The Hillsborough Recorder

From Poulson's American Daily Advertiser

The mind, the mind, that living thing,
All knowing, yet unknown,
A brilliant yet undying flame,
Lit at the Eternal throne;
Freely it roves through earth and air,
wafted on tireless wings.
Bounded by nought save this alone,
Its own imaginings
Without it man's a bark,
O'er the dark ocean driven;
Tossed on each heavy billow's breast,
By every tempest riven.
Through this we search the stormy deep,
The starry worlds on high;
We tear the jewels from the sea
The lightnings from the sky
When o'er the trackless waves of time,
In solitude we roam
This is the Pilot we entrust
To guide us to our home.
It floats on Zephyr's balmy sigh
And breathes on beauty's form;
It gleams on every sunset cloud,
And thunders in the storm.
Where Fame's proud temple shines afar,
O'er slavery's rugged steep,
It points the way o'er rocks and shoals,
Like loadstone on the deep.
And when the storms of life are o'er,
And all its scenes shall fly.
'Tis given forever
And wide gleaming a star amid eternity.

Passaic J. 31-35
J.H.L.