave to add the following

The Life a Lover leads.
PLEASING hopes and chilling fears,
Words embalm'd in true-love tears;


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