Assume thy gloves, my most enchanting fair, When next your stockings you begin to mend, For though full white the hose, they yet appear As saffron yellow, near thy lily hand. As constant as your all obedient thread Does thy bright needle's devious path pursue, So does each thought of my poor brainless head For ever dwell, divinest nymph, on you. Oft as thy needles pierce the yielding hose, So oft thy beauties pierce my yielding breast: Oh then compassionate my deep felt woes, And bid awhile the polish'd needle rest. Or if one idle minute you disdain, On me be exercis'd your mending art, Yes, lovely maid, to ease of my pain, Come, darn the hole that rankles in my heart. _Salem Gazette,_ August 26, 1800. * * * * * THE WHITE CLOVER. BY A LADY OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. THERE is a little perfum'd flower, It well might grace the lovliest bower, Yet poet never deign'd to sing Of such a humble, rustic thing. Nor is it strange, for it can show Scarcely one tint of Iris' bow: Nature, perchance, in careless hour, With pencil dry, might paint the flower; Yet instant blush'd, her fault to see, So gave a double fragrancy; Rich recompence for aught denied! Who would not homely garb abide, If gentlest soul were breathing there, Blessings through all its little sphere? Sweet flower! the lesson thou hast taught, Shall check each proud, ambitious thought, Teach me internal worth to prize, Though found in lowliest, rudest guise. _Salem Gazette,_ June 27, 1815. * * * * * [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. * * * * *