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Shalt thou retire alone-nor couldst thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world—with kings The powerful of the earth-the wise, the good, Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, All in one mighty sepulchre.—The hills Rock-ribb’d and ancient as the sun,the vales Stretching in pensive quietness between;The venerable woods-rivers that move In majesty, and the complaining brooks That make the meadows green; and pour'd round all, Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste, Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, Are shining on the sad abodes of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom.—Take the wings Of morning and the Barcan descrt pierce, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregan, and hears no sound, Save his own dashings-yet-the dead are there, And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep—the dead reign there alone.So shalt thou rest—and what if thou shalt fall Unnoticed by the living and no friend Take note of thy departure ? All that breathe Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one as before will chase His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come, And make their bed with thee. As the long train Of ages glide away, the sons of men, The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes In the full strength of years, matron, and maid, The bow'd with age, the infant in the smiles And beauty of its innocent age cut off, Shall one by one be gather'd to thy side, By those, who in their turn shall follow them. So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan, that moves To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take His chainber in the silent balls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon, but sustain'd and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.

WEEHAWKEN. 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.

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

Ocean, and earth, and heaven, burst before him
Clouds 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 pass'd 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.

MARCO BOZZARIS. [He fell in an attack upon the Turkish Camp, at Laspi, the site of the ancient Platæa, August 20, 1823, and expired in the moment of victory. His last words were“ To die for liberty is a pleasure, and not a pain.”] At midnight, in his guarded tent,

The Turk was dreaming of the hour,
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,

Should tremble at his power;
In dreams, through camp and court, he bore
The trophies of a conqueror;

In dreams his song of triumph heard:
Then wore his monarch's signet ring,
Then pressed that monarch's throne,-a king ;
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,

As Eden's garden bird.

An hour passed on-the Turk awoke;

That bright dream was his last;
He woke-to hear his sentry's shriek,
“ To arms! they come: the Greek! the Greek!”
He woke-to die midst flame and smoke,
And shout, and groan, and sabre stroke,
And death shots falling thick and fast
As lightnings from the mountain cloud ;
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud,

Bozzaris cheer his band;
* Strike-till the last armed foe expires,
Strike-for your altars and your fires,
Strike-for the green graves of your sires,

God-and your native land!”

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. in
Come to the bridal chamber, Death!

Come to the mother, when she feels,
For the first time, her first-b orn's breath ; i

Come when the blessed se :als
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 beir,
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 proudér 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.

JAMES G. PERCIVAL.

THE CORAL GROVE. Deep in the wave is a coral grove, Where the purple mullet, and gold-fish rove, Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blue, That never are wet with falling dew, But in bright and changeful beauty shine, Far down in the green and glassy brine. The floor is of sand, like the mountain drift, And the pearl shells spangle the flinty snow ; From coral rocks the sea plants lift Their boughs, where the tides and billows flow; The water is calm and still below, For the winds and waves are absent there, And the sands are bright as the stars that glow In the motionless fields of upper air ; There with its waving blade of green, The sea-flag streams through the silent water, And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen To blush, like a banner bathed in slaughter: There with a light and easy motior, The fan-coral sweeps through the clear deep sea; And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean Are bending like corn on the upland lea:

And life, in rare and beautiful forms,
Is sporting amid those bowers of stone,
And is safe, when the wrathful spirit of storms,
Has made the top of the waves his own :
And when the ship from his fury flies,
Where the myriad voices of ocean roar,
When the wind-god frowns in the murky skies,
And demons are waiting the wreck on shore ;
Then far below in the peaceful sea,
The purple mullet, and gold-fish rove,
Where the waters murmur tranquilly,
Through the bending twigs of the coral grove. +

TO SENECA LAKE.
Os thy fair bosom, silver lake!
The wild swan spreads his snowy sail,
And round his breast the ripples break,
As down he bears before the gale.

On thy fair bosom, waveless stream!
The dipping paddle echoes far,
And flashes in the moonlight gleam,
And bright reflects the polar star.
The waves along thy pebbly shore,
As blows the north wind, heave their foam,
And curl around the dashing oar,
As late the boatman hies him home.

How sweet, at set of sun, to view
Thy golden mirror spreading wide,
And see the mist of mantling blue
Float round the distant mountain's side.

At midnight hour, as shines the moon,
A sheet of silver spreads below,
And swift she cuts, at highest noon,
Light clouds, like wreaths of purest snow.

On thy fair bosom, silver lake!
0! I could ever sweep the oar,
When early birds at morning wake,
And evening tells us toil is o'er,

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