May greet the wanderer of Columbia's shore, Proud Venice of the west! no lovelier scene. Of thy vast throngs, now faintly comes the roar, Though late like beating-ocean surf I ween-- And every where thy various barks are seen, Cleaving the limpid floods that round thee flow, Encircled by thy banks of sunny green-- The panting steamer plying to and fro, Or the tall sea-bound ship abroad on wings of snow. And radiantly upon the glittering mass, The God of day his parting glances sends, As some warm soul, from earth about to pass, Back on its fading scenes and mourning friends, Deep words of love and looks of rapture bends, More bright and bright, as near their end they be. On, on, great orb! to earth's remotest ends, Each land irradiate, and every sea-- But oh, my native land, not one, not one like thee! HE CAME TOO LATE! BY MISS ELIZABETH BOGART. He came too late!--Neglect had tried Her constancy too long; Her love had yielded to her pride, And the deep sense of wrong. She scorned the offering of a heart Which, lingered on its way, Till it could no delight impart, Nor spread one cheering ray. He came too late!--At once he felt That all his power was o'er! Indifference in her calm smile dwelt, She thought of him no more. Anger and grief had passed away, Her heart and thoughts were free; She met him, and her words were gay, No spell had memory. He came too late!--The subtle chords Of love were all unbound, Not by offence of spoken words, But by the slights that wound. She knew that life held nothing now That could the past repay, Yet she disdained his tardy vow, And coldly turned away. He came too late!--Her countless dreams Of hope had long since flown; No charms dwelt in his chosen themes, Nor in his whispered tone. And when, with word and smile, he tried Affection still to prove, She nerved her heart with woman's pride, And spurned his fickle love. VERSES, WRITTEN IN A BOOK OF FORTUNES, 1787. BY THE LATE GEN. MORTON. As through the garden's sweet domain The bee from leaf to leaf will rove, Will cull its sweets with anxious pain, Then bear its treasures to his love; So from those leaves which bring to view Things hid by fate in Time's dark reign, With care I'd cull, dear girl, for you, The richest blessings they contain; But fortune here our power restrains, Nor leaves her blessings in our hand: To _wish_, alone to _us_ remains, The _Gift_ is still at _her_ command.