Thou hast it. At thy bidding men have crowded The road to death as to a festival;

And minstrel minds, without a blush, have shrouded With banner-folds of glory their dark pall. Who will believe-not I-for in deceiving

Lies the dear charm of life's delightful dream; I cannot spare the luxury of believing

That all things beautiful are what they seem. Who will believe that, with a smile whose blessing Would, like the patriarch's, soothe a dying hour; With voice as low, as gentle, and caressing

As e'er won maiden's lip in moonlight bower; With look, like patient JOB's, eschewing evil; With motions graceful as a bird's in air; Thou art, in sober truth, the veriest devil

That e'er clinch'd fingers in a captive's hair?

That in thy veins there springs a poison fountain, Deadlier than that which bathes the upas-tree; And in thy wrath, a nursing cat o' mountain

Is calm as her babe's sleep compared with thee? And underneath that face like summer's ocean's, Its lip as moveless, and its cheek as clear, Slumbers a whirlwind of the heart's emotions, Love, hatred, pride, hope, sorrow-all, save fear. Love-for thy land, as if she were thy daughter, Her pipes in peace, her tomahawk in wars; Hatred of missionaries and cold water;

Pride-in thy rifle-trophies and thy scars; Hope that thy wrongs will be by the Great Spirit Remember'd and revenged when thou art gone; Sorrow-that none are left thee to inherit Thy name, thy fame, thy passions, and thy throne.

CONNECTICUT.

AND still her gray rocks tower above the sea That murmurs at their feet, a conquer'd wave; 'Tis a rough land of earth, and stone, and tree, Where breathes no castled lord or cabin'd slave; Where thoughts, and tongues, and hands are bold and free,

And friends will find a welcome, foes a grave; And where none kneel, save when to Heaven they Nor even then, unless in their own way. [pray, Theirs is a pure republic, wild, yet strong,

A "fierce democracie," where all are true To what themselves have voted-right or wrongAnd to their laws, denominated blue; (If red, they might to DRACO's code belong ;) A vestal state, which power could not subdue, Nor promise win-like her own eagle's nest, Sacred-the San Marino of the west. A justice of the peace, for the time being, They bow to, but may turn him out next year: They reverence their priest, but, disagreeing

In price or creed, dismiss him without fear; They have a natural talent for foreseeing

And knowing all things; and should PARK appear From his long tour in Africa, to show [know. The Niger's source, they'd meet him with-We

They love their land, because it is their own, And scorn to give aught other reason why; Would shake hands with a king upon his throne, And think it kindness to his majesty;

A stubborn race, fearing and flattering none.

Such are they nurtured, such they live and de: All-but a few apostates, who are meddling With merchandise, pounds, shillings, pence, and peddling;

Or, wandering through the southern countries, teaching

The A B C from WEBSTER'S spelling-book; Gallant and godly, making love and preaching, And gaining, by what they call "hook and crook," And what the moralists call overreaching, A decent living. The Virginians look Upon them with as favourable eyes As GABRIEL on the devil in Paradise.

But these are but their outcasts. View them near At home, where all their worth and pride is placed;

And there their hospitable fires burn clear,
And there the lowliest farm-house hearth is graced
With manly hearts, in piety sincere,

Faithful in love, in honour stern and chaste, In friendship warm and true, in danger brave, Beloved in life, and sainted in the grave.

And minds have there been nurtured, whose control
Is felt even in their nation's destiny;
Men who sway'd senates with a statesman's soul,
And look'd on armies with a leader's eye;
Names that adorn and dignify the scroll
Whose leaves contain their country's history.

Hers are not Tempe's nor Arcadia's spring,
Nor the long summer of Cathayan vales,
The vines, the flowers, the air, the skies, that fling
Such wild enchantment o'er BOCCACCIO's tales
Of Florence and the Arno-yet the wing

Of life's best angel, health, is on her gales Through sun and snow-and, in the autumn time, Earth has no purer and no lovelier clime.

Her clear, warm heaven at noon, the mist that shrouds

Her twilight hills,-her cool and starry eves, The glorious splendour of her sunset clouds,

The rainbow beauty of her forest leaves, Come o'er the eye, in solitude and crowds,

Where'er his web of song her poet weaves; And his mind's brightest vision but displays The autumn scenery of his boyhood's days. And when you dream of woman, and her love; Her truth, her tenderness, her gentle power; The maiden, listening in the moonlight grove; The mother, smiling in her infant's bower; Forms, features, worshipp'd while we breathe or

move,

Be, by some spirit of your dreaming hour, Borne, like Loretto's chapel, through the air To the green land I sing, then wake; you'll find

them there.

ALNWICK CASTLE.

HOME of the Percy's high-born race,
Home of their beautiful and brave,
Alike their birth and burial place,
Their cradle and their grave!
Still sternly o'er the castle gate
Their house's Lion stands in state,
As in his proud departed hours;
And warriors frown in stone on high,
And feudal banners "flout the sky"
Above his princely towers.

A gentle hill its side inclines,

Lovely in England's fadeless green,
To meet the quiet stream which winds
Through this romantic scene
As silently and sweetly still,
As when, at evening, on that hill,

While summer's wind blew soft and low,
Seated by gallant Hotspur's side,
His Katharine was a happy bride,
A thousand years ago.

Gaze on the Abbey's ruin'd pile :

Does not the succouring ivy, keeping
Her watch around it, seem to smile,
As o'er a loved one sleeping?

One solitary turret gray

Still tells, in melancholy glory,
The legend of the Cheviot day,

The Percy's proudest border story.
That day its roof was triumph's arch;
Then rang, from aisle to pictured dome,
The light step of the soldier's march,

The music of the trump and drum;
And babe, and sire, the old, the young,
And the monk's hymn, and minstrel's song,
And woman's pure kiss, sweet and long,
Welcomed her warrior home.

Wild roses by the abbey towers

Are gay in their young bud and bloom: They were born of a race of funeral flowers That garlanded, in long-gone hours,

A Templar's knightly tomb.

He died, the sword in his mailed hand,

On the holiest spot of the Blessed Land,

Where the Cross was damp'd with his dying

breath,

When blood ran free as festal wine,

And the sainted air of Palestine

Was thick with the darts of death.

Wise with the lore of centuries,

What tales, if there be "tongues in trees,"
Those giant oaks could tell,

Of beings born and buried here;
Tales of the peasant and the peer,
Tales of the bridal and the bier,
The welcome and farewell,
Since on their boughs the startled bird
First, in her twilight slumbers, heard
The Norman's curfew-bell.
I wander'd through the lofty halls
Trod by the Percys of old fame,

And traced upon the chapel walls
Each high, heroic name,

From him who once his standard set
Where now, o'er mosque and minaret,

Glitter the Sultan's crescent moons; To him who, when a younger son, Fought for King George at Lexington, A major of dragoons.

That last half stanza-it has dash'd
From my warm lip the sparkling cup;
The light that o'er my eyebeam flash'd,
The power that bore my spirit up
Above this bank-note world-is gone;
And Alnwick's but a market town,
And this, alas! its market day,
And beasts and borderers throng the way;
Oxen and bleating lambs in lots,
Northumbrian boors and plaided Scots,

Men in the coal and cattle line;
From Teviot's bard and hero land,
From royal Berwick's beach of sand,
From Wooler, Morpeth, Hexham, and
Newcastle-upon-Tyne.

These are not the romantic times
So beautiful in Spenser's rhymes,

So dazzling to the dreaming boy:
Ours are the days of fact, not fable,
Of knights, but not of the Round Table,
Of Bailie Jarvie, not Rob Roy:
"Tis what "our President," Monroe,

Has call'd "the era of good feeling :"
The Highlander, the bitterest foe
To modern laws, has felt their blow,
Consented to be taxed, and vote,
And put on pantaloons and coat,

And leave off cattle-stealing;
Lord Stafford mines for coal and salt,
The Duke of Norfolk deals in malt,

The Douglas in red herrings:
And noble name and cultured land,
Palace, and park, and vassal band,
Are powerless to the notes of hand
Of Rothschild or the Barings.

The age of bargaining, said Burke, Has come to-day the turban'd Turk (Sleep, Richard of the lion heart! Sleep on, nor from your cerements start)

Is England's friend and fast ally; The Moslem tramples on the Greek, And on the Cross and altar stone, And Christendom looks tamely on, And hears the Christian maiden shriek, And sees the Christian father die: And not a sabre blow is given For Greece and fame, for faith and heaven, By Europe's craven chivalry.

You'll ask if yet the Percy lives

In the arm'd pomp of feudal state?
The present representatives

Of Hotspur and his "gentle Kate,"
Are some half-dozen serving men,
In the drab coat of William Penn;

A chambermaid, whose lip and eye,
And cheek, and brown hair, bright and curling,
Spoke nature's aristocracy;

And one, half groom, half seneschal,
Who bow'd me through court, bower, and hall,
From donjon-keep to turret wall,
For ten-and-sixpence sterling.

MAGDALEN.

A SWORD, whose blade has ne'er been wet
With blood, except of freedom's foes;
That hope which, though its sun be set,
Still with a starlight beauty glows;
A heart that worshipp'd in Romance

The Spirit of the buried Time,

And dreams of knight, and steed, and lance,
And ladye-love, and minstrel-rhyme;
These had been, and I deemed would be
My joy, whate'er my destiny.

Born in a camp, its watch-fires bright

Alone illumed my cradle-bed;
And I had borne with wild delight

My banner where Bolivar led,
Ere manhood's hue was on my check,

Or manhood's pride was on my brow.
Its folds are furl'd-the war-bird's beak
Is thirsty on the Andes now;
I long'd, like her, for other skies
Clouded by Glory's sacrifice.

In Greece, the brave heart's Holy Land,
Its soldier-song the bugle sings;
And I had buckled on my brand,

And waited but the sea wind's wings,
To bear me where, or lost or won

Her battle, in its frown or smile,
Men live with those of Marathon,

Or die with those of Scio's isle;
And find in Valour's tent or tomb,
In life or death, a glorious home.
I could have left but yesterday

The scene of my boy-years behind,
And floated on my careless way
Wherever will'd the breathing wind.
I could have bade adieu to aught
I've sought, or met, or welcomed here,
Without an hour of shaded thought,
A sigh, a murmur, or a tear.
Such was I yesterday—but then
I had not known thee, Magdalen.

To-day there is a change within me,

There is a weight upon my brow, And Fame, whose whispers once could win me From all I loved, is powerless now. There ever is a form, a face

Of maiden beauty in my dreams,
Speeding before me, like the race

To ocean of the mountain streams-
With dancing hair, and laughing eyes,
That seem to mock me as it flies.
My sword-it slumbers in its sheath;
My hopes their starry light is gone;

My heart-the fabled clock of death,

Beats with the same low, lingering tone: And this, the land of Magdalen,

Seems now the only spot on earth Where skies are blue and flowers are green; And here I'd build my household hearth, And breathe my song of joy, and twine A lovely being's name with mine. In vain! in vain! the sail is spread; To sea! to sea! my task is there; But when among the unmourned dead They lay me, and the ocean air Brings tidings of my day of doom,

Mayst thou be then, as now thou art,
The load-star of a happy home;

In smile and voice, in eye and heart
The same as thou hast ever been,
The loved, the lovely Magdalen.

TWILIGHT.

THERE is an evening twilight of the heart,
When its wild passion-waves are lull'd to rest,
And the eye sees life's fairy scenes depart,
As fades the day-beam in the rosy west.
"Tis with a nameless feeling of regret

We gaze upon them as they melt away,
And fondly would we bid them linger yet,
But hope is round us with her angel lay,
Hailing afar some happier moonlight hour;
Dear are her whispers still, though lost their early
power.

In youth the cheek was crimson'd with her glow; Her smile was loveliest then; her matin song Was heaven's own music, and the note of wo Was all unheard her sunny bowers among. Life's little world of bliss was newly born;

We knew not, cared not, it was born to die, Flush'd with the cool breeze and the dews of morn, With dancing heart we gazed on the pure sky, And mock'd the passing clouds that dimm'd its blue, Like our own sorrows then-as fleeting and as few. And manhood felt her sway too-on the eye,

Half realized, her early dreams burst bright, Her promised bower of happiness seem'd nigh, Its days of joy, its vigils of delight; And though at times might lower the thunder-storm, And the red lightnings threaten, still the air Was balmy with her breath, and her loved form, The rainbow of the heart, was hovering there. "Tis in life's noontide she is nearest seen, [green. Her wreath the summer flower, her robe of summer

But though less dazzling in her twilight dress,

There's more of heaven's pure beam about her That angel-smile of tranquil loveliness, [now; Which the heart worships, glowing on her brow; That smile shall brighten the dim evening star That points our destined tomb, nor e'er depart Till the faint light of life is fled afar,

And hush'd the last deep beating of the heart; The meteor bearer of our parting breath, A moonbeam in the midnight cloud of death.

MARCO BOZZARIS.*

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 press'd that monarch's throne-a king;
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,
As Eden's garden-bird.

At midnight, in the forest shades,

BOZZARIS ranged his Suliote band, True as the steel of their tried blades,

Heroes in heart and hand.

There had the Persian's thousands stood,
There had the glad earth drunk their blood
On old Platea's day;

And now there breathed that haunted air
The sons of sires who conquer'd there,
With arm to strike, and soul to dare,
As quick, as far as they.

An hour pass'd on-the Turk awoke;
That bright dream was his last;
He awoke to hear his sentries 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 arm'd 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 conquer'd-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.

Come to the bridal chamber, Death!
Come to the mother's, when she feels,
For the first time, her firstborn's breath;
Come when the blessed seals
That close the pestilence are broke,
And crowded cities wail its stroke;

*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, not a pain."

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 bier;
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.
Come, when his task of fame is wrought-
Come, with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought—
Come in her crowning hour-and then
Thy sunken eye's unearthly light
To him is welcome as the sight

Of sky and stars to prison'd men: Thy grasp is welcome as the hand Of brother in a foreign land; Thy summons welcome as the cry That told the Indian isles were nigh To the world-seeking Genoese, When the land-wind, from woods of palm, And orange-groves, and fields of balm, Blew o'er the Haytian seas.

BOZZARIS! with the storied brave

Greece nurtured in her glory's time, Rest thee-there is no prouder grave,

Even in her own proud clime.

She wore no funeral weeds for thee,

Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume, Like torn branch from death's leafless tree, In sorrow's pomp and pageantry,

The heartless luxury of the tomb: But she remembers thee as one Long loved, and for a season gone; For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed, Her marble wrought, her music breathed; For thee she rings the birthday bells; Of thee her babes' first lisping tells: For thine her evening prayer is said At palace couch, and cottage bed; Her soldier, closing with the foe, Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow; His plighted maiden, when she fears For him, the joy of her young years, Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears:

And she, the mother of thy boys, Though in her eye and faded cheek Is read the grief she will not speak, The memory of her buried joys, And even she who gave thee birth, Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth,

Talk of 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.