Here, tinged by Flora, Asian flowers unfold
Their burnish'd leaves of vegetable gold.

When snows descend, and clouds tumultuously fly
Through the blue medium of the crystal sky,
Beneath his painted mimic heaven he roves
Amidst the glass-encircled citron groves;
The grape and luscious fig his taste invite,
Hesperian apples grow upon his sight;
The sweet auriculas their bells display,
And Philips finds in January, May.

But on the other side the cliffs arise,
Charybdis like, and seem to prop the skies:
How oft with admiration have we view'd
Those adamantine barriers of the flood?
Yet still the vessel cleaves the liquid mead,
The prospect dies, the aspiring rocks recede;
New objects rush upon the wondering sight,
Till Phoebus rolls from heaven his car of light,
And Cynthia's silver crescent gilds the night.

I hear the melting flute's melodious sound,
Which dying zephyrs waft alternate round,
The rocks in notes responsive soft complain,
And think Amphion strikes his lyre again.
Ah! 't is my Bleeker breaths our mutual loves,
And sends the trembling airs through vocal groves.
Thus having led you to the happy isle,
Where waves circumfluent wash the fertile soil,
Where Hudson, meeting the Atlantic, roars,
The parting lands dismiss him from their shores;
Indulge the enthusiast muse her favorite strain
Of panegyric, due to Eboracia's plain.

There is no land where heaven her blessings pours

In such abundance, as upon these shores;

With influence benign the planets rise,

Pure is the ether and serene the skies;

With annual gold kind Ceres decks the ground,

And gushing springs dispense bland health around:

No lucid gems are here, or flaming ore,
To tempt the hand of avarice and power:
But sun-burnt labor, with diurnal toil,

Bids, treasures rise from the obedient soil,
And commerce calls the ships across the main,
For gold exchanging her superfluous grain;
While concord, liberty, and jocund health,
Sport with young pleasure mid the rural wealth.

RETURN TO TOMHANICK.

Hail, happy shades! though clad with heavy snows At sight of you with joy my bosom glows.

Ye arching pines, that bow with every breeze,
Ye poplars, elms, all hail my well known trees!
And now my peaceful mansion strikes my eye,
And now the tinkling rivulet I spy;

My little garden, Flora, hast thou kept,
And watch'd my pinks and lilies while I wept?
Or has the grubbing swine, by furies led,
The enclosure broke, and on my flowerets fed?

Ah me! that spot with blooms so lately graced, With storms and driving snows is now defaced; Sharp icicles from every bush depend,

And frosts all dazzling o'er the beds extend:
Yet soon fair spring shall give another scene,
And yellow cowslips gild the level green;
My little orchard sprouting at each bough,

Fragrant with clustering blossoms deep shall glow:
Ah! then 't is sweet the tufted grass to tread,
But sweeter slumbering in the balmy shade;
The rapid humming bird, with ruby breast,
Seeks the parterre with early blue-bells drest,
Drinks deep the honeysuckle dew, or drives
The laboring bee to her domestic hives:

Then shines the lupine bright with morning gems,
And sleepy poppys nod upon their stems;

The humble violet and the dulcet rose,

The stately lily then, and tulip blows.

Farewell, my Plutarch! farewell, pen and muse! Nature exults-shall I her call refuse?

Apollo fervid glitters in my face,

And threatens with his beam each feeble grace:

Yet still around the lovely plants I toil,

And draw obnoxious herbage from the soil;
Or with the lime-twigs little birds surprise,
Or angle for the trout of many dyes.

But when the vernal breezes pass away,
And loftier Phoebus darts a fiercer ray,
The spiky corn then rattles all around,
And dashing cascades give a pleasing sound;
Shrill sings the locust with prolonged note,
The cricket chirps familiar in each cot.
The village children rambling o'er yon hill,
With berries all their painted baskets fill.
They rob the squirrel's little walnut store,
And climb the half exhausted tree for more;
Or else to fields of maize nocturnal hie,
Where hid, the elusive water-melons lie;
Sportive, they make incisions in the rind,
The riper from the immature to find;
Then load their tender shoulders with the prey.
And laughing bear the bulky fruit away.

FRANCISCA ANNA PASCALIS CANFIELD, was born in Philadelphia, in August 1803. She was the daughter of Felix Pascalis, M. D., distinguished in the medical and philosophical world, for his numerous dissertations on abstruse subjects, for his practice in the yellow fever, and other extraordinary disorders, and as a political economist, who has made great exertions in introducing into the United States, the Chinese mulberry tree, in order to encourage the making of silk in this country. Her parents resided for some years after their marriage in Philadelphia, of which place her mother was a native, and afterwards removed to New York. Miss Pascalis was remarkable for her intellectual acquirements, when quite a child, although she had not any extraordinary advantages of education. Her father was too busy in his professional and philosophical pursuits, to pay much attention to his daughter's education, and her mother went no farther in the course of her studies, than to see that she was industrious, and could give a good account of her time. When only ten years of age, she attracted the attention of that sagacious philosopher, and deep judge of human nature, Dr. Samuel L. Mitchill, who playfully became her Valentine, and wrote her the following in 1815. It clearly proves that he foresaw that distinction awaited his youthful friend.

Descending snows the earth o'erspread,
Keen blows the northern blast;
Condensing clouds scowl over head,
The tempest gathers fast.

But soon the icy mass shall melt,

The winter end his reign,

The sun's reviving warmth be felt,

And nature smile again.

The plants from torpid sleep shall wake,

And, nurs'd by vernal showers,

Their yearly exhibition make

Of foliage and of flowers.

So you an opening bud appear,
Whose bloom and verdure shoot,
To load Francisca's growing year,
With intellectual fruit.

The feather'd tribes shall flit along,
And thicken on the trees,

Till air shall undulate with song,
Till music stir the breeze.

Thus, like a charming bird, your lay

The listening ear shall greet,
And render social circles gay,

Or make retirement sweet.

Then warblers chirp, and roses ope,

To entertain my fair,

Till nobler themes engage her hope,

And occupy her care.

In school Miss Pascalis was at the head of her class, and mastered languages with such readiness, that her instructors often suspected her father of devoting his time in bringing her forward, when he hardly knew what she was studying at the time. She made translations from the French, Italian, Spanish, and Portuguese, for mere amusement, or for school exercises; and many of them have been preserved by her friends, and show unquestionable evidences of genius. She early caught the spirit of universal grammar, and found no difficulty in getting possession of the beauties, and idiom of a language. Her poetical taste early appeared, and at a very tender age she wrote sonnets, criticisms, satires, hymns, and epistles to her friends in verse. There are many of her productions preserved, which she wrote between the ages of eleven and fifteen, that are excellent. The following translation from the French, she wrote when she was only thirteen; it is difficult to pour the soul of a song into a translation, but certainly there is much in this that might remind others besides soldiers of their home.

The day how blissful will it be,
When each loved object I shall see.
The clear and purling rill,
The mountain top so grey,
The verdure-covered hill,

The distant hamlets gay,
The glacier's summits pale,
And my native sheltered vale,

Of my ancestors the grave,

Where the elm's hoar branches wave,
To the gale.

When to the soft breathing sound of the lute
Shall I merrily dance with the light-bounding foot,
Gaze with delight on my Isabel's smile,

That lightened my labor, and sweetened my toil?
That day how blissful will it be,

When each loved object I shall see.
My father-my mother,

My sister-my brother.

My sheep which love the shade,
Of the flower-cinctured glade;

The woodbine o'er the thatch which creeps,
The rose which round my dwelling weeps;
And she, my fond and charming maid!-
That day with bliss shall crowned be,
When each loved object I will see.

Before Miss Pascalis had left school, she translated from the French a volume of Lavater's work for a friend, who had engraved the plates of the work from the original. Soon after this, she translated the "Solitaire," from the French, and the "Roman Nights," from the Italian of Alexander Verri, and the "Vine Dresser," from the French, at a subsequent period. The