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THOU Ocean Bay!

Though now with sails unfurl'd,
Collecting from the mighty deep,
Over thy curling waters sweep
The fleets of half the world;
There was a day,

Nor distant far the time,

When in thy solitude sublime,

Save light canoe by artless savage plied,
No sail was ever seen to skim thy billowy tide.

Bright Chesapeake

Though now thy shores are crown'd
With grassy lawns and fields of grain,
That smile and cheer the laboring swain,
And songs go blithely round,

That wall bespeak

How pleasant joys may flow;
Yet two short centuries ago

No human voice was here, save savage yell,

And dark upon thy wave the forest shadows fell,

Mother of waters

Thy noble streams did glide

Beneath a woody canopy,

Through countless years; and bright and free,

And lovely by thy side,

As beauteous daughters,

They lift their voice on high,

And clap their hands as they go by

Proud Baltimore's rich monuments and domes,

Columbia's palace-halls, and Richmond's patriot homes.



SEBA SMITH, Esq., was born in the town of Buckfield, about the middle of the month of September, 1792. He was educated at Bowdoin College, and studied law in the city of Portland, where he was admitted to the bar, and commenced practice, When about thirtytwo years old, he married Miss Elizabeth Oakes Prince, a beautiful and accomplished girl of sixteen, who had attracted his attention, and won his heart by her beauty and precocious talent. He was at one period editor of the "Eastern Argus," and under his charge it became one of the most popular journals in the State. He was also connected with the "Portland Courier," for some time. Soon after this he removed to the city of New-York, and renewed the practice of his profession. He is very widely known as the once celebrated "Jack Downing, whose humurous letters convulsed the reading public in almost unparalleled mirth. As a prose writer he has acquired a very high reputation; but as a poet stands in the second rank. He has written a few, and only a few, beautiful poems, two of which we have included in our selection. Mr. Smith and his wife, the distinguished Mrs. E. Oakes Smith, have been called, and we think very correctly too, the 'Howitts' of America. If any persons are entitled to this enviable name, they at least are foremost. Mr. Smith has published a number of works which met with a favorable reception, and we are happy to learn that he has a volume in the press of J. C. Derby & Co., New-York, entitled "Way Down East, or, Portraitures of Yankee Life," which, judging from the title, will be one of the most mirthprovoking and readable books that has been issued for some time. A correspondent from New York, who has seen proof sheets of this work, says, "It needs but an announcement to command an extensive sale. There are millions of hearts in this country, that would throb

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with delight at the sight of a book from the original Major Jack Downing.' The press has been bearing ample testimony to the author's merit for the last twenty years." The New-York Courier and Enquirer, in an article upon Mr. Smith's literary merit, has the following exceedingly flattering commendation: :- "There is no doubt that Mr. Seba Smith, is the best painter of Yankee peculiarities that ever wrote. He is true to nature, and never carricatures, but without carriaturing, is most amusing." Notices that have been bestowed upon his poetical works, have generally been unfavorable, although some of them gave him full as much credit as he deserved. Powhatan, a Metrical Romance," the longest of Mr. Smith's poems, published several years ago, contains a few fine passages, and much that is inferior poetry. The following is a specimen of its style:


'Come hither, child,' the monarch said,

'And sit thee down by me;

And I'll tell thee of thy mother dead,

Fair sprout of the parent tree.

Twelve suns ago she fell asleep,

And she never woke again;

And thou wast then too young to weep,

Or to share thy father's pain.

But wouldst thou know thy mother's look,
When her form was young and fair,

Look down upon the tranquil brook,

And thou'lt see her picture there.

For her own bright locks of flowing jet,

Are over thy shoulders hung;

In thy face her loving eyes are set,

And her music is on thy tongue.

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'TWAS autumn, and the leaves were dry,
And rustled on the ground,

And chilly winds went whistling by
With low and pensive sound.

As through the grave-yard's lone retreat,
By meditation led,

I walked with slow and cautious feet
Above the sleeping dead.

Three little graves, ranged side by side,
My close attention drew;

O'er two the tall grass bending sighed,
And one seemed fresh and new.

As lingering there I mused awhile
On death's long, dreamless sleep,
And morning life's deceitful smile,

A mourner come to weep.

Her form was bow'd, but not with years,

Her words were faint and few,

And on those little graves her tears

Distilled like evening dew.

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