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Che sa ridere e trescar.
Foscolo's Essays on Petrarch.
THE DEATH OF LEONIDAS.
BY THE REV. GEORGE CROLY, A. M.
THE imagery in the following lines is highly poetic; but the antiquated style in which it is written, and the spirit of imitation that characterizes its author, cannot be too much censured. The poet who cannot rise to fame by following the impulse of his own genius, will never become immortal by serving a servile apprenticeship to the Muses.-ED.
It was the wild midnight-
And the thunder echoed by.
The torrent swept the glen,
The ocean lashed the shore;
To make their bed in gore!
Swift from the deluged ground
Three hundred took the shield;
He spoke no warrior word,
The fiery element
Show'd with one mighty gleam, Rampart, and flag, and tent,
Like the spectres of a dream.
All up the mountain's side,
Waved the Persian banners pale.
And foremost from the pass,
Like the lightning's living brand.
Then double darkness fell,
And the forest ceased its moan: But there came a clash of steel, And a distant dying groan.
Anon, a trumpet blew,
And a fiery sheet burst high, That o'er the midnight threw, A blood-red canopy.
A host glared on the hill;
Like leopards in their play.
The air was all a yell,
And the earth was all a flame, Where the Spartan's bloody steel On the silken turbans came.
And still the Greek rush'd on,
They found a royal feast,
His midnight banquet there; And the treasures of the East Lay beneath the Doric spear.
Then sat to the repast
The bravest of the brave! That feast must be their last, That spot must be their grave.
They pledged old Sparta's name
They took the rose-wreathed lyres From eunuch and from slave, And taught the languid wires
The sounds that freedom gave.
But now the morning star
Crown'd Eta's twilight brow; And the Persian horn of war From the hills began to blow.
Up rose the glorious rank,
Fear on King Xerxes fell,
When, like spirits from the tomb, With shout and trumpet knell, He saw the warriors come.
But down swept all his power,
With chariot and with charge; Down pour'd the arrowy show'r, Till sank the Dorian's targe.
They gather'd round the tent,
With all their strength unstrung; To Greece one look they sent, Then on high their torches flung.
Their king sat on the throne,
Thus fought the Greek of old!
ONE MOMENT MORE.
We are pleased with the following lines, but we should fear to recommend them to imitation. The warrior seems to have no great delicacy of feeling in declaring his passion so abruptly to his companion; and we feel disappointed by the poet totally concealing from us the tender scene that is supposed to have taken place between the lovers. We are only told abruptly, and rather unceremoniously, that" the struggle's past.' In this there is a want of tenderness.-ED.
One moment more, ere fast and far,
That past, I grasp my cymetar,
And glory's form caress.
Those bright blue eyes,-how tearful now
To clasp that hand, to kiss that brow,—
And then, 'midst other scenes,-with thee,-
Thou wilt not chide, for thou hast known,
One moment then, few may be flown
The struggle's past!Her golden hair
Sleeps on a soldier's breast: