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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.
WEEHAWKEN. WEEHAWKEN! In thy mountain scenery yet,
All we adore of nature, in her wild
And never has a summer's morning smiled
Amid thy forest solitudes, he climbs
O’er crags, that proudly tower above the deep,
The breathless moment when his daring step
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,
n such an hour he turns, and on his view,
Ocean, and earth, and heaven, burst before him
Of summer's sky, in beauty bending o'er him-
And banners floating in the sunny air;
Green isle, and circling shore, are blended there,
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,
Should tremble at his power;
In dreams his song of triumph heard:
As Eden's garden bird.
An hour passed on-the Turk awoke;
That bright dream was his last;
Bozzaris cheer his band;
God-and your native land!”
They fought-like brave men, long and well,
They piled that ground with Moslem slain,
Bleeding at every vein.
His few surviving comrades saw
And the red field was won ;
Like flowers at set of sun. in
Come to the mother, when she feels,
Come when the blessed se :als
Come in consumption's ghastly form,
With banquet-song, and dance, and wine,
Of agony, are thine.
But to the hero, when his sword
Has won the battle for the free,
The thanks of millions yet to be.
Greece nurtured in her glory's time,
Even in her own proud clime.
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,
TO SENECA LAKE.
On thy fair bosom, waveless stream!
How sweet, at set of sun, to view
At midnight hour, as shines the moon,
On thy fair bosom, silver lake!