Modern Greece.

Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle

Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime? Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle,

Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime ? Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine ? Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppressed with per

fume, Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul in her bloom ; Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, And the voice of the nightingale never is mute; Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky, In colour though varied, in beauty may vie, And the purple of ocean is deepest in die; Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine, And all, save the spirit of man, is divine ? 'Tis the clime of the east, 'tis the land of the sunCan he smile on such deeds as his children have done ? Oh! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which

they tell.

Byron,

The first fifteen lines belong to one question, which terminates in the rising inflection. Though connected, they are divided into different portions, as if they were separate questions, to each of which the rising inflection may be applied, but not so decidedly as to the last. The portions to which we allude are clime, crime, shine, bloom, mute, die, and the final inflection, divine.

Description of Eastern Troops preparing for Battle,

in which of course some of the Manners and Customs of the East appear.

The night is past, and shines the sun
As if the morn were a jocund one.

Lightly and brightly breaks away
The Morning from her mantle grey,
And the Noon will look on a sultry day.
Hark! to the trump, and the drum,
And the mournful sound of the barbarous horn,
And the flap of the banners, that flit as they're borne,
And the neigh of the horse, and the multitude's hum,
And the clash, and the shout, they come, they come!
The horsetails are plucked from the ground, and the

sword From its sheath ; and they form, and but wait for

the word.
The steeds are all bridled, and snort to the rein ;
Curved is each neck, and flowing each mane;
White is the foam of their champ on the bit :
The spears are uplifted ; the matches are lit ;
The cannon are pointed, and ready to roar,
And crush the wall they have crumbled before:
Forms in his phalanx each Janizar ;
Alp at their head; his right arm is bare,
So is the blade of his scimitar;
The Khan and the Pachas are all at their post;
The Vizier himself at the head of the host.
When the culverin's signal is fired, then on ;
Leave not in Corinth a living one-
A priest at her altarš, a chief on her walls.
God and the prophet-Alla Hu !*
Up to the skies with that wild halloo.

Byron

Alla Hu, the war-cry of the followers of Mahomet. It will appear from the Rhyme, which is really the case, that they give a long accent or emphasis to the last syllable.

The Negro's Complaint.

Forc'p from home, and all its pleasures,

Afric's coast I left forlorn ;
To increase a stranger's treasures,

O'er the raging billows borne.

Men from England bought and sold me;

Paid my price in paltry gold: But though slave they have enroll'd me,

Minds are never to be sold. Still in thought as free as ever,

What are England's rights, I ask, Me, from my delights to sever,

Me to torture, me to task ? Fleecy locks and black complexion

Cannot forfeit Nature's claim ; Skins

may differ, but affection Dwells in white and black the same. Why did all-creating Nature

Make the plant for which we toil ? Sighs must fan it, tears must water,

Sweat of ours must dress the soil. Think, ye masters, iron-hearted,

Lolling at your jovial boards; Think how many backs have smarted

For the sweets your cane affords. Is there, as ye sometimes tell us,

Is there One who reigns on high? Has he bid you buy and sell us,

Speaking from his throne the sky ? Ask him, if your knotted scourges,

Matches, blood-extorting screws,
Are the means that duty urges

Agents of His will to use?
Hark! he answers_Wild tornadoes

Strewing yonder sea with wrecks;
Wasting towns, plantations, meadows,

Are the voice with which he speaks. He, foreseeing what vexations

Afric's sons should undergo, Fix'd their tyrants' habitations

Where his whirlwinds answer-No. By our blood in Afric wasted,

Ere our necks received the chain ;

By the miseries that we tasted,

Crossing in your barks the main :
By our sufferings, since ye brought us

To the man-degrading mart;
All, sustain'd by patience, taught us

Only by a broken heart !
Deem our nation brutes no longer,

Till some reason ye shall find
Worthier of regard, and stronger

Than the colour of our kind.
Slaves of gold, whose sordid dealings
Tarnish all

your
boasted

powers,
Prove that you have human feelings,
Ere you proudly question ours !

Cowper.

We should think the Negro would make is there emphatic, and thus lead high to the downward slide.

War Song for the Greeks.

This day shall you blush for its story,
Or brighten your lives with its glory?
Our women, oh, say, shall they shriek in despair,
Or embrace us from conquest with wreaths in their
Accursed

may
his memory blacken

[hair? If a coward there be that would slacken Till we've trampled the turban, and shown ourselves

worth Being sprung from and named for the god-like of Strike home and the world shall revere us, [earth. As heroes decended from heroes. Old Greece lightens up with emotion Her inlands, her isles of the ocean ; Fanes rebuilt, and fair towns shall with jubilee ring And the Nine shall new-hallow their Helicon's spring : Our hearths shall be kindled with gladness, That were cold and extinguish'd in sadness;

Whilst our maidens shall dance with their white.

waving arıns, Singing joy to the brave that deliver'd their charms, When the blood of

yon

Mussulman cravens Shall have purpled the beaks of our ravens.

Campbell.

Lament of Tasso.*

I once was quick in feeling--that is o'er ;-
My scars are callous, or I should have dash'd
My brain against these bars as the sun flash'd
In mockery through them ;--if I bear and bore
The much I have recounted, and the more
Which hath no words, 'tis that I would not die
And sanction with self-slaughter the dull lie
Which snared me here, and with the brand of shame
Stamp madness deep into my memory,
And woo compassion to a blighted name,
Sealing the sentence which my foes proclaim.
No-it shall be immortal !-and I make
A future temple of my present cell,
Which nations yet shall visit for my sake.
While thou, Ferrara! where no longer dwell
The ducal chiefs within thee, shalt fall down,
And crumbling piece-meal view thy hearthless halls,
A poet's wreath shall be thine only crown,
A poet's dungeon thy most far renown,
While strangers wonder o'er thy unpeopled walls!
And thou, Leonora ! thou—who wert ashamed
That such as I could love-who blush'd to hear
To less than monarchs that thou couldst be dear,
Go! tell thy brother that my heart, untamed