Soup, turkey, beef, by turns were serv'd, Mein Herr declin'd each one: Fowls, turtle, sauce, they follow'd next, Von Schlemmer tasted none.

His host at length, by kindness urged, Press'd him to taste some duck: "Ach nein!" with groans Von Schlemmer said, "I vait for de POT LUCK."

--QUIZ.

_Select Reviews_, I-71, Jan. 1809, Phila.

On singing to a piano with a friend, the pathetic ballad of Mozart's "Vergiss me nicht,"[46] a few days previous to quitting my native country.

"Forget me not," nor yet the song, Its plaintive notes our tears beguiling, The fatal words died on my tongue, And as you touch'd the trembling keys along, Through lucid gems I saw you sadly smiling.

"Forget me not," ah! song of wo!

For never more our joys uniting, With Sorrow's sigh no more to glow; No more shall Pity's tear together flow, Our love, our hopes, our joys forever blighting.

"Forget me not," oh! ever dear, Let thrilling mem'ry o'er my fancy stealing, As next you sing "Forget me not," a tear Shall gently fall, my beating heart to cheer; I'll never thee forget while I have life and feeling.

Julia Francesca.

_Port Folio_, VII (n. s. I)-272, Mar. 1809, Phila.

[Footnote 46: The German of "Forget me not."]

THE SOLDIER OF THE ALPS.

In the vallies yet lingered the shadows of night, Though red on the glaciers the morning sun shone, When our moss-covered church-tower first broke on my sight, As I cross'd the vast oak o'er the cataract thrown.

For beyond that old church-tower, embosomed in pines, Was the spot which contained all the bliss of my life, Near yon grey granite rock, where the red ash reclines, Stood the cottage where dwelt my loved children and wife.

Long since did the blasts of the war-trumpet cease, The drum slept in silence, the colours were furled, Serene over France rose the day-star of Peace, And the beams of its splendour gave light to the world.

When near to the land of my fathers I drew, And the drawn light her features of grandeur unveiled, As I caught the first glimpse of her ice-mountains blue, Our old native Alps with what rapture I hailed.

"Oh! soon, I exclaimed, will those mountains be pa.s.sed, And soon shall I stop at my own cottage door, There my children's caresses will greet me at last, And the arms of my wife will enfold me once more.

"While the fulness of joy leaves me powerless to speak, Emotions which language can never define, When her sweet tears of transport drop warm on my cheek, And I feel her fond heart beat once more against mine.

"Then my boy, when our tumults of rapture subside, Will anxiously ask how our soldiers have sped, Will flourish my bay'net with infantile pride, And exultingly place my plumed cap on his head.

"Then my sweet girl will boast how her chamois has grown; And make him repeat all his antics with glee, Then she'll haste to the vine that she claims as her own, And fondly select its ripe cl.u.s.ters for me.

"And when round our fire we a.s.semble at night, With what interest they'll list to my tale of the war, How our shining arms gleamed on St. Bernard's vast height, While the clouds in white billows rolled under us far.

"Then I'll tell how the legions of Austria we braved, How we fought on Marengo's victorious day, When the colours of conquest dejectedly wave Where streamed the last blood of the gallant Dessaix."

'Twas thus in fond fancy my bosom beat light As I crossed the rude bridge where the wild waters roll, When each well-known scene crowded fast on my sight, And Hope's glowing visions came warm to my soul.

Through the pine-grove I hastened with footsteps of air Already my lov'd ones I felt in embrace, When I came--of my cot not a vestige was there-- But a hilloc of snow was heap'd high in its place.

The heart-rending story too soon did I hear-- An avalanche, loosed from the near mountain's side, Our cottage o'erwhelmed in its thundering career, And beneath it my wife and my children had died.

--IMOGEN.

_Port Folio_, VII (n. s. I)-350, Apr. 1809, Phila.

BATTLE OF HOHENLINDEN.

By THOMAS CAMPBELL, Esq.

_Visitor_, I-47, Apr. 22, 1809, Richmond.

[Also in _Weekly Inspector_, II-272, June 20, 1807, N. Y.]

COW BOY'S CHAUNT.

Sweet, regretted, native sh.o.r.e; Shall I e'er behold thee more, And all the objects of my love: Thy streams so clear, Thy hills so dear, The mountain's brow, And cots below, Where once my feet were wont to rove?

There with Isabella fair, Light of foot, and free from care, Shall I to the tabor bound?

Or at eve, beneath the dale, Whisper soft my artless tale, And blissful tread on fairy ground?

Oh! when shall I behold again My lowly cot and native plain, And every object dear; My father, and my mother, My sister and my brother, And calm their anxious fear.

(European Mag.)

[The above is preceded by the music and the French words of the _Ranz des Vaches_. Cf. p. 156.]

_Visitor_, I-72, June 3, 1809, Richmond.

THE SONG OF THE SWISS, IN A STRANGE LAND.

_Gleaner_, I-471, June 1809, Lancaster (Penn.).

[Also in _Emerald_, n. s., I-624, Oct. 15, 1808, Boston.]

CHARLOTTE AT THE TOMB OF WERTER.

With sorrow of heart I draw near, The tomb where my Werter's at rest, Soft pity oh, give me a tear I will lighten the woes of my breast.

Sleep on thou dear shade, rest in peace, Undisturbed by the woes of my breast, For sure the soft slumber would cease If with grief you know me opprest.

The meadow, the valley, the field, Recesses that once gave delight, Alas now how changed! for they yield Nothing gayful or joyous to sight.

On the terrace I often remain, And the loss of my Werter deplore, While by the pale moon I complain, Her beams, his loved image restore.