Norfolk Gazette And Publick Ledger

The following eminently beautiful and pathetick lines we copy from the (N. Y.) American Citizen. From the style and signature we presume they are from the pen of a fair poetess whose elegant numbers have heretofore frequently ornamented the columns of the Morning Chronicle, a paper under the immediate patronage of Burr.

Gaz. U. S.

THE GRAVE OF HAMILTON.

Soft beams thy rays, fair daughter of the skies,
With rich profusion gilding o'er this scene
Of deep repose and death: each vagrant breeze
Lies hush'd within its cell, in seeming fear
The solemn calm of nature should be broken--
Save when a solitary zephyr's sound,
Sighing in mournful cadence through the trees,
Seems like a parted spirit's whisp'ring voice
Which tells of woe to come--

A chilly horrour rushes through my frame,
As o'er this sad, sepulchral scene I tread,
With slow and winding step--lest on some grave
Haste might impel my feet--nor you, ye wise,
Smile at the superstition fond, which deems
The act unholy, and a sacrilege
To nature's laws--oh, rather join, and pay
The rev'rence due to nature's sad remains.

This is the spot my wand'ring feet have sought,
The last receptacle of him, who once
Was great and good--alas! how far beyond
The reach of common nature's--his it was
To blend each nobler quality which forms
The soldier, statesman, and endearing friend
In happy union--his the feeling heart
Which to the tender charities of life,
Beat in kind unison--the electrick power
Of genius was his own, in such degree
That all stood mute before him--awful lesson
To man's fond vanity--that HAMILTON,
Whose wisdom, goodness, valour, were almost
Beyond all parallel, has bow'd beneath
Death's iron sceptre, and but late entomb'd.

That eye, whose light'ning spoke the soul within,
Those lips, whose sounds in pleasing fetters held
Each ear attentive, moulder in the dust.
Bright dart the moon-beams o'er his lowly grave,
And by their silv'ry light, methinks I read
A name to him allied, his eldest hope:
Heart piercing sight! here, side by side arrang'd,
Father and Son lie wrapt in long repose!
Alike untimely fallen, victims alike
To honour--tyrant of the feeling heart.

O hapless mother! widow'd wife! what words
Can paint thine anguish? Scarce the streaming tears
Which deep maternal sorrow taught to flow,
Were dry'd from thy pale cheek, when this rude blow
Struck at the beam of peace that still remain'd,
And tore it from thy breast. May each blest power,
Kind guardians of the good, with constant care
Support thy grief-worn heart; and resignation
Upon thy bosom shed her healing dew..

For him, who lies, this sacred dust beneath,
Vain is our deep regret--a nation's tears--
A nation's prayers could not avail, to add
One moment to his life--Yet, to ourselves,
A soothing, melancholy, pleasure springs
From ev'ry tribute rendered to his worth:
How justly all must know--Fond memory still
Delights to trace the youthful warriour's steps
From field to field, but chiefly loves to dwell
On southern plains, where York extends her bounds:
Where, to the desp'rate charge, his troops he led,
Then on the vanquish'd foe benignly smiled.

Sure angels, from their bright abodes, look'd down
And blest a victory worthy of a hero.
Unmark'd with blood's contaminating stain,
Valour and mercy, for his youthful brow,
A laurel crown entwin'd with fairest flowers
Perennial intermix'd--still shall it bloom,
Though "cold and motionless" the hand that won it,
And to remotest ages gives its sweets.

But why recount his deeds in war or peace,
O'er all Columbia's wide extended shores
His name long since was heard, who did not know;
In worth and valour few were found his equals--
In genius none--Then be his well earn'd fame
Confided to a grateful people's care.

CLARA.