To the tread of mournful feet,
Then this crimson flag shall be
Martial cloak and shroud for thee!

And the warrior took that banner proud, And it was his martial cloak and shroud.

LOVE ASLEEP.

Wake him not, he dreams of bliss;
His little lips put forth a kiss;
His arms, entwined in virgin grace,
Seem linked in beautiful embrace.

He smiles, and on his opening lip
Might saints refresh and angels sip;
He blushes,-'tis the rosy light
That morning wears on leaving night.

He sighs, 'tis not the sigh of wo;
He only sighs that he may know
If kindred sighs another move;
For mutual sighs are signs of love.

He speaks, it is his dear one's name; He whispers, still it is the same; The imprisoned accents strive in vain, They murmer through his lips again.

He wakes! the silly little boy,
To break the mirror thus of joy;
He wakes to sorrow, and in pain;
Oh! Love, renew thy dreams again.

SONG.

Dost thou idly ask to hear
At what gentle seasons
Nymphs relent, when lovers near
Press the tenderest reasons?
Ah, they give their faith too oft
To the careless wooer ;

Maidens' hearts are always soft,

Would that men's were truer !

Woo the fair one, when around
Early birds are singing;

When, o'er all the fragrant ground,

Early herbs are springing:

When the brookside, bank and grove,

All with blossoms laden,

Shine with beauty, breathe of love,

Woo the timid maiden.

Stars are softly winking;

When, through boughs that knit the bower,
Moonlight gleams are stealing;

Woo her, till the gentle hour
Wakes a gentler feeling.

Woo her, when autumnal dyes
Tinge the woody mountain;
When the dropping foliage lies,
In the half-choked fountain;
Let the scene, that tells how fast
Youth is passing over,

Warn her, ere her bloom is past,
To secure her lover.

Woo her, when the northwinds call
At the lattice nightly;
When, within the cheerful hall,
Blaze the faggots brightly;
While the wintry tempest round

Sweeps the landscape hoary,
Sweeter in her ear shall sound
Love's delightful story.

THE GRECIAN PARTIZAN.

Our free flag is dancing,

In the free mountain air,

And burnished arms are glancing,

And warriors mustering there; And true and brave, though passing few, Are they whose bosoms shield it ;— Their life-blood shall its folds bedew Ere to the foe they yield it. Each dark eye is fixed on earth,

And brief each solemn greeting;

There is no look or sound of mirth Where those stern men are meeting.

They go to the slaughter,

To strike the sudden blow, And pour on earth, like water,

The best blood of the foe;

To rush on them from rock and height,
And clear the narrow valley,
Or fire their camp, at dead of night,
And fly before they rally.

Chains are round our country prest
And cowards have betrayed her,
And we must make her bleeding breast
The grave of the invader.

Not till from her fetters

We raise up Greece again,

And write, in bloody letters,
That tyranny is slain,-

Oh, not till then the smile shall steal

Across those darkened faces, Nor one of all those warriors feel

His children's dear embraces.
Leave unreaped the ripened wheat,
Till yonder hosts are flying,
And all their bravest, at our feet,
Like autumn sheaves are lying.

THE INDIAN HUNTER.

When the summer harvest was gathered in,
And the sheaf of the gleaner grew white and thin,
And the ploughshare was in its furrow left,
Where the stubble land had been lately cleft,
An Indian hunter, with unstrung bow,

Looked down where the valley lay stretched below.

He was a stranger there, and all that day
Had been out on the hills, a perilous way,
But the foot of the deer was far and fleet,
And the wolf kept aloof from the hunter's feet,
And bitter feelings passed o'er him then,
As he stood by the populous haunts of men.

The winds of autumn came over the woods
As the sun stole out from their solitudes,
The moss was white on the maple's trunk,
And dead from its arms the pale vine shrunk,
And ripened the mellow fruit hung, and red
Were the tree's withered leaves round it shed.