The New York Journal, And Daily Patriotic Register

Who sees but, feeling, must admire
The nymph with all her cruel arts
Bound on a cruise to capture hearts.
Aloft her silken streamers play,
The ensign of unbounded sway;
From her the wretched victim burns.
Yet she no love for love returns.
Young Jockey from the woods of Kent,
In chasing her a year had spent,
And own'd at last no privateer
Could ever yet compare with her.
Proud of the artillery of her eyes
She would not own so poor a prize,
But disregarding force or prayer
She struck him dumb, and left him there.
Thus hunters of their prowess boast,
Who hunting on the Spanish coast
No deer at once of them is slain
But left to languish on the plain.
When first this heav'nly form I pass'd-
She back'd her top-sails to the mast-
I saw there was no chance to fly.
At once she bade me yield or die.
Amaz'd at such a strange attack
I chang'd my course and hurried back,
But such a fatal arrow met
As pierc'd me deep, and pains me yet.
Ah, Celia, what a strange mistake
To ruin just for ruin's sake ;
Thus to delude us in distress
And quit the prize you should possess.
Years may advance with silent pace
And rob that form of every grace,
And all your conquests be repaid
With Teague O'Murphy, and his spade.
T. B.