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 comrades saw

His smile, when rang their proud hurrah,
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.

Come to the bridal chamber, Death!
Come to the mother, when she feels,
For the first time, her first-born's breath ;-
Come when the blessed seals

Which close the pestilence are broke,
And crowded cities wail its stroke ;-
Come in Consumption's ghastly form,
The earthquake shock, the ocean storm ;-
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.

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 hollow 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.

Weehawken.-F. G. HALLECK.

WEEHAWKEN! in thy mountain scenery yet,
All we adore of Nature, in her wild
And frolic hour of infancy, is met;

And never has a summer's morning smiled
Upon a lovelier scene, than the full eye
Of the enthusiast revels on-when high,

Amid thy forest solitudes, he climbs

O'er crags that proudly tower above the deep, And knows that sense of danger, which sublimes The breathless moment-when his daring step Is on the verge of the cliff, and he can hear The low dash of the wave with startled ear,

Like the death-music of his coming doom,

And clings to the green turf with desperate force, As the heart clings to life; and when resume The currents in his veins their wonted course, There lingers a deep feeling, like the moan Of wearied ocean, when the storm is gone.

In such an hour, he turns, and on his view,

Ocean, and earth, and heaven, burst before himClouds slumbering at his feet, and the clear blue

Of summer's sky, in beauty bending o'er him
The city bright below; and far away,
Sparkling in golden light, his own romantic bay.

Tall spire, and glittering roof, and battlement,
And banners floating in the sunny air,

And white sails o'er the calm blue waters bent,
Green isle, and circling shore, are blended there,
In wild reality. When life is old,

And many a scene forgot, the heart will hold

Its memory of this; nor lives there one,

Whose infant breath was drawn, or boyhood days Of happiness were passed beneath that sun, That in his manhood prime can calmly gaze Upon that bay, or on that mountain stand, Nor feel the prouder of his native land.

On laying the Corner Stone of the Bunker Hill Monument.-PIERPONT.

O, is not this a holy spot?

'Tis the high place of Freedom's birth! God of our fathers! is it not

The holiest spot of all the earth?

Quenched is thy flame on Horeb's side;
The robber roams o'er Sinai now;
And those old men, thy seers, abide
No more on Zion's mournful brow.

But on this hill thou, Lord, hast dwelt,
Since round its head the war-cloud curled,
And wrapped our fathers, where they knelt
In prayer and battle for a world.

Here sleeps their dust: 'tis holy ground:
And we, the children of the brave,
From the four winds are gathered round,
To lay our offering on their grave.

Free as the winds around us blow,
Free as the waves below us spread,
We rear a pile, that long shall throw
Its shadow on their sacred bed.

But on their deeds no shade shall fall,

While o'er their couch thy sun shall flame :
Thine ear was bowed to hear their call,

And thy right hand shall guard their fame.

Rousseau and Cowper.-CARLOS WILCOX.

ROUSSEAU could weep; yes, with a heart of stone,
The impious sophist could recline beside
The pure and peaceful lake, and muse alone
On all its loveliness at even tide-

On its small running waves, in purple dyed,
Beneath bright clouds or all the glowing sky,

On the white sails that o'er its bosom glide,
And on surrounding mountains wild and high,
Till tears unbidden gushed from his enchanted eye.

But his were not the tears of feeling fine
Of grief or love; at fancy's flash they flowed,
Like burning drops from some proud lonely pine
By lightning fired; his heart with passion glowed
Till it consumed his life, and yet he showed
A chilling coldness both to friend and foe,
As Etna, with its centre an abode

Of wasting fire, chills with the icy snow
Of all its desert brow the living world below.

Was he but justly wretched from his crimes?
Then why was Cowper's anguish oft as keen,
With all the heaven-born virtue that sublimes
Genius and feeling, and to things unseen

Lifts the pure heart through clouds, that roll between
The earth and skies, to darken human hope?

Or wherefore did those clouds thus intervene

To render vain faith's lifted telescope,

And leave him in thick gloom his weary way to grope?

He, too, could give himself to musing deep;
By the calm lake, at evening, he could stand,
Lonely and sad, to see the moonlight sleep
On all its breast, by not an insect fanned,
And hear low voices on the far-off strand,
Or, through the still and dewy atmosphere,
The pipe's soft tones, waked by some gentle hand,
From fronting shore and woody island near

In echoes quick returned more mellow and more clear.

And he could cherish wild and mournful dreams,
In the pine grove, when low the full moon, fair,

Shot under lofty tops her level beams,

Stretching the shades of trunks erect and bare,
In stripes drawn parallel with order rare,

As of some temple vast or colonnade,

While on green turf, made smooth without his care, He wandered o'er its stripes of light and shade,

And heard the dying day-breeze all the boughs pervade.

'Twas thus, in nature's bloom and solitude,
He nursed his grief till nothing could assuage;
'Twas thus his tender spirit was subdued,
Till in life's toils it could no more engage;
And his had been a useless pilgrimage,
Had he been gifted with no sacred power,
To send his thoughts to every future age;
But he is gone where grief will not devour,
Where beauty will not fade, and skies will never lower.

To that bright world where things of earth appear
Stripped of false charms, my fancy often flies,
To ask him there what life is happiest here;
And, as he points around him, and replies
With glowing lips, my heart within me dies,
And conscience whispers of a dreadful bar,
When, in some scene where every beauty lies,
A soft, sweet pensiveness begins to mar
The joys of social life, and with its claims to war.

To the Dead.-BRAINARD.

How many now are dead to me

That live to others yet!

How many are alive to me

Who crumble in their graves, nor see
That sickening, sinking look which we
Till dead can ne'er forget.

Beyond the blue seas, far

Most wretchedly alone,

away,

One died in prison, far away,

Where stone on stone shut out the day,

And never hope or comfort's ray

In his lone dungeon shone.

Dead to the world, alive to me;

Though months and years have passed,

In a lone hour, his sigh to me

Comes like the hum of some wild bee,
And then his form and face I see

As when I saw him last.