It flies! the vessel flies, that bears away To distant shores my Daphne, fair as May. Guard her, ye loves! be lull'd each ruder gale; Let Zephyrs only fill the swelling sail; Ye waves flow gently by the vessel's side, While pensive she surveys you idly glide; Ah! softly glide, prolong her reverie, For then, ye Gods! 'tis then she thinks of me. When near the nodding groves that shade the shore, To her, ye birds, your sweetest warbling pour; No sounds be heard, but such as gently sooth, And be, O sea, thy azure surface smooth. Ne'er since thy daughters sought their liquid caves, A lovelier charge, was trusted to thy waves. Her clear, her bright unsullied beauty shews The lilly's white, and freshness of the rose. Not Venus had more charms, more beauteous bloom, When, rising from the sea's resplendent foam, She smiling mounted first her silver car, And shone effulgent as the morning star. The enchanted Tritons left their noisy sport, And nymphs cerulian in their crystal court; Regardless of their frowns, or jealous smiles, While beauty's queen each eager eye beguiles. They gaze, and held in most delightful trance, Pursue her moving o'er the smooth expanse. H***T. _Boston Weekly Mag._, 1-72, Feb. 19, 1803, Boston. [S. Gessner, _La Navigation_. French translation of _Die Schiffahrt_.] Mr. HOGAN; The subjoined Pieces under the signature of Oscar, are the production of a gentleman residing in a distant part of the state. They were written solely with a view to amuse his leisure hours. If you think them worthy of publication, you are at liberty to insert them in the Repository. --A SUBSCRIBER. MORNING SONG OF PRAISE. From the German of Patzke. "Lobt den Herrn! Die morgensonne." O praise the Lord! the morning sun, From sleep awakes the cheerful swain; And all creation's joys again, To us, in streams renewed, run. O praise the Lord! ye sweetest flow'rs, To him your earliest fragrance yield; Ye birds exert your tuneful pow'rs; Praise him in meadow and in field. O praise the Lord!--Ev'n from his den The desert's savage roars his praise; And, oh! my soul! how much more then, Should'st thou thy voice in Paeans raise? --Oscar. _Phila. Repos._, III-152, May 7, 1803, Phila. ODE TO SPRING From the German. "Freude wirbelt in den Lüften." Joy comes laughing with the breeze; Gladness spreads itself around; Songsters warble in the trees; Nature gaily decks the ground.