The meadow, the valley, the field,
Recesses that once gave delight,
Alas now how changed! for they yield
Nothing gayful or joyous to sight.
On the terrace I often remain,
And the loss of my Werter deplore,
While by the pale moon I complain,
Her beams, his loved image restore.
It was here the fond hope was inspired,
That with gladness enlivens my heart
That when this dull life is expired
We shall meet again never to part.
Yes, Werter, thy presage was just;
To cherish the hope be my care,
For should it forsake me, how must
I combat with grief and despair.
—A.
Visitor, I-136, Sept. 23, 1809, Richmond.
THE SQUEAKING GHOST.
A tale imitated from the German.
Select Reviews, II-357, Nov. 1809, Phila.
[Also in Charms of Lit. in Prose and Verse, p. 350, 1808, Trenton.]