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I would that thou wert dead, devoted one,

For thou art all too pure to linger here ; Life's joyous sands to thee have fleetly run,

And sorrow's hand hath made thy being searThy girlhood was a pure and artless dream,

And many a sunny hope has thrilled thy breast, And many an air-blown bubble gilt life's stream,

Flash'd for a moment-broke, and sunk to restEmblems of youth and loveliness were they, And like hope's fairy visions pass'd away. I would that thou wert dead, forsaken girl,

That high pale brow enshrined within the tomb; For as with gentle winds still waters curl,

So fades at sorrow's touch young beauty's bloom-Thou art too pure and fair for this cold earth,

A thing too guiltless long to dwell below,
Thy voice has lost its cadences of mirth,

The glory has departed from thy brow--
And youth's pure bloom has left thy virgin heart,
And beauty like a phantom will depart.

I would that thou wert dead, for life to thee

Is as a broken reed—a withered flower; Dark shadows rest upon thy destiny,

And storms of fate around thy fortunes lower-Wedded to one thy bosom cannot love,

Banished from him thine every thought employs,

Thou art in heart a bruised and wounded dove,

And earth to thee can yield no future joys,
Wearily passes life and time with thee;
A dusky shadow dims thy destiny.

I would that thou wert dead, devoted one,

And thy bright spirit disenthralled of clay;
E'en as the dew-drop wastes beneath the sun,

Thus by disease thy being wastes away-
Oh, who that knew thee when thou wert a child,

With a glad voice and heaven unfolding eye,
A creature as the snow flake undefiled,

With a bright lip and cheek of rosy dye,
Oh, who that knew' thee then, can see thee now,
Nor wonder for the beauty of thy brow.

I would that thou wert dead, and sanctified

Thy spirit with high elements is fraught, And that which scorn and cruelty defied,

The lingering stealth of pale disease has wroughtYes, death is near thee now, sweet Genevieve,

And thou shalt haste to meet him with a smile; It is in vain thy gentle sisters grieve,

Thy soul shall soon flee by each starry isle, That glitters brightly through the calm blue skies, Like white lids lifted from pure spirit's eyes.

Thou soon shalt die, sweet martyr, and the earth

Will nurture gentle flowers above thy grave,
Sweet emblems of thy being and thy birth,

leaves around thy tomb shall waveAnd when the pensive stranger wanders nigh,

His lips shall waft a tributary prayer, For her who soon shall prematurely die,

For her whose seraph form shall moulder thereFarewell, sweet Genevieve’tis sad to part, Farewell, thy beauty shrouds a breaking heart.



The national feeling which was engendered by Pennsylvania's being the principal theatre of war-by being the locality of the first Congress and by being the place whence emanated the Declaration of Independencemalmost absorbed provincial attachments and local sympathies. Sectional predilections were exchanged for the brighter and more transcendant glory of the whole confederacy. The wise providence of her sisters in arms, while animated by the patriotic fire which sought to destroy the pretensions of Britain over the Union, did not permit them to be frigid upon the subject of their own reputations. They have blazoned their exploits in a hundred narratives and histories, and perhaps too sedulous of fame, have sometimes despoiled Pennsylvania of the laurels by which her brow should be adorned. Not content with assuming merits and gallantry which, perhaps, they legitimately claim, the disposition has been frequently observed to filch from Pennsylvania some of the mighty meed of her large honours,' by attributing to cowardice or toryism the effect of religious tenets, and by ascribing to the state at large the disaffection of a few. During all this period—a period beyond half a century--we have so far acquiesced in the justice of these reproaches as to maintain the profoundest silence, and though vires acquirunt eundo, not a production has ap

peared which aspires to the dignity of defending the purity and patriotism of her course by an authentic narrative. The materials for a history lie scattered in the richest profusion over works which, to the burning shame of our patriotic sensibilities, be it spoken, are seldom examined. That part of our story which is interwoven with the country, is accessible in every form in which it can be presented, by compilations of original documents—the attraction of personal memoirs—and the graver productions of elaborate histories. But where are the narratives of Pennsylvania in particular, subsequent to the year 1775? The total absence of any sober and authentic development of her transactions, sufferings, and services, has not been without its effects upon the currency of opinions involving the detriment of her revolutionary fame.

The absence of a formal history during and since the revolution, has not only proved injurious to the fame of our civic patriotism, but it conveys a really mortifying reflection upon our indifference to national glory. From the labours of this society, the accumulations of Mr. Hazard, and the curious researches of Mr Watson, the historian can labour under no paucity of materials. The selection of an individual who is competent to such a task, by the charms of an elegant and finished English style by philosophical studies-by liberal and enlarged views -is a matter of very general, even public concern. The reputation of a country and the moral influence of her example upon her contemporaries and posterity, must essentially depend upon the ability of her historians. How can the one or the other of these be effected, but through the medium of a performance whose intrinsic and superior merits shall command the esteem of other countries and of other times? The brilliancy of great events, or the glare of imposing successes and dismal catastrophes, is

not necessary to the preservation of a people's memory or the perpetuity of a people's influence. The nation whose opening effulgence and meridian splendour are embalmed in the pages of a Livy, and whose decrepitude and decline are recorded by the pen of a Tacitus, is less indebted for her fame to the power of her arms and the wisdom of her counsels than to the elegance of her historical authors. Would not the bays of ancient Greece long since have been faded or obscured, if the genial and kindly influences of Homer, Herodotus, and Thucydides had been withdrawn? Such events as the Persian and Peloponnesian wars and the expeditions of Alexander, which comprise the principal exploits of that celebrated people during the lapse of three centuries-illustrious as they are-may have been surpassed by nations whose memory, not perpetuated by genius, is lost in the mists of remote antiquity. A smile may perhaps be excited at an allusion to the ever enduring fame of Greece and Rome, with relation to the domestic transactions of Pennsylvania; but it would not be improper before the contemptuousness of ridicule be indulged, that our history, before, during, and since the revolution, be fairly examined and truly known. Genuine philosophy unfettered by the trammels of education and uninfluenced by eclat, will coolly scan premises and investigate facts, before she will pronounce a decisive judgment. In imitating this prudence let us be guided by no blind or vainglorious partiality, but contemplate with calmness, some of the broad lines of the image which it will be the duty of our historians to exhibit.

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