On Sunday evening last, by the Right Rev. Bishop Provost, Mr. WILLIAM HUTHWAITE, to Miss ELIZA RYDER, both of this city.
Opposing fate shall strive in vain Whom love unites to rend in twain:-- Be blest ye happy pair!
May joys with following years increase, And nought arise to mar that peace Which virtuous unions share.
_METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS._ _From the 7th to the 13th inst._
THERMOMETOR observed at 6, _A.M._ 3, _P.M._ Prevailing winds.
OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER.
deg. deg. 6. 3. 6. 3.
100 100 May 7 55 59 w. do. clear calm do. h. wd. ra.
8 42 57 w. do. clear h. wd. do. do.
9 44 55 nw. do. clear lt. wd. cly. h. do.
10 50 70 s. sw. cloudy lt. w. clear do.
11 55 75 sw. s. clear h. wd. do. lt. do.
12 55 64 se. e. cloudy lt. w. do. do. ra.
13 56 69 w. sw. clear lt. wd. do. do.
INSCRIPTION _FOR THE TOMB OF GENERAL WAYNE._
HERE LIES Beneath this n.o.ble tent Fitting for n.o.bler enterprize; With nothing less than Heaven content: Waiting (while ordered out again) Till trumpets bid him rise, To join the armies of the skies.
IMMORTAL GENERAL WAYNE, Tho" here At winter quarters, His warlike corps remain, Tho" Death, that monarch grim, A prisoner made of him, His gallant enterprising soul Is on parole, Viewing each heav"nly plain, Where he Must shortly be With Indian Chiefs in Unity, His _next Campaign_.
_For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._
THE CHOICE.
In rural scenes, in sylvan shades, Near purling brooks and silent glades, Meand"ring streams and flow"ry fields, Where Nature all her fragrance yields.
There would I wish to spend my days, And with the songsters of the grove, Chaunt forth the GREAT CREATOR"s praise, As o"er the dewy meads I rove.
Or traversing the verdant lawn, At humid morning"s earliest dawn, Would contemplate the landscape o"er, And the great ARCHITECT adore.
Or in a grotto art ne"er made, While resting underneath its shade, Would pleas"d behold bright Phbus rise, And take his station in the skies.
While aromatic shrubs display Their sweets beneath his brilliant ray, And downy warblers soar aloft, And hail the morn in accents soft;
I too would join the matin song, While echo bore the strains along, And distant hills should catch the sound, And balmy zephyrs waft it round.
The lambkin striking o"er the plain, The cultur"d fields well stor"d with grain, The blooming meadows, fresh and gay, With pleas"d delight I would survey.
Far from the pomp of worldly glare, Contented in my humble sphere, I"d envy not the rich and great, Their glitt"ring gems or rooms of state.
Economy should grace my cot-- Ingrat.i.tude--I"d know it not; But of the little I"d possess, Would share with virtue in distress.
RELIGION, ever blooming maid, Through grace divine should be my aid; Should teach my thoughts to mount on high, And smooth my journey to the sky.
And when the eve of life drew on, Nought to becloud my setting sun, But conscious of a life well spent, To G.o.d resign the breath he lent.
REBECCA.
_On a Gentleman who expended his Fortune in Horse-Racing._
John ran so long, and ran so fast, No wonder he ran out at last; He ran in debt, and then, to pay, He distanc"d all--and ran away.
ELEGY ON A GREY SQUIRREL, Barbarously Murdered by a _Cat_, June 17th, 1783.
_Longum, formose, vale, vale._ --VIRGIL.
Melpomene, thou mournful muse, A serious vein of grief infuse, A vein that suits with Death: Seiz"d by Grimalkin"s savage claws, Beneath her unrelenting jaws, Poor Bun resigns his breath.
Bun, the most hopeful of the brood, Left the wild pastimes of the wood, To dwell with social man; Sooth"d by their kind and tender care, He soon prefer"d his novel fare To Nature"s ruder plan.
Fed by his master"s faithful hand, Obedient to his mild command, The harmless rogue would move: In my fond bosom laid his head, At night repos"d upon my bed, And stole upon my love.
Amidst the studies of the day, Bun by my side in sportive play, Indulg"d his native glee: Or on my knee would sober sit, In a still meditative fit, To ruminate with me.
At early morn and eve serene, Bun by my side was constant seen, T" enjoy the healthful walk; In livelier mood would round me play, T" encrease the pleasures of the way, And seem"d to wish to talk.
The village boys all pleas"d with Bun, Left their dear sport and eager run, To see his nimble play: The la.s.ses all complacent smil"d, While he with lively sport beguil"d, Slow pacing time away.
But these calm pleasures all are flown, Thy play, thy sports forever done, Thy active spirit fled: Ceas"d as to thee, my daily care, Fix"d are thine eyes in one still glare, For thou poor Bun art dead.
To Fancy"s view thy strugglings rise, Methinks I hear thy piteous cries, Thy unavailing moans: Soft Pity"s tear bedews the eye, To see thy mangled body lye, And view thy scatter"d bones.
Come ye young train, who lov"d his play, Your last sad tribute kindly pay, All mourning at his doom: His shatter"d limbs with care compose, His eyes with kind attention close, And bear him to his tomb.
Come ye his brethren from the grove, In slow and solemn order move Along the silent plain; Fearless his breathless corpse surround; Sweep your long tails upon the ground, In melancholy train.