THOSE eyes which oft flashed at the hero's renown,
Which were wont to rekindle at Liberty's breath,
Are darkened forever; their spirit hath flown,

And the heart is all cold, and those eyes sunk in death."

DURING a blockading cruise off Navarino and Pahas, we heard that a young foreigner of distinction, moved by an ardent enthusiasm in the cause of Greece, was about to volunteer under our banners. Of course we were all on the qui vive to discover who this chivalrous youth might be, what country claimed our hero as her son, and what fortune he possessed; a matter of no small consideration to the Greeks, where money was what the fountain of the desert is to the parched-up, mummied Arab pilgrims of the desert. The morning of the nineteenth of August, however, removed all doubt upon the subject. About mid-day, when off the island of Cerigo, we were hailed by the captain of an Ionian merchantman, to whom we had given chase. On proceeding on board, a scene of the most admirable disorder presented itself. We found the Greeks perfectly a la Grecque, arranged pell-mell around the capstan on the quarter-deck, agreeably discussing the merits of a collazione composed of the ordinary Turkish pilaw, hard biscuit and pickled mackarel. Amid this picturesque group sat our 'illustrious unknown' adventurer, who, on being introduced to us, proved to be no less a personage than Paul, the son of Lucian Bonaparte. Of course we made the necessary arrangements for exchanging his uncouth berth for the more agreea

ble quarters of the 'Unicorn,' a beautiful pleasure-yacht, purchased by the Greeks for the private use of Lord Cochrane. A gentleman of our party, well acquainted with the person of the emperor, immediately recognised a strong resemblance of features in this scion of the stock, especially about the head and neck, which approached the admired Roman model in Napoleon.

Two days were spent in mutual inquiries; ours as to the then existing state of affairs in the world of European politics, while our young crusader's inquiries extended to the nature of our immediate pursuits. Being eager for the field,' his first question was as to the whereabouts of Sir Richard Church, general in command of the Greek forces, and who at this period was encamped on the classic plains of Corinth. Having learnt at Zante that the general was about to march against the enemy, our young friend appeared most anxious to join him. Shortly afterward we fell in with Lord Cochrane, who, won by the chivalrous bearing and fascinating address of Paul, took him as a travelling companion toward the camp of the general.

On their arrival at Corinth the army was found to be in so disorganized and inefficient a state as to preclude the possibility of executing the contemplated hostile measures against the Turks in that quarter. This was a source of grievous disappointment to our young adventurer resolved, however, that his energies should not lie dormant, he eagerly accepted Lord Cochrane's offer to join the fleet in a contemplated attack on a squadron of the Ottomans, then at anchor in the Bay of Navarin; he consequently returned to the harbor of Spezzia, and removed with the admiral on board his flagship, the Hellas,' a beautiful sixty-four gun frigate, built in America. She was at this time lying at anchor off the islands, waiting her complement of Spezziote and Hydriote sailors. Here it was, while awaiting the ulterior arrangements for the expedition, that he met with his untimely end. The catastrophe I shall now proceed to relate:

On the morning of the sixth of September, feeling somewhat indisposed, he remained in bed later than usual. By the side of the bed hung his pistols; they were loaded, and had been thoughtlessly suspended by the triggers. While in the act of rising, he heedlessly took one of them by the barrel, which was immediately discharged. The sudden report alarmed the officers in the gun-room, who, on proceeding to his chamber, found the unfortunate youth stretched upon the bed, mortally wounded! Surgical skill proved of no avail, and he expired at about two o'clock on the following morning, after laboring under extreme suffering, which he endured with the most extraordinary fortitude to the last.

On examination, it appeared that the ball had entered the abdomen, and after perforating the intestines in four places, had lodged in the spine.

Thus perished the generous and unfortunate Paul Bonaparte, in the vigor of youth, and in the possession of an heroic devotion for a cause which, had he lived, would have been honored by his enterprising valor, and perhaps more noble death. It would appear from

what I was informed by a friend who accompanied him from the coast of Italy, that following the naturally romantic impulse inherent in him, he had determined on pursuing the chivalrous career of a soldier; this resolution, however, was strongly opposed by his father, who it seemed had destined him for the less adventurous profession of the church; which pursuit being so totally at variance with the disposition and inclinations of the son, was by him courteously declined. Hence arose a dissension between them; and ecclesiastical arguments availing naught, he left his father's mansion, never to return! On his first quitting the paternal roof, he for a time, and the better to conceal his intentions, sojourned with a celebrated mountain chief, leading with him a life of romance and adventure, well suited to prepare him for a Grecian campaign.

On his ultimate departure for that classic land, trampled on by Turkish despotism, he sailed under an assumed name, and remained the mysterious stranger' until we were honored with his presence. He had won all hearts by his frank and amiable disposition. Had he lived, the world might have beheld him a hero crowned with laurels gained in the cause of Greece, and following a career less elevated, but equally honorable with that of the immortal Emperor.

ASHTABULA.

MINE own romantic stream!

Long years have rolled a dimly-gathered mist
Between us, as far sep'rate we pursue

Our sev'ral ways. You (bright as when you kissed
The mellow bank which, clothed in various hue,

Had lured my careless footsteps to its side,)

To dance along, light-hearted, buoyant, free,
Making such music in thy swelling tide

As wakes the feeling heart to minstrelsy:

I, to recall each sunny-favored hour

I passed in roaming where thy waters flow,
Each stately grove, each summer-haunted bower
Casting its shadow o'er thy wave below

To bid my soul renew its youthful glow,

And let the light of other days above its darkness gleam.

Joys of long-vanished years!

Oh, how ye gather round me once again!

Yet hardly may ye gladden me, since now,
Tossed on life's restless, ever-heaving main,
With anchor weighed and onward-pointed prow,

I seek another haven, on a shore

My dreams had pictured gloomily and lone;
But Faith put forth her wand, and lo! it wore
A hue as pure and bright as Eden's own.
Mark him who watches for the morning hour,

The sun's warm beam, the glorious flush of day;
Fair LUNA's eye hath lost its witching power,
His heart moves not beneath her gentle ray;
For hopes and thoughts are centred far away,

And visions of the morrow's sky claim all his smiles and tears.

C. R. C.

A

REMONSTRANCE

TO BYRON.

THE following poem was addressed to Lord BYRON, by Mrs. ELLIOT, a Scottish lady, soon after the appearance of his Eastern tales. They express a remonstrance against the Bard for his desertion of the fair ones of his own country. The effect was not very great upon the Poet; for the manuscript (which was retained by Lady DOUGLASS, of Rose-Hall, Lanarkshire, at whose mansion BYRON was a frequent guest,) was returned to the authoress, 'with his compliments.' The 'hand of write' is fair and good. the paper polished but yellow, and ragged with 'time and tear.' ED. KNICKERBOCKER.

KNOW'ST thou the land of the mountain and flood,
Where the pines of the forest for ages have stood?
Where the eagle comes forth on the wings of the storm,
And her young ones are rocked on the high cairn-gor'm?

Know'st thou the land where the cold Celtic wave
Encircles the hills which her blue waters lave?
Where the virgins are pure as the gems of the sea,
And their spirits are light, and their actions are free?

Know'st thou the land where the sun's ling'ring ray
Streaks with gold the horizon, till dawns the new day?
While the cold feeble beam, which he sheds on their sight,
Scarce breaks through the gloom of the long sombre night?

'Tis the land of thy sires-'t is the land of thy youth,
Where first thy young heart glowed with honor and truth;
Where the wild-fire of Genius first caught thy young soul,
And thy feet and thy fancy roamed free from control.

Ah! why does that fancy still dwell on those climes,
Where love leads to madness, and madness to crimes?
Where courage itself is more savage than brave,
Where man is a despot, and woman a slave?

Though soft are the breezes, and rich the perfume,
And fair are the gardens of Gul in their bloom,'
Can the roses they twine, or the vines which they rear,
Speak peace to the breast of suspicion or fear?

Let PHOEBUS' bright ray gild the Ægean wave,
But say, can it brighten the lot of the slave?
Or all that is beauteous in Nature impart
One virtue to soften the Moslem's proud heart?

Ah, no!-'t is the magic which glows in thy strain,

Gives soul to the action, and life to the scene;

And the deeds which they do, and the tales which they tell,
Enchant us alone by the power of thy spell.

And is there no spell in thy own native earth?

Does no talisman rest in the spot of thy birth?

Are the daughters of Britain less worthy thy care-
Less soft than ZULEIKA, less bright than GULNARE?

Are her sons less honored, or her warriors less brave,
Than the slaves of a prince, who himself is a slave?

Then strike thy wild harp- let it swell with the strain;
Let the mighty in arms live and conquer again;
Their deeds and their glory thy lay shall prolong,
And the fame of thy country shall live in thy song.

Though the proud wreath of victory round heroes may twine,
'Tis the poet that crowns them with honor divine;

And thy laurels, PELIDES, had sunk in thy tomb,

Had the Bards not preserved them immortal in bloom.

LOVE'S TRIUMPH OVER PHILOSOPHY.

A OERMANIC SKETCH: BY HENRY J. BRENT.

AMID a thousand joys lived FREDERICK VAN ARTELDI, son of a distinguished German scholar. His days were spent in intellectual pursuits, his nights in far travelling beneath the mighty forest that spread itself near his paternal roof. Beautiful in person, and endowed with the highest qualities of genius, Frederick lived the idol of his father and the admiration of his friends. His eyes were those eloquent eyes that might move an Athenian populace by a flash; his forehead shone like marble, and his mouth was wreathed with captivating smiles. His voice was sweet and deep, and his figure was symmetry itself. Who could look upon and listen to the gifted youth, and withhold their friendship? Interesting from his own character, he was almost hallowed by the fame of his distinguished father. All Europe had heard his parent's name; and the plaudits of distant countries sounded softly and soothingly to his ears. Wherever Frederick moved, respect, mingled with love, made life a transport, existence a bliss.

He studied deeply the lore of his mystic father-land, and he drank, with a vivid enthusiasm, of those dark fountains that well up amid haunted castles and sombre woods; and in the falling or the fixed stars he fancied he could read prophecies of himself and others. Shut up in the old tower, in which was his father's library, he peopled the air with phantoms, and threw a hideous yet glorious halo around life, by evoking the mightiness of the tomb.

He read from old tomes that were gray with melancholy age, and his eyes pored over the cabalistic manuscript of pens that had long since withered, and whose ink was dim and shadowy, like the memory of good deeds.

Ere he came into the extraordinary tutelage of his father, of which we shall hereafter speak, the black forest was his home; the rolling