from the day,
Lest thy snows should melt away.

But one charm remains behind,
Which mute earth can ne'er impart;
Nor in ocean wilt thou find,
Nor in the circling air, a heart.
Fairest! wouldst thou perfect be,
Take, oh take that heart from me.

All his offerings to the _Port Folio_ were signed "Ithacus." His poems
were collected and published in 1810, together with a memoir and
extracts from his foreign correspondence.

FRANCIS COPE contributed essays to the _Port Folio_ in 1812. He was an
occasional writer for several years, signing his papers with the
initials "C. F."

ROBERT H. ROSE is the author of the "Sketches in Verse," published in
1810, nearly all of which had previously appeared in the _Port Folio_,
where the "Sketches" were termed "a kind of chalk drawings." One of
them, "To a Market Street Gutter," was a parody of the "Ode to the
Raritan," and was the cause of John Davis writing the "Pursuits of
Philadelphia Literature".[14]

[14] There is no mention of Robert Rose in Duyckinck, or Allibone, in
Appleton's Encyclopaedia of American Biography, or in the admirable
Stedman-Hutchinson Library of American Literature.

The _Port Folio_ of May, 1816 (page 361), has a frontispiece engraving
of "Silver Lake," the seat of Robert Rose, in Susquehanna County, on the
New York line.

ODE TO A MARKET STREET GUTTER.

_A Specimen of Local Description._

O sweetest Gutter! though a clown,
I love to see thee running down;
Or mark thee stop awhile, then free
From ice, jog on again, like me;
Or like the lasses whom I meet,
Who, sauntering, stray along the street,
As if they had nowhere to go!
At times, so rapid is thy flow,
That did the cits not wish in vain
Thou wouldst be in the pumps again,
But like a pig, whose fates deny
To find again his wonted sty,
You turn, and stop, and run, and turn,
Yet ne'er shall find your "native urn."
How oft has rolled down thy stream
Things which in song not well would seem,
Ere scavengers their scrapers plied
To drag manure from out thy tide,
Or hydrants bade thy scanty rill
Desert its banks and cellars fill.
Last Thursday morn, so very cold,
A morn _not_ better felt than told,
Then first in all its bright array,
Did I thy "frozen form" survey;
And, goodness! what a great big steeple!
What sights of houses! and such people!!
And then I thought, did I not stutter,
But verse could, l