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النشر الإلكتروني


He is now

Was born at Red-Hook, New York, in 1801. one of the editors of the New York Morning Courier. He has had the direction of several literary journals, and became known to the public as a poet, by his verses under the signature of Florio. These have been widely read, and admired, both at home and in Europe.


LAND of the brave! where lie inurn'd.
The shrouded forms of mortal clay,
In whom the fire of valor burn'd
And blazed upon the battle's fray:
Land, where the gallant Spartan few
Bled at Thermopylæ of yore,

When death his purple garment threw
On Helle's consecrated shore!

Land of the Muse! within thy bowers
Her soul entrancing echoes rung,
While on their course the rapid hours
Paused at the melody she sung-
Till every grove and every hill,
And every stream that flow'd along,
From morn to night repeated still
The winning harmony of song.

Land of dead heroes! living slaves!
Shall glory gild thy clime no more?
Her banner float above thy waves
Where proudly it hath swept before?
Hath not remembrance then a charm
To break the fetters and the chain,
To bid thy children nerve the arm,
And strike for freedom once again ?

No! coward souls! the light which shone
On Leuctra's war-empurpled day,
The light which beam'd on Marathon,

Hath lost its splendor, ceased to play ;
And thou art but a shadow now,
With helmet shatter'd-spear in rust-
Thy honor but a dream—and thou
Despised-degraded in the dust!

Where sleeps the spirit, that of old
Dash'd down to earth the Persian plume,
When the loud chant of triumph told
How fatal was the despot's doom?
The bold three hundred-where are they,
Who died on battle's gory breast?
Tyrants have trampled on the clay,
Where death has hush'd them into rest.

Yet, Ida, yet upon thy hill

A glory shines of ages


And fame her light is pouring still,
Not on the living, but the dead!
But 't is the dim sepulchral light,
Which sheds a faint and feeble ray,
As moon-beams on the brow of night,
When tempests sweep upon their way.

Greece! yet awake thee from thy trance,
Behold thy banner waves afar;
Behold the glittering weapons glance
Along the gleaming front of war!
A gallant chief, of high emprize,
Is urging foremost in the field,
Who calls upon thee to arise
In might-in majesty reveal'd.

In vain in vain the hero calls-
In vain he sounds the trumpet loud!
His banner totters-see! it falls
In ruin, freedom's battle shroud :
Thy children have no soul to dare
Such deeds as glorified their sires;
There valor's but a meteor's glare,
Which gleams a moment, and expires.

Lost land! where genius made his reign, And rear'd his golden arch on high; Where science raised her sacred fane, Its summits peering to the sky;

Upon thy clime the midnight deep
Of ignorance hath brooded long,
And in the tomb, forgotten, sleep
The sons of science and of song.

Thy sun hath set-the evening storm
Hath pass'd in giant fury by,
To blast the beauty of thy form,
And spread its pall upon the sky!
Gone is thy glory's diadem,

And freedom never more shall cease
To pour her mournful requiem
O'er blighted, lost, degraded Greece!


I SAW her in life's morning bloom,
In youth and beauty brightly gay,
And little thought the savage tomb
So soon would steal her charms away:
I saw her when her eye was bright
As the blue vestment of the sky,
And little thought the fearful night
Of the death angel was so nigh!

And it was mine to see her fade,

To see her wither day by day; And it was mine to see her laid

Beneath the cold, repulsive clay; And then the sad funereal bell

Bore the death music to my ear'T was hope's and love's expiring knell, Yet I was left to linger here.

It little boots my spirit now,

To think that she was fair and kind;
White were the lilies on her brow,
And stainless was her gentle mind.
Her's was the holy, heavenly love,
Which beacons life's beclouded way,
Such as the seraphs feel above,

Where heaven's eternal sunbeams play.

She moved along in loveliness,
As woman moved at Eden's birth,
And seem'd an angel sent to bless
The weary wilderness of earth.
Too soon the earth received her form:
Nor worth, nor innocence could save
Her bosom from the earthy worm-
Her bonny blossoms from the grave!

And many sorrow'd o'er her lot,

And many wept beside her bier-
By heaven!-too soon she was forgot,
And time full early chased the tear;
Yes! ere the grass began to spread

Its verdure o'er her, fresh and green,
Her memory from their breasts had fled,
As if the loved one ne'er had been!

Yet there was one that loved her well,
On whom her trusting heart relied,
Whose soul clung fondly to her spell,
Nor cared for all the world beside:
And on his heart the seal is set;
That image dwells for ever more,
To cherish still its fond regret,
Till life's last agony is o'er.


Of Boston, at present one of the editors of the Boston Daily Advertiser. Of the share which Mr Hill has had in the present work, we have spoken in the preface. His volume entitled "The Harvest Festival, with other poems," which he published in 1826, is an immature performance, but abounds with beauties. However lightly he may be disposed to think of these hasty effusions, we deem them worthy of an honorable place in our collection. The extracts which we give, will show that he possesses the true feeling of a poet.


I LOVE Sometimes to tune my simple lute,
And, as an echo to its softer strains,

Give utterance to the thoughts that often rush
Like an o'erflowing current through my soul.
What though my name, unknown amid the host
Of those who crowd around Apollo's shrine,
Shine not emblazon'd on the rolls of Fame?
What though my wandering feet have never trod
The flowery Parnassus,-nor my lips
Imbibed poetic inspiration from

The pure Castalian spring?—still in the hour
When clouds of disappointment lower around,
And veil the scenes of beauty sketch'd by hope
In all her rainbow hues, the chord I touch,
May waken memory from her trance, and soothe
The throbbing of my heart. Sweet Poesy!
Thy full outpourings can assuage the breast
That heaves in tumult. O, if thou appear,
Thy loosen'd tresses floating wide, thine eye
Beaming with an unearthly brightness, then
The rapt enthusiast in his ecstacy,
Forgets the chilling atmosphere of earth,
The selfish heartlessness of those around,
And thinks he wanders in thy sun-light sphere,
Holding "high converse with thy chosen ones.
Up from the barren heath on which he treads,
The bloom of the primeval Eden springs;
Transparent waters meet him in his path,
And figures leap out even from the air,
Clothed in light drapery, and beautiful

As Houris in the Moslem Paradise.

Seek'st thou the spirit who with magic wand

Can work these wonders? Come then; let us stand Here, on the precipice that overhangs

That everlasting deep. O God! it is

A sight too solemn to look out upon,
Unless with reverence for thy majesty,

And for thy greatness, awe. See how the waves
Come surging onward-heaving, heaving on,
As if a consciousness of their own might

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