THE GREEK PARTISAN.

OUR free flag is dancing

In the free mountain air,
And burnished arms are glancing,

And warriors gathering there;

And fearless is the little train

Whose gallant bosoms shield it;

The blood that warms their hearts shall s
That banner, ere they yield it.
-Each dark eye is fixed on earth,
And brief each solemn greeting;

There is no look nor sound of mirth,
Where those stern men are meeting.

They go to the slaughter,

To strike the sudden blow, And pour on earth, like water,

The best blood of the foe;

To rush on them from rock and height, And clear the narrow valley,

Or fire their camp at dead of night,
And fly before they rally.

-Chains are round our country pressed,
And cowards have betrayed her,

And we must make her bleeding breast The grave of the invader.

Not till from her fetters

We raise up Greece again,

And write, in bloody letters,
That tyranny is slain,—

Oh, not till then the smile shall steal
Across those darkened faces,

Nor one of all those warriors feel

His children's dear embraces. -Reap we not the ripened wheat, Till yonder hosts are flying, And all their bravest, at our feet,

Like autumn sheaves are lying

THE TWO GRAVES.

'Tis a bleak wild hill, but green and bright In the summer warmth and the mid-day light; There's the hum of the bee and the chirp of the wren, And the dash of the brook from the alder glen; There's the sound of a bell from the scattered flock, And the shade of the beech lies cool on the rock, And fresh from the west is the free wind's breath,There is nothing here that speaks of death.

Far yonder, where orchards and gardens lie,
And dwellings cluster, 'tis there men die.
They are born, they die, and are buried near,
Where the populous grave-yard lightens the bier;
For strict and close are the ties that bind
In death the children of human-kind;
Yea, stricter and closer than those of life,—
'Tis a neighbourhood that knows no strife.
They are noiselessly gathered-friend and foe-
To the still and dark assemblies below:

Without a frown or a smile they meet,
Each pale and calm in his winding-sheet;
In that sullen home of peace and gloom,
Crowded, like guests in a banquet-room.

Yet there are graves in this lonely spot, Two humble graves,—but I meet them not. I have seen them,-eighteen years are past, Since I found their place in the brambles last,The place where, fifty winters ago,

An aged man in his locks of snow,

And an aged matron, withered with years,
Were solemnly laid!-but not with tears.
For none, who sat by the light of their hearth,
Beheld their coffins covered with earth;

Their kindred were far, and their children dead,
When the funeral prayer was coldly said.

Two low green hillocks, two small gray stones, Rose over the place that held their bones; But the grassy hillocks are levelled again, And the keenest eye might search in vain, 'Mong briers, and ferns, and paths of sheep, For the spot where the aged couple sleep.

Yet well might they lay, beneath the soil Of this lonely spot, that man of toil,

And trench the strong hard mould with the spade,
Where never before a grave was made;
For he hewed the dark old woods away,

And gave the virgin fields to the day;

And the gourd and the bean, beside his door,
Bloomed where their flowers ne'er opened before;
And the maize stood up, and the bearded rye
Bent low in the breath of an unknown sky.

'Tis said that when life is ended here, The spirit is borne to a distant sphere; That it visits its earthly home no more, Nor looks on the haunts it loved before. But why should the bodiless soul be sent Far off, to a long, long banishment?

Talk not of the light and the living green!

It will pine for the dear familiar scene;

It will yearn, in that strange bright world, to behold

The rock and the stream it knew of old.

'Tis a cruel creed, believe it not!

Death to the good is a milder lot.

They are here,—they are here, that harmless pair, In the yellow sunshine and flowing air,

In the light cloud-shadows that slowly pass,

In the sounds that rise from the murmuring grass.