From midst the dusty fields of war To realms beyond the northern star, To loud Valhalla's echoing halls, I bear the hero ere he falls; The valiant dwell in those abodes, And sit amid carousing gods; Not goblets rich, nor flasks of gold, But skulls of mantling mead they hold; The coward while he gasps for breath, Sinks darkling to Hela beneath. HAROLD. O be it mine, from conflict borne, To reach the realms of endless morn; At Odin's board my lips I'll lave In the foam'd bev'rage of the brave. ODIN. Who breaks the dusty fields of war, Death travels by his clattering car; Perch'd on the whirlwind's thund'ring tower, On comes the sable tempest's power; Ye warriors rise, ye chiefs give room, A godlike guest in youthful bloom, Harold from fields of battle see, Begin th' immortal revelry. S. _Port Folio_, V-120, Apr. 20, 1805, Phila. WERTER'S EPITAPH. _Phila. Repos._, V-164, May 25, 1805, Phila. [Also in _Amer. Museum_, I-474, May 1787, Phila.] PRAYER OF FREDERICK II IN BEHALF OF POETS. Ye Gods! from whom each favour'd bard Receives those talents verse requires, O teach them truth! for sure 'tis hard They should be all such wicked liars. _Boston Mag._, I-12, Nov. 9, 1805, Boston. A SKETCH OF THE ALPS, AT DAYBREAK. The sun-beams streak the azure skies, And line with light the mountain's brow; With hounds and horns the hunters rise, And chase the roebuck through the snow. From rock to rock, with giant-bound, High on their iron poles they pass; Mute, lest the air, convuls'd by sound, Rend from above a frozen mass. The goats wind slow their wonted way, Up craggy steeps and ridges rude; Mark'd by the wild wolf for his prey, From desert cave or hanging wood. And while the torrent thunders loud, And as the echoing cliffs reply, The huts peep o'er the morning cloud, Perch'd, like an eagle's nest, on high. _Evening Fireside_, II-74, Feb. 8, 1806, Phila. In the following exquisite Parody, the sentiments are not less admirable than the talents of the author. We have often expressed our contempt for German plays, and we are happy to fortify our opinion of the Teutonic Muse, with the wit of a man of genius, and a polite scholar. ODE TO THE GERMAN DRAMA, By Mr. SEWARD. A Parody of Gray's Ode to Adversity. Daughter of night, chaotic Queen! Thou fruitful source of modern lays, Whose turbid plot, and tedious scene, The monarch spurn, the robber raise. Bound in thy necromantic spell The audience taste the joys of hell, And Briton's sons indignant grown With pangs unfelt before, at crimes before unknown.