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sires ;

On old Platæa's' day;
And now, there breathed that haunted air
The sons of sires who conquered there,
With arm to strike, and soul to dare,

As quick, as far as they.
3. An hour passed on—the Turk ăwoke ;

That bright dream was his last;
He woke to hear his sentries shriek,
To arms !—they come! the Greek! the Greek !
He woke—to die midst flame, and smoke,
And shout, and groan, and saber-stroke,

And death-shots falling thick and fast
As lightnings from the mountain-cloud;
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud,

Bozzaris cheer his band :
Strike—till the last armed foe expires ;
STRIKE—for your altars and your fires ;
STRIKE—for the green graves


your God—and


native land!
4. They fought-like brave men, long and well;

They piled that ground with Moslem slain ;
They conquered—but Bozzaris fell,

Bleeding at every vein.
His few surviving comrādes saw
His smile, when rang their proud huzza,

And the red field was won ;
Then saw in death his eyelids close,
Calmly as to a night's repose,

Like flowers at set of sun.
5. Come to the bridal chămber, Death!

Come to the mother, when she feels,
For the first time, her first-born's breath;

Come when the blessed seals
That close the pestilence are broke,
And crowded cities wail its stroke;
Come in consumption's ghastly form,

The earthquake's shock, the ocean's storm; * Platæa, (plå té' å), a ruined city feated and nearly annihilated the of Greece. Near it, B. C. 479, the grand Persian army, under MarGreeks, under Pausanias, totally de- donius, who was killed in the action.

Come when the heart beats high and warm

With banquet-song, and dance, and wine, -
And thou art terrible !—The tear,
The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier ;
And all we know, or dream, or fear,

Of agony, are thine.
6. But to the hero, when his sword

Has won the battle for the free,
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word;
And in its höllow tones are heard

The thanks of millions yet to be.
Bozzaris ! with the storied brave

Greece nurtured in her glory's time,
Rest thee: there is no prouder grave,

Even in her own proud clime.

We tell thy doom without a sigh ;
For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's,–
One of the few, the immortal names,
That were not born to die!

HALLECK. Fitz-GREENE HALLECK was born at Guilford, in Connecticut, August, 1795, and at the age of eighteen entered the banking-house of Jacob Barker, in New York, with which he was associated several years, susequently performing the duties of a book-keeper in the private office of John Jacob Astor. Soon after the decease of that noted millionaire, in 1848, he retired to his birth-place, where he has since resided. He evinced a taste for poetry and wrote verses at a very early period. “Twilight,” his first offering to the “Evening Post," appeared in October, 1818. The year following he gained his first celebrity in literature as a town wit, by producing, with his friend Drake, several witty and satirical pieces, which appeared in the columns of the “Evening Post” with the signature of Croaker & Co.; and his fame was fully established by the publication of a vol. ume of his poems in 1827. His poetry is characterized by its music and perfection of versification, and its vigor and healthy sentiment.





VIS midnight's holy hour-and silence now

Is brooding, like a spirit, o'er
The still and pulseless world. Hark! on the winds
The bell's deep tones are swelling—'tis the knell

Of the departed year. No funeral train
Is sweeping past; yět, on the stream and wood,
With měl'ancholy light, the moonbeams rest
Like a pale, spotless shroud ; the air is stirred
As by a mourner's sigh; and on yòn cloud,
That floats so still and placidly through heaven,
The spirits of the seasons seem to stand,
Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn's solemn form,
And Winter with his agèd locks, and breathe,
In mournful cadences, that come abroad
Like the far wind-harp's wild and touching wail,
A melancholy dirge o'er the dead year,

Göne from the earth forever. 2.

'Tis a time For memory and for tears. Within the deep, Still chămbers of the heart, a specter dim, Whose tones are like the wizard voice of Time, Heard from the tomb of ages, points its cold And solemn finger to the beautiful And holy visions that have passed ăwāy, And left no shadow of their loveliness On the dead waste of life. That specter lifts The coffin-lid of Hope, and Joy, and Love, And, bending mournfully above the pale, Sweet forms that slumber there, scatters dead flowers

O’er what has passed to nothingness. 3.

Has gone, and with it, many a glorious throng
Of happy dreams. Its mark is on each brow,
Its shadow in each heart. In its swift course,
It waved its scepter o'er the beautiful-
And they are not. It laid its pallid hand
Upon the strong man-and the haughty form
Is fallen, and the flashing eye is dim.
It trod the hall of revelry, where thrõnged
The bright and joyous--and the tearful wail
Of stricken ones is heard, where erst the song

And reckless shout resounded. 4.

It passed o'er The battle-plain, where sword, and spear, and shield,

The year

Flashed in the light of mid-day,—and the strength
Of serried hosts is shivered, and the grass,
Green from the soil of carnage, waves above
The crushed and möldering skeleton. It came,
And faded like a wreath of mist at eve;
Yět, ere it melted in the viewless air,
It heralded its millions to their home

In the dim land of dreams. 5.

Remorseless Time! Fierce spirit of the glass and scythe !- what power Can stay him in his silent course, or melt His iron heart to pity? On, still on He presses, and forever. The proud bird, The condor of the Andes, that can soar Through heaven's unfathomable depths, or brave The fury of the northern húrricane, And bathe his plumage in the thunder's home, Furls his broad wings at nightfall, and sinks down To rest upon his mountain crag,—but Time Knows not the weight of sleep or weariness, And night's deep darkness has no chain to bind

His rushing pinions. 6.

Revolutions sweep O’er earth, like troubled visions o’er the breast Of dreaming sõrrow ; cities rise and sink, Like bubbles on the water ; fiery isles Spring blazing from the ocean, and go back To their mysterious caverns ; mountains rear To heaven their bald and blackened cliffs, and bow Their tall heads to the plain ; new empires rise, Gathering the strength of hòary centuries, And rush down like the Al'pine avalanche, Startling the nations,- and the věry stars, Yon bright and burning blazonry of GOD, Glitter a while in their eternal depths, And, like the Pleiad, loveliest of their train, Shoot from their glorious spheres, and pass away, To darkle in the trackless void : yệt TimeTime, the tomb-builder, holds his fierce career, Dark, stern, all-pitiless, and pauses not

Amid the mighty wrecks that strew his path,
To sit and muse, like other conquerors,
Upon the fearful ruin he has wrought.

PRENTICE. GEORGE D. PRENTICE was born at Preston, in Connecticut, December 18th, 1807, and was educated at Brown University, in Providence, where he graduated 11 1823. In 1828 he commenced “The New England Weekly Review,” at Hartford, which he edited for two years, when, resigning its management to Mr. Whittier, he removed to Louisville, Kentucky, where he has since conducted the “Journal,” of that city, one of the most popular gazettes ever published in this country. His numerous poetical writings have never been published collectively.



OW bright are the honors which await those who with


things that they might save their native land from division and from the power of corruption! The honored dead! They that die for a good cause are redeemed from death. Their names are găthered and garnered. Their memory is precious. Each place grows proud for them who were born there.

2. There is to be, ere lõng, in every village and in every neighborhood, a glowing pride in its martyred heroes. Tablets shall preserve their names. Pious love shall renew their inscriptions as time and the unfeeling elements decay them. And the nătional festivals shall give multitudes of precious names to the orator's lips. Children shall grow up under more sacred inspirations, whose elder brothers, dying nobly for their country, left a name that honored and inspired all who bore it. Orphan children shall find thousands of fathers and mothers to ove and help those whom dying heroes left as a legacy to the gratitude of the public.

3. Oh, tell me not that they are dead—that generous host, that airy arn

of invisible heroes! They hover as a cloud of witnesses above this nation. Are they dead that yět speak louder than we can speak, and a more universal language? Are they dead that yet act? Are they dead that yet move upon society, and inspire the people with nobler motives and more heroic pātriotism?

4. Ye that mõurn, let gladness mingle with your tears. He was your son ; but now he is the nation's. He made your

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