Part 7

1817 1818 1819 Total. ---- ---- ---- ------ Charleston, 25 20 14 59 Philadelphia, 9 3 3 15 New York, 3 5 4 12 Baltimore, 2 3 2 7 Boston, 1 0 1 2 -- -- -- -- 15 11 10 36 -- -- -- -- Excess in Charleston, } above the whole number } 10 9 4 23 in the four cities. }

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Christenings and burials in London last year--Christened 12,574 males, and 11,726 females--total 24,300.

Buried 9,671 males and 9,557 females--total 19,228. Being a decrease of 477 burials from the preceding year.

FOR THE RURAL MAGAZINE.

The following trifle was published in one of the earlier numbers of the Port Folio, when that work was edited by the late JOS. DENNIE; but the author would be gratified, by seeing it transplanted into the columns of the _Rural Magazine_.

THE ASPEN TREE.

Lines written on seeing an Aspen tree, which the venerable owner had determined to fell; but observing the initials of the name of a much lamented son incised on the bark, he resolved to protect it from every assailant.

Hail! fortunate tree, which has weather'd the blast, And 'scaped the blind fury of woodchopper's arm, Thy bark was inscribed in times which are past, And the favourite letters protect thee from harm:

For to the fond breast of a father they bring, The image how dear! of a promising youth; Whose bosom was warm as the noon-tide of spring, Whose conduct dictated by virtue and truth:

But alas! when the summons to sleep with the dead, Is signed by the merciless fingers of death, Nor virtue, nor truth can its influence shed, To detain for a moment the fast ebbing breath.

His soul from its cerement compelled to depart, Winged its way to the regions of bliss and repose, And left a loved parent in sorrow of heart, To think on his loss, and to tell o'er his woes:

But though the fond form to his eye may be lost, Yet shall dear _mementos_ recall it to mind; And the tree which by tempest and storm has been tost, Shall with tremulous motion still wave in the wind. E.

FOR THE R. MAGAZINE.

SONG OF GRATITUDE.

Who bade to light the morning skies, The glorious orb of day to rise?-- Who first the waves of ocean curl'd, And roll'd its waters round the world?-- Who bade the soil the harvest yield And deck'd the flow'rets of the field-- From Chaos this terrestrial ball Call'd into life?----The GOD of all. HE, within whose almighty hands Humility supported stands, Who with his _own_ bestow'd _our_ breath And saved us from eternal death.

To him then let us joyous raise The song of gratitude and praise, And bless him, that his bounties flow, In endless streams to all below; And that his boundless grace has given, To man--a final rest in heaven. A.

THE HAMLET,

AN ODE BY THOMAS WARTON.

The hinds how blest who ne'er beguil'd, To quit their hamlet's hawthorn wild; Nor haunt the crowd, nor tempt the main, For splendid care, and guilty gain!

When morning's twilight tinctur'd beam Strikes their low thatch with slanting gleam, They rove abroad in ether blue, To dip the scythe in fragrant dew; The sheaf to bind, the beech to fell, That nodding shades a craggy dell.

'Midst gloomy glades, in warbles clear, Wild nature's sweetest notes they hear: On green untrodden banks they view The hyacinth's neglected hue: In their lone haunts, and woodland rounds, They spy the squirrel's airy bounds: And startle from her ashen spray, Across the glen, the screaming jay: Each native charm their steps explore Of Solitude's sequester'd store.

For them the moon with cloudless ray Mounts, to illume their homeward way. Their weary spirits to relieve The meadows, incense breathe at eve. No riot mars the simple fare, That o'er a glimmering hearth they share: But when the curfeu's measur'd roar Duly, the darkening vallies o'er, Has echoed from the distant town, They wish no beds of cygnet down, No trophied canopies, to close Their drooping eyes in quick repose.

Their little sons, who spread the bloom Of health around the clay-built room, Or through the primrose coppice stray, Or gambol in the new-mown hay; Or quaintly braid the cowslip-twine, Or drive afield the tardy kine; Or hasten from the sultry hill, To loitre at the shady rill; Or climb the tall pine's gloomy crest, To rob the raven's ancient nest.

Their humble porch with honey'd flow'rs, The curling woodbine's shade embow'rs: From the small garden's thymy mound, Their bees in busy swarms resound; Nor fell Disease, before his time, Hastes to consume life's golden prime; But when their temples long have wore The silvan crown of tresses hoar; As studious still calm peace to keep, Beneath a flowery turf they sleep.

VERSES WRITTEN AFTER SEEING WINDSOR CASTLE.

BY THOMAS WARTON THE ELDER.

From beaut'ous Windsor's high and storied halls, Where Edward's chiefs start from the glowing walls, To my low cot, from ivory beds of state, Pleas'd I return, unenvious of the great. So the bee ranges o'er the vary'd scenes Of corn, of heaths, of fallows, and of greens; Pervade the thicket, soars above the hill, Or murmurs to the meadow's murmuring rill; Now haunts old hollow'd oaks, deserted cells, Now seeks the low vale-lily's silver bells; Sips the warm fragrance of the green-house bowers, And tastes the myrtle and the citron flowers; At length returning to the wonted comb, Prefers to all his little straw-built home.

FINLAND SONG.

Addressed by a mother to her child.

BY DR. LEYDEN.

Sweet bird of the meadow, oh! soft be thy rest, Thy mother will wake thee at morn from thy nest; She has made a soft nest, little red-breast for thee, Of the leaves of the birch, and the moss of the tree. Then soothe thee, sweet bird of my bosom, once more, 'Tis Sleep, little infant, that stands at the door. "Where is the sweet babe?" you may hear how he cries, "Where is the sweet babe?" in his cradle that lies; "In his cradle, soft swaddled in vestments of down, "'Tis mine to watch o'er him till darkness be flown."

QUIET MIND.

"My mind to me a kingdom is, Such perfect joy therein I find, As far exceeds all earthly bliss, That God or nature hath assign'd: Though much I want, that most would have, Yet still my mind forbids to crave.

"Content to live, this is my stay; I seek no more than may suffice: I press to bear no haughty sway, Look, what I lack, _my mind supplies_. Lo! thus I triumph like a king, Content with what my mind doth bring.

"I see how plenty surfeits oft, And hasty climbers soonest fall, I see that such as sit aloft, Mishap doth threaten most of all: These get with toil, and keep with fear, Such cares my mind could never bear.

"No princely pomp, nor wealthy store, No force to win a victory, No wily wit to salve a sore, No shape to win a lover's eye. To none of these I yield as thrall, For why? my mind despiseth all.

"Some have too much, yet still they crave; I little have, yet seek no more, They are but poor, though much they have, And I am rich with little store: They poor, I rich; they beg, I give, They lack, I lend; they pine, I live.

"I laugh not at another's loss, I grudge not at another's gain; No worldly wave my mind can toss, I brook what is another's bane; I fear no foe, nor fawn no friend, I loathe not life, nor dread its end.

"My wealth is health--and perfect ease, My conscience clear, my chief defence: I never seek by bribes to please, Nor by desert to give offence; Thus do I live, thus will I die, Would all did so, as well as I.

"I take no joy in earthly bliss, I weigh not Crœsus' wealth a straw; For care, I care not what it is, I fear not Fortune's fatal law. My mind is such as may not move, For beauty bright, or force of love.

"I wish but what I have at will, I wander not, to seek for more; I like the plain, I climb no hill, In greatest storms, I sit on shore; And laugh at them who toil in vain, To get what must be lost again.

"I kiss not where I wish to kill, I feign not love where most I hate, I break no sleep to win my will, I wait not at the miser's gate. I scorn no poor, I fear no rich, I feel no want, nor have too much.

"The court nor camp I like, nor loathe, Extremes are counted worst of all, The golden mean between them both, Doth surest sit, and fears no fall. This is my choice; for why? I find, _No wealth is like a quiet mind_."

MOONLIGHT AND CALM AT SEA.

When every breeze is hush'd to rest, And the soft zephyr of the dappled west Its voice does lose; When Dian's silver light does sleep, O'er the smooth bosom of the deep, How sweet to muse!

When ocean's swelling bosom bright, Seems studded o'er with golden light, Of many a star; And the wild sea fowls' harsh shrill strain Echoing along th' unruffled main Is heard afar;

'Tis then each rising care does sleep With the soft stillness of the deep, In sympathetic power. 'Tis then each swelling pulse does thrill, And sweetest bliss the heart does fill, In such an hour.

The soul too fond is soothed to rest; By mild serenity possess'd, Nor thinks the storm is nigh; But soon the placid scene is o'er, And swelling ocean round does roar, Contesting with the sky.

'Tis thus on life's deceitful tide, With placid course we seem to glide, All free from care; But soon the too delusive charm, Flies fast away with every calm, And prospect fair!

Then happy they, who list'ning hear, The voice that speaks the tempest near. And arms for every ill; The whirlwind blast is then disarmed, Of many a shaft that would have harm'd And half the storm is still.

GO, IDLE LAYS!

In imitation of Waller's "Go, lovely Rose!"

Go, idle lays! Tell her whose youthful heart beats high To future days That now so fair in prospect lie, How soon our dearest transports die. Tell her whose cheek The blush of conscious pleasure wears, That they who seek To find delights unmix'd with cares Shall own the fond deceit in tears. Say that while charms Which Hebe's transient presence lends The bosom warms, Time's envious breath the canker sends That youth's enchanting season ends. To her whom health With ruddy blushes high illumes, Say that by stealth Disease to pallid wrinkles dooms, The cheek that now so sweetly blooms. Tell her whose form The partial hand of Beauty gave, That from the worm Kind Pity's touch shall never save The charms that moulder in the grave! Go, idle lays! Tell her whose youthful heart beats high To future days That now so fair in prospect lie, How soon our dearest transports die! Then softly say That, when terrestrial joys and pains Shall melt away, The soul, absolv'd from sensual stains, Shall soar where bliss immortal re'gns! _Port Folio._

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Mrs. Morris, the lady of major Morris, who lately descended in the diving-bell, at Plymouth, whilst under water, wrote a long letter to her father, which concluded with the following lines:--

From a _belle_, my dear father you've oft had a line. But not from a _bell_ under water; Just now I can only assure you I am thine-- Your _diving_ affectionate daughter.

TO CORRESPONDENTS.

Of the few essays refused admittance in the _Rural Magazine_, we regret most, the necessity we apprehend ourselves under of declining to insert the one on Politics by Lucius. The ability with which it was written, was not sufficient to overcome our objection to the subject.--We invite him heartily, as we have heretofore personally done, to our _Evening Fire Side_, when he may be disposed to amuse or instruct our company on any suitable subject.

Our other friends, who know they are welcome, we hope will not require a monthly invitation.

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PHILADELPHIA, PUBLISHED MONTHLY BY RICHARDS & CALEB JOHNSON,

_No. 31, Market Street_,

At $3.00 per annum.

GRIGGS & DICKINSON--_Printers, Whitehall_.

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES

Silently corrected simple spelling, grammar, and typographical errors.

Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed.

Enclosed italics markup in _underscores_.