The New York Journal, And Weekly Register

POET's CORNER.

Mr. GREENLEAF,

Please to insert the following in your next Paper, and
much oblige

A YOUTH.

LAMENTATION of MASSACHUSETTS.

Like some fair widow, pensive and alone,
Poor Massachusetts told her doleful moan;
Th' sympathizing woods echoed her song,
And weeping streams her sorrows bore along;
While thus in faltering accents she exprest,
The rising sorrows of her troubled breast.

Was it for this, my sons, ye took the field,
And taught the hardy Briton's how to yield?
Are these the blessings, this the only good,
That we so dearly purchas'd with our blood?
Shall we so soon abandon freedom's cause,
And by our feuds invoke the tyrant's laws?

While I contemplate thee devouring scenes,
My blood with horror freezes in my veins;
My wounds grow sore, my constitution shakes,
Freedom's fair fabric from the center quakes.

When virtue rul'd my sons with happy sway,
No troubles could disturb that peaceful day;
Distinguish'd for my beauty did I stand
Among my sisters in this favor'd land.
Then was I happy, if my joys I'd known,
But now alas my happiness is gone:
My virgin beauty falls before this stroke,
My hopes of glory vanish like the smoke.

A bitter root is with my children found,
It's noxious vapours poison all around;
Like hydrophobia does it spread it's way,
While mobs and riots follow all the way:
They strip me of my laurel and my fame,
And turn my hope of glory into shame.

In vain do I deplore my hapless fate,
For now, alas! I fear it is too late.
The infection spread forebode a civil war,
Can any sorrow now with mine compare;
My spirits sink, my nature does decay,
A sore disease consumes my flesh away.

Can this be true. am I not in a dream?
Are things so dreadful as to me they seem?
But hark! hark! the loud sound of war alarms;
See my discordant children run to arms.
Hear the deep cannon with a thundering sound,
In three loud accents spread th' alarm around.

Th' inhabitants struck with panick fear,
Repeat the loud alarm that "Shays is near."
See, from the east, his troops appear in sight,
He presses on. defies the threat'ned fight.
Too late must he at his rash folly grieve,
Too late he learns their threat'nings to believe;
He flies. like broken clouds before the wind,
Leaves four men dead upon the field behind.

At length brave Lincoln, from the eastern land,
T'o quell the riot brings a num'rous band;
Th' Insurgents, frighted at the threatning sight,
Their baggage leave, nor wait the unequal fight.
They fly the field, the offer'd terms refuse,
While Lincoln, with his numerous host pursues.-

No more can I the shocking scene behold,
My eyes are dimmed and my flesh grows cold;
I faint beneath this mighty load of grief,
And nought but death I fear can give relief.