his agency obliged him to make a voyage to England in 1803, and on his return to his native country the following year, he retired from business to a country residence near Philadelphia, where he continued to reside until his death, which occurred on the 12th of March, 1821. He was a polished scholar, and retained his classical knowledge until the time of his death. In his retirement he read much, and his mind was literally a storehouse of learning. Possessed of a powerful memory, he was a living index to what had passed and still was passing in the world, and yet the writings of his early days alone entitle him to notice here, as he was not ambitious of literary distinction. In 1785, he published a small volume of poems, which was republished in London the following year. He wrote much on the politics of the times, but these papers have passed into oblivion, with the incidents which gave them birth and interest. THE FALL OF ZAMPOR. A PERUVIAN ODE. Now ruin lifts her haggard head Lo! 'mid the terrors of the storm, But ah! what phantoms, fleeting round On me they bend the scowling eye; Dear victims of a tyrant's rage! They're gone!-each shadowy form is fled, Yet soon these hoary locks of age Shall low as theirs in dust be laid! Thou faithless steel, that harmless fell How deep thou'st pierced thy master's breast. But shall curst Spain's destroying son, Yon forked flash with friendly glare He spoke and like a meteor's blaze Rush'd on th' unguarded Spaniard's lord; Around his head the lightning playsReflected from his brandish'd sword: "Great Capac nerve the arm of age, Ye powers who thirst for human blood Nor could prevent the chief's design. ""T is Garcia's crimson stream that flows, The author of my country's woes From Garcia's breast the steel he drew "I come, ye gods of lost Peru," He said and died without a groan. ODE TO MEDITATION. OH! thou, who lov'st to dwell And in affection's gloomy night Could soothe the "torturing hour," To thee the strains belong; But say, what powerful spell, What magic force of song Can lure thy solemn steps, to my uncultured bower By night's pale orb, beneath whose ray With thee thy Plato oft would stray; By the brilliant star of morn That saw thee bend o'er Solon's urn; By all the tears you shed When Numa bow'd his languid head; By the mild joys that in thy breast would swell, Majestic Rome's immortal lord, Would leave the toils, the pomp of state, The shouts of triumph, and the din of war, But ah!-on Grecian plains no more For from oppression's scourge the muses fled; Grim superstition stalks with giant tread. Yet can Columbia's plains afford A name to thee, to freedom dear! By the soft sigh that stole o'er Schuylkill's wave, When he around whose urn Dejected nations mourn, Immortal Franklin sunk into the grave; By his thoughts, by thee inspired; By his works by worlds admired; That gave to time his deathless name, The garland weave for Franklin's head, Taught their king in days of old, To tremble at insulted Freedom's frown, And venerate the rights her children deem'd their own. For he, like them, intrepid rose Against insulted Freedom's foes, Fix'd the firm barrier 'gainst oppression's plan, And dared assert the sacred rights of man! And in the wreath, which Freedom's hand shall twine To deck her champion's ever honor'd shrine, The victor's laurel shall be seen In folds of never-dying green; Wet with the beamy tears of morn; And there with all her tresses torn, What time meek twilight's parting ray From whence, while thunders burst aloud, His rod her head she'll wave around, And lead the harmless terrors to the ground. But, should milder scenes than these That frowns o'er broad Ohio's flood, Thou sullen flood, whose dreary shore Has oft been stain'd with streams of gore, Ah! never did a meeker tear Impearl thy banks from Virtue's eye; Ah! never did thy breezes bear A purer breath than Clymer's sigh. Her impious banners to the wind, Oft o'er the spot that wraps his head |