(One of a race, that from the face Of earth is fleeting fast;

One of a race, of whom the trace

Is mingling with the past.

One of a race, of free, brave men,
Whose course is almost run;

Who have swiftly past, on destruction's blast,
Towards the setting sun.)

The word was given-the anchor fell
With a harsh and grating sound;
Startling the deer in each lonely dell,
And the sleeping echoes around.

"Hoist out the boat!"-she was soon afloat(Some were stowing the sails meanwhile) And the first rough band, from old "father-land," Pulled on to Manhatta's isle.

They landed and walk'd and wander'd about,

To see what they mote see;

Huge lumps of prose (you may well suppose)

In that maze of poetry.

And aye they marvell'd and talk'd and swore,

As over the scene they hover'd;

And doubtless they would have smoked their pipes, Had tobacco been then discover'd.

Then soon they planned, with ruthless hand,(Small care for Nature had they,)—

With ruthless hand, to despoil the land,

And seize it for their prey.

To fell the trees, waving light in the breeze,

To uproot the delicate flowers;

To build dwellings of wood, of stone, and of mud,

In the sacred forest bowers.

But what was said and done-what scath was wrought,
What desolation in that western clime;

How gold, and sin, and grief, were there o'er brought,
May furnish matter for another rhyme.

Part Second.

Gone, gone, all gone! from that verdant isle,

Are the sacred forest bowers!

Gone, gone, all gone! with their radiant smile,
Are the delicate woodland flowers!

All-all is changed! where the wild deer ranged
The tall green groves among-

Where the squirrel played in the chestnut's shade,
And the bird trill'd forth its song-

There are streets and roads, and the
Of a most transcendent nation;
And on the sod where the Indian trod

Men play at civilization.*

many

abodes

On the river's banks, where the graceful ranks
Of willows droop'd silently o'er

The calm blue waves, and the lonesome caves,
And the rocks of that peaceful shore,

There are docks and slips-and boats and ships-
There's the feverish strife of men ;

A ceaseless hum, and a smell of rum

From the toper's loathly den.

*Of course no one would be so stupid as seriously to uphold the superior advantages of a savage over a civilized state of existence; but though the times are bad enough, I hope they are not so bad, that a man is required to be rational and statistical in rhyme.

And the bright young isles (fair Nature's smiles)

Are built and dwelt on, I trow;

They have christen'd them all with Christian names—

One is "Gibbet Island" now!

When morning gleams, the bright sun now beams

On a region of smoke and steam;

And he rubs his eyes, and vainly tries
To think that he still may dream.

And holy Silence has fled the spot-
Has fled to the far, far west;

For the rout by day, and the drunkard's fray
Through the night-hours broke her rest.

And is this the work of that uncouth band
Who landed here of yore?

Of that uncouth band, from old "father-land,”
Who first profaned this shore ?

No! here we may trace a more restless race,
A race that will very soon

Take shares in the plan of some sapient man
To macadamize the moon.

Little did they, these good Dutch folks,

These drowsy-headed men!

Little did they but smoke and sleep-*

And their babes were as one to ten

To those of the sharp, keen-witted tribe,

Down to the eastward" bred;

Who "push'd from their stools" the quiet Dutch owls,

And sate themselves down instead.

* Note by printer's devil.

Of their love of smoke, and their love of sleep,
Neither "time nor tide" observing ;

And their love of liquor-vide the Knicker

Bocker of Washington Irving. (First attempt.)

Sad havoc have they with nature made,

And as little they care therefor,

And they'll still "improve," while a single shrub Remains on that business shore.

Let them do what they will, 'twill be lovely still,
That ever-glorious Bay!

There are features of lofty beauty there,
That disdain man's petty sway.

Go-in the gorgeous autumn time,
As the sun sinks from the sight;
And the Weehawken woods are bathed in floods
Of his glorious, solemn light;-

And the sparkling Bay, 'neath his fading ray,

Is one sheet of rolling fire;

And the thousand hues of the piled up clouds
Brighten, ere they expire.

And the tremulous ray of the flickering day
Falls on leaf and on grassy sod ;-

And you'll gaze on a scene of the glory and power
And majesty of God!

A COUNTRY RAMBLE.

BY WILLIAM COX.

Nature never did betray

The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege
Through all the years of this our life, to lead
From joy to joy; for she can so inform
The mind that is within us, so impress
With quietness and beauty, and so feed

With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,
Rash judgments. nor the sneers of selfish men,
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all
The dreary intercourse of daily life,
Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb
Our cheerful faith that all which we behold
Is full of blessings.- Wordsworth.

AH, Nature!-young, fresh, blooming, beautiful Nature! how pleasant art thou to the eye of the smoke-dried denizen of the populous city! How grateful is thy balmy breath to his senses-how beneficial to his lungs! We may herd together amid brick and mortar, and enmesh ourselves in the cares and struggles of life;—we may swarm in theatres, we may congregate in club-rooms, where hot punch and hotter politics, and multitudinous segars impregnate the whole air with caloric; we may study the crafts of commerce and the tricks of trade; we may become knowing fellows, and sneer at "innocent ruralities;" we may do all this and more, until we come to think slightingly and disres