Gazette Of The United States And Daily Evening Advertiser

From a Boston Paper.

THE Star, that paves the blue serene,
Or sparkles on the brow of even,
Courts from the Sun that lucid mien,
Which gems the glittering mine of heaven.

The Breeze, that spreads its canvas-wing,
Perfumes the breath of gentle air
From rich bouquets, which jocund spring
Selects from Nature's gay parterre

Thus too, Philenia, muse supreme,
Whose clear, reflecting pages shine,
Like the translucent chrystal stream,
The Mirror of a soul Divine :

Thus, from thy lyre Menander's ear
The song-inspir'd vibration caught;
Thus, from thy hand, his temples wear
A wreath, which thou alone hast wrought.

To thee his muse aspir'd with pride,
And seal'd her carrol with thy name,
Whose sigmet gave, what heaven deni-ed
A passport at the door of Fame.

True Merit shines with native light,
Obscurely shades ne'er cloud its blaze;
For, diamond-like, it gilds the night,
And dazzles with unborrow'd rays.

Hence, with a zeal of equal flame,
The World has with Philenia vied,
While admiration wing'd her fame,
And modest merit blush'd to hide.

But, ah, thy lavish praise forbear!
T were madness to believe it due;
For none, but Nature's fondest care,
Deserves a glance of Fame from you.

To me no charms of verse belong ;
The tints of'every " Clasie" grace
Mild Contemplation, muse of song,
Beam'd from thy muse-illuinin'd face

When thy " lorn Pathos" fills the gale
Wild Fancy learns of Truth to weep,
Romance forgets her tragic tale,
And Werter lulls his griefs to sleep.

Serene, amid the burting storm,
You check the phrenzied passion's scope,
And, radiant as an angel form;
Smile on the death-chary'd urn of hope.

Thy magic tears leave slander mute,
They melt the stoic heart of snow:
And every "Willow," on thy " Lute,"
Has prov'd a laurel for thy brow.

MENANDER.