There glittering towns and villages extend,
There floating granaries in fleets descend,

There ploughmen chant, and mowers sweep the soil,
And taverns shine, and rosy damsels smile;

Thanks to the brave, who through these forests bore
Columbia's vengeance on the sons of gore;

Who drove them howling through th' affrighted waste,
Till British regions sheltered them at last.
Here, on the heights, where, suddenly array'd,
These hordes their last despairing effort made,

Where still the mouldering breastwork meets the view,
From whose defence as suddenly they flew,‡
Here, on th' approach of night, we lodgings found,
And buried all our toils in sleep profound.
(To be continued.)

FOR THE PORT FOLIO.

Tribute to the memory of Anna Smedes.

Where twilight's sad and ling'ring ray,
With faint flush tints yon shad'wy hill;
The gravestone marks the tear-dew'd clay,
O'er which Affection muses still.

Enshrin'd within its bosom cold,
The corse of buried Anna lies;
Ne'er did sepulchral shroud infold,
A lovelier form, a fairer prize.

In this expedition against the hostile Indians, which was committed to the management of general Sullivan, and crowned with the most complete success, the only stand made by the savages was at this place, August 29th, 1799. After a short skirmish they were driven from this their last hold, and pursued beyond the Gennesee river. Forty of their towns, and upwards of one hundred and sixty thousand bushels of Indian corn were destroyed. The remnant of the tribes took refuge in Canada; and thus an immense extent of the most fertile country of the United States was laid open to the enterprise of our active and industrious settlers. The white population of these parts of the State of New-York, settled since, may be fairly estimated at three times the number of all the Indians within five hundred miles of the place.

FOR THE PORT FOLIO.

To Miss

TOUCH not again thy sacred lyre,

Forbear that melting hallow'd strain; "Twill reillume my bosom's fire,

"Twill wake my heart to feel again:

That heart which once, with youthful glow,
Felt all that love could ever know.

"Tis when Cynthia's rising beam,
Sheds on lake or rippling stream
Her silver gleams,

When some pale lover, wand'ring far,
Seeks the bright Hesperian star,
In fancy's dreams:

'Tis when the rais'd romantic mind, To peace, to love, to heaven resigned, Loves to repair

To some wild fragrant myrtle cove,
And there in contemplation rove
Released from care.

'Tis when the fairy orb, serenc, Divinely blends each rural scene Of hill and dale,

When by the heav'nly visioned light, From perfum'd spray, the bird of night Descants his tale.

'Tis when the grief-worn pilgrim hies To commune with his kindred skies To seek relief

In pious pray'r and fancy tells
That there the form regretted dwells,
Releas'd from grief.

'Tis when the sentient, wounded heart, Pierced by Slander's keenest dart, O'erwhelmed with woes,

Flies from the busy haunts of men,
Eager t' escape their vulgar ken,
And seek repose.

'Tis that blest hour when lovers stray To taste those joys that shun the day, Congenial hour,

When timid maids their lovers bless, When by this light they first confess Love's gentle power.

"Tis when the poet, Passion's child, In Fancy's world now wanders wild,

With soul on fire,

The strain of epic praise prolongs,
Or tunes to melancholy songs
His pensive lyre.

'Tis when, as fabled poets say,
The woodland fairies, sylph or fay,
Weave their light dance,

And revel all the live-long night,

But vanish at the earliest light
Of morning's glance.

'Tis when, as Superstition says,

The soul departed oft betrays
Some secret crime,

Holds converse with its mutual heart,

Or leaves Elysium to impart

Some truth sublime.

Oh, still I love thy tranquil light,
Nor noontide sun, nor morning bright,
With thee compare,

For e'en when sorrow swells my breast,

Thy beams can sooth my soul to rest,
Sweet orb! most fair.

FOR THE PORT FOLIO.

EPIGRAM.

Written in a volume of Pratt's Gleanings.

TROTH, master Pratt, I've toil'd, in vain,

Through these same "Gleanings" more than half;

And quit them:-for there's little grain,

But, zooks! a nation deal of chaff.