Yet with calm eye distinct, and lip and brow
Like the low sun-tints on a hill of snow.
She spake to me; her voice, the utterless tone
That comes down by us when we muse alone,
Calling our names familiarly, and when
We lift our pleased eyes, straight is still again.

Poet, with bent ear, to thee
Call Í, the spirit of poesy.
Music's elder sister I,
That dwell i'the earth, and sea, and sky,
Chosen from my birth to be
Attendant on the Deity.
And through air, and earth, and sea,
By his power, I speak to thée.

My voice is in the “thunder's mouth,"
And in the breath of the sweet south;
In the hollow sounding sea
Of storms; and in its quiet glee,
When the winds of summer run
Along the pathways of the sun.
I am in the torrent's going,
And the brooklet's silver flowing ;
In the great, heart-chilling cranch
Of the coming avalanche,
When the groaning forests cower,
Like slaves beneath his steps of power,
And beast, and bird, and peasant cry
Once, in death's strong agony-
All noises of destruction blending ;
And in the flaky snow's descending,
On whose feathery, printless bed,
Silence lies embodied.

When the pleasant spring-time comes
To palaces and cotter's homes,
My voice is in the low heard laughings
That stir in the air, like fairy quaffings ;
'Tis I who tune the summer trees
To their soft breezy cadences,
And in their autumn wails draw near
To sing a moral in man's ear
I, who in the pattering rain
Soothe the dying harvest's pain,
So my liquid talkings then
Are happy sounds to husbandmen.
When the lighten'd clouds go by,
Unveiling the sun's great eye,

I soar up in its warm blaze,
And divide the coming rays;
Contriving, with poetic knowing,
What bending tints to wreathe his bow in;
Then, when my gamut is complete,
I tread it with my silver feet,
Till the depths of ether ring
To the soft tints mingling;
It was my stealing voice that came,
On the glance of morning's flame,
To old Memnon's shrine, to make
Tones divine, for mystery's sake.
Through the dark earth's

cavy

halls,
Ore to ore in music calls;
And gem to glancing gem, by me
Is stirr'd with answering melody.

Mine is all the harmony
Of sounds to hear, and sights to see ;
All the joy of the glad earth,
And the blue sky's holier mirth.
I, with calm consistency,
Unroll the mazes of the sky;
That the sage's soul may scan
The Deity's harmonious plan,
So his thought to men may tell
The orderings that in heaven do dwell,
That worn age, and prime, and youth,
Alike may know of God's good truth.
Then, poet, bend thine ear to me,
Attendant on the Deity.

Thus as she spake, all things appeard to see
And feel the presence of divinity.
The brooks went downward with a gladlier cheer ;
The trees bow'd gently, with rejoicing fear;
Beneath her feet the gay earth shone new-vested,
And o'er her head a skyey glory rested;
Her beck was to me, and my thought once more
Heard her calm voice, more serious than before.

Mortal, dost thou seek to find
The rich joy of deathless mind ?
Would'st thou have thine heart to be
Full of fine humanity?
Would'st familiarly converse
With this beautiful universe,

And have all its excellence
Pour'd

upon thy spirit's sense ;
All loveliness pause in thine eye,
And its dark things pass thee by,
Feeling all that God hath given
Of happiness below his heaven?
Bow to me: and I will come,
Bringing peace to thy calm home;
Touching all its eyes to shine
With a lustre caught from thine;
Lightening, with happy ease,
All thy social companies;
Giving all their songs and smiles
Merriment and witful wiles ;
And in all their gentle doing
Hearty friendliness imbuing.

Yet should sorrow come to steal
Aught from thee of cheer or weal,
Ill fortune of thy store bereave thee,
All thy friends of sunshine leave thee,
And, like hurrying clouds that flee
O'er the noon's tranquillity,
Cares, and strong anxieties
Darkly o'er thy couch arise ;
Then thee by the hand I'll take,
And lead thee by the quiet lake,
So look upon its skyey plain,
Till thy heart grow calm again ;
Or, beneath the springing joy
Of the blue day's canopy,
By the hill-side, where have birth
Fountain streams that bless the earth,
Till thy spirit shall rejoice
Freshly in their gushing voice,

I would give the recompense
Of my generous influence,
That thou should’st not sigh for aught
By wasting care and toiling bought.
Brazen Fame's peace-scaring noise,
And Ambition's lightning toys,
Should be discord to thine ear,
And darkness to thine eye appear ;
Thou shouldst gladly flee away
From the rude world's busy fray,
In my bowers to build thine home,
And in my pleasant ways to roam.

I would bring, for thy content,
Good things of each element;
And all beautiful should be
Subservient to thy gaiety.
Thou shouldst climb the mountain top;
And hear its piny tones come up ;
Watching, with a glad surprise,
To see the glorious sun uprise ;
Then go down beside the brook,
Whiffling from a leafy nook,
And, resting there beneath the tree,
I would whisper dreams to thee.

When the spring-day sun was bright,
Thou shouldst walk with fancies light;
And the opening forest's sheen,
Cool thine eye with its soft green.
What time mournful autumn grieves
Through the sere wood's falling leaves,
Thou shouldst cull their skeletons,
Where the shrouded streamlet runs,
And musing on their swift decay,
Know that thou art frail as they ;
Then go home, with step sedate
And sober eye, to contemplate:
So I o'er thy heart would pour
The treasurings of Wisdom's store.

If thou wouldst thy soul should live
In all of heaven that earth can give,
Mortal, bow thyself to me,

Favor'd of the Deity.
And silently I bow'd to her; and then
Wander'd above me one accepting strain,
And I rose up; of that sweet vision there
Was not one tint upon the dewy air.
Yet, o'er the pale hills of the distant west,
Went calmly down one golden star to rest;
And as on me its lingering glance was cast,
I knew her smile; thus had her spirit pass'd :
And in that moment, I became to her,
And yet am now, a happy worshipper.

JAMES G. BROOKS

Was born at Red-Hook, New York, in 1801. He is now 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.

GREECE.

1822.

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 harınony 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,