Yet scorns the immortal mind this base control!
No chains can bind it, and no cell enclose:
Swifter than light, it flies from pole to pole,

And in a flash from earth to heaven it goes!
It leaps from mount to mount; from vale to vale
It wanders, plucking honeyed fruits and flowers;
It visits home, to hear the fire-side tale,

Or, in sweet converse, pass the joyous hours.
'Tis up before the sun, roaming afar,

And, in its watches, wearies every star!

Marco Bozzaris.-F. G. HALLECK.

[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."]

Ar 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.

Come to the bridal chamber, Death!
Come to the mother, when she feels,
For the first time, her first-born's breath
Come when the blessed seals

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 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.
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.

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.

Weehawken.-F. G. HALLECK.

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.

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

Ocean, and earth, and heaven, burst before himClouds 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 passed 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.

On laying the Corner Stone of the Bunker Hill Monu ment.-PIERPONT.

O, is not this a holy spot?

'Tis the high place of Freedom's birth! God of our fathers! is it not

The holiest spot of all the earth?

Quenched is thy flame on Horeb's side;
The robber roams o'er Sinai now;
And those old men, thy seers, abide

No more on Zion's mournful brow.

But on this hill thou, Lord, hast dwelt,
Since round its head the war-cloud curled,
And wrapped our fathers, where they knelt
in prayer and battle for a world.

Here sleeps their dust: 'tis holy ground:
And we, the children of the brave,
From th our winds are gathered round,
To lay our offering on their grave.

Free as the winds around us blow,

Free as the waves below us spread,
We rear a pile, that long shall throw
Its shadow on their sacred bed.

But on their deeds no shade shall fall,
While o'er their couch thy sun shall flame :

Thine ear was bowed to hear their call,

And thy right hand shall guard their fame.

Rousseau and Cowper.-CARLOS WILCOX.

ROUSSEAU could weep; yes, with a heart of stone,
The impious sophist could recline beside

The pure and peaceful lake, and muse alone
On all its loveliness at even tide-

On its small running waves, in purple dyed,
Beneath bright clouds or all the glowing sky,

On the white sails that o'er its bosom glide,
And on surrounding mountains wild and high,
Till tears unbidden gushed from his enchanted eye.

But his were not the tears of feeling fine
Of grief or love; at fancy's flash they flowed,
Like burning drops from some proud lonely pine
By lightning fired; his heart with passion glowed
Till it consumed his life, and yet he showed
A chilling coldness both to friend and foe,
As Etna, with its centre an abode

Of wasting fire, chills with the icy snow
Of all its desert brow the living world below.

Was he but justly wretched from his crimes?
Then why was Cowper's anguish oft as keen,
With all the heaven-born virtue that sublimes
Genius and feeling, and to things unseen

Lifts the pure heart through clouds, that roll between
The earth and skies, to darken human hope?

Or wherefore did those clouds thus intervene

To render vain faith's lifted telescope,

And leave him in thick gloom his weary way to grope?

He, too, could give himself to musing deep;
By the calm lake at evening, he could stand,
Lonely and sad, to see the moonlight sleep
On all its breast, by not an insect fanned,
And hear low voices on the far-off strand,

Or, through the still and dewy atmosphere,

The pipe's soft tones, waked by some gentle hand, From fronting shore and woody island near

In echoes quick returned more mellow and more clear.

And he could cherish wild and mournful dreams,
In the pine grove, when low the full moon, fair,
Shot under lofty tops her level beams,

Stretching the shades of trunks erect and bare,
In stripes drawn parallel with order rare,

As of some temple vast or colonnade,

While on green turf, made smooth without his care, He wandered o'er its stripes of light and shade, And heard the dying day-breeze all the boughs pervad