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[Illustration]

_CASTALIAN FOUNT._

AMERICAN POETRY.

A FRAGMENT.

_The following beautiful lines were written on the death of
a young lady in Pennsylvania, whose dissolution was
occasioned by her mistaking a poisonous mineral for the
flower of sulphur, and swallowing a spoonfull:_

THUS, o'er the tomb of what she held most dear,
The weeping muse no common sorrow pours;
No common anguish prompts the falling tear--
No common virtues those she now deplores.

Dear hapless girl, was there no saving power?
Where was your guardian angel--where your friend?
Could nought prevent the fatal destin'd hour?
Nor pitying Heaven would hear or succour lend.

Then, if nor Heaven _would_ hear--nor friends _could_ save,
Be still, my heart, nor breathe another sigh;
Drop the last tear upon her early grave,
And let it teach you--that _the best must die_.

--> _A few original favours from our poetick friends would
be very acceptable._

_Massachusetts Centinel,_ March 28, 1789.

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_From the New York Daily Advertiser._

_The Sailor Boy._

Dark flew the scud along the wave,
And echoing thunders rend the sky;
All hands aloft! to meet the storm,
At midnight was the boatswain's cry.

On deck flew every gallant tar,
But one--bereft of ev'ry joy;
Within a hammock's narrow bound,
Lay stretch'd this hapless SAILOR BOY.

Once, when the Boatswain pip'd all hands,
The first was he, of all the crew,
On deck to spring--to trim the sail--
To steer--to reef--to furl or clue.

Now fell disease had seiz'd a form
Which nature cast in finest mould;
The midwatch bell now smote his heart,
His last, his dying knell it toll'd.

"O God!" he cried, and gasp'd for breath,
"Ere yet my soul shall cleave the skies,
"Are there no parents--brethren--near,
"To close, in death, my weary eyes?

"All hands aloft to brave the storm,
"I hear the wintry tempest roar;"
He rais'd his head to view the scene,
And backward fell, to rise no more.

The morning sun in splendour rose.
The gale was hush'd and still'd the wave;
The Sea-boy, far from all h