Where Charlotte's shade and mine may one day meet, Our suff'rings ended and our bliss complete, In the bright regions of eternal light, Where all is perfect joy and pure delight. When in the summer's eve you chance to stray Thro' the low vale, or on the broad highway, Or in the churchyard, thro' the shady trees, You hear the whistling of the midnight breeze, Wave high the grass, in solitary gloom, Around the heap that shews thy lover's tomb-- Ah, then will you not one sad thought bestow, On him who could no greater blessing know Than pass the hour with fleeting joys with thee, Gaze on thy charms and watch thy wand'ring eye, Observe the beauteous image of thy mind, Disclose a soul for heaven alone design'd, Or view thy distant form amidst the trees, And thy white tresses floating in the breeze; Or see thy fingers strike, with tender lays, Such notes as bards in heaven alone can raise; Such notes as Orpheus' self might lean to hear, And force from Pluto's soul the melting tear. Yes, Charlotte's self, my sad remains shall see, And Charlotte's tender heart will heave a sigh for me. _Dessert to the True American_, I-No. 20, Nov. 24, 1798, [Phila.]. The following burlesque on the style, in which most of the German romantic ballads are written, is replete with wit and humour; and we trust will prove amusing even to the greatest admirers of that style of writing. It is only necessary to premise that Lord Hoppergallop has left his servant maid at his country mansion, where she has fallen with the gardener. Cold blows the blast:--the night's obscure: The mansion's crazy wainscots crack: The sun had sunk:--and all the moor, Like ev'ry other moor--was black. Alone, pale, trembling, near the fire, The lovely Molly Dumpling sat, Much did she fear, and much admire, What Thomas, gard'ner could be at. Listening, her hand supports her chin, But, ah! no foot is heard to stir: He comes not, from the garden, in; Nor he, nor little Bobtail cur. They cannot come, sweet maid, to thee! Flesh, both of cur and man, is grass! And what's impossible, can't be; And never, never, comes to pass! She paces through the hall antique, To call her Thomas from his toil; Opes the huge door;--the hinges creak,-- Because the hinges wanted oil. Thrice on the threshold of the hall, She "Thomas" cried, with many a sob; And thrice on Bobtail did she call, Exclaiming sweetly--"Bob! Bob! Bob!" Vain maid! a gard'ners corpse, 'tis said In answers can but ill succeed; And, dogs that hear when they are dead Are very cunning dogs, indeed! Back through the hall she bent her way, All, all was solitude around! The candle shed a feeble ray-- Though a large mould of four to th' pound.