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GREECE.

LAND of the brave! where lie inurned
The shrouded forms of mortal clay,
In whom the fire of valour burned

And blazed upon the battle's fray:
Land where the gallant Spartan few
Bled at Thermopyla of yore,
When death his purple garment threw
On Helle's consecrated shore!

Land of the Muse! within thy bowers
Her soul-entrancing echoes rung,
While on their course the rapid Hours
Paused at the melody she sung;—
Till every grave and every hill,

And every stream that flowed along,
From morn to night repeated still
The winning harmony of song.

Land of dead heroes-living slaves-
Shall glory gild thy clime no more?
Her banners float above thy waves,
Where proudly it hath swept before?
Hath not remembrance then a charm,
To break the fetters and the chain?
To bid thy children nerve the arm,
And strike for freedom once again?

No! coward souls the light that shone On Leuctra's war-empurpled day— The light that beamed on Marathon, Hath lost its splendour, ceased to play: And thou art but a shadow now,

With helmet shattered-spear in rustThy honour but a dream-and thou Despised-degraded-in the dust?

Where sleeps the spirit that of old

Dashed down to earth the Persian plume, When the loud chaunt of triumph told How fatal was the despot's doom? The bold three hundred-where are they, Who died on battle's gory breast? Tyrant's have trampled on the clay,

Where death has hushed them into rest.

Yet Ida, yet upon thy hill

A glory shines of ages fled,

And fame her light is pouring still,
Not on the living—but the dead!
But 'tis the dim sepulchral light

That sheds a faint and feeble ray,
As moon-beams on the brow of night,
When tempests sweep upon their way.

Lost land! where genius made his reign,
And reared his golden arch on high;
Where science raised her sacred fane,
Its summit peering to the sky :
Upon thy clime the midnight deep
Of ignorance hath brooded long,
And in the tomb, forgotten, sleep

The sons of science and of song.

The sun hath set,—the evening storm
Hath passed in giant fury by,

To blast the beauty of thy form,

And spread its pall upon thy sky;

Gone is thy glory's diadem,

And freedom never more shall cease

To pour her mournful requiem

O'er blighted, lost, degraded Greece! Literary Chronicle.

LOVE.

AWAKE, my harp, some joyful measure!
No longer breathe a pensive strain;
Be, like my soul, attuned to pleasure,
And never mourn again.

Awake, my harp, some joyful measure!

"Twas Love that taught thy strings to move; And Love now fills my soul with pleasure ;Then hymn the charms of Love!

O Love! some call thy musings folly,

Some call thee cruel, base, and blind; But thou, methinks, art pure and holy, Exalted, raised,-refined.

And some there are who can dissemble
The raptures of thy ardent flame;
And some poor maidens start and tremble,
If they but hear thy name.

Yet, though thy charms were all illusion,
Such dear deceits I still would seek!
Thy mantling blush, thy soft confusion,
Thy looks that more than speak.

Thou know'st, O Love! how I have blest thee,
How oft for thee my heart hath beat;
How oft in sorrow I've carest thee,
And thought my sorrow sweet.

O Love! some call thy musings folly;

Some call thee cruel, base, and blind; But thou, methinks, art pure and holy, Exalted, raised, refined!

Poetical Register.

N. S. S. L.

THE BEECH TREE'S PETITION.

BY THOMAS CAMPBELL, ESQ.

O LEAVE this barren spot to me!
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!
Though bush or floweret never grow
My dark, unwarming shade below;
Nor summer bud perfume the dew
Of rosy blush, or yellow hue;
Nor fruits of Autumn, blossom-born,
My green and glossy leaves adorn;
Nor murmuring tribes from me derive
The' ambrosial amber of the hive;

Yet leave this barren spot to me:
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!

Thrice twenty summers have I seen
The sky grow bright, the forest green;
And many a wintry wind have stood
In bloomless, fruitless solitude,
Since childhood in my pleasant bower
First spent its sweet and sportive hour,
Since youthful lovers in my shade
Their vows of truth and rapture made;
And on my trunk's surviving frame,
Carved many a long forgotten name.
Oh! by the sighs of gentle sound,
First breathed upon this sacred ground;
By all that Love had whispered here,
Or Beauty heard with ravished ear;
As Love's own altar honour me,
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!

ELEGY.

BY C. A. ELTON.

A SHADOW on my spirit fell,

When my hushed footstep from thee passed;

And sad to me thy mild farewell,

To me, who feared it was thy last; And when I saw thee next, a veil Was drawn upon thy features pale.

They strewed thee in thy narrow bed
With roses from thy own loved bowers:
In melting anguish memory fled

Back to thy valued rural hours;
And saw thee gentle gliding round,
Where all to thee was Eden ground.

The God, whose presence met thee there,
Was with thee in thy slow decays;
He answered to thy dying prayer,

Whose life had been a hymn of praise:
Thy God was nigh—thy Shepherd-God,
With comfort of his staff and rod.

I lay thee where the loved are laid :
Rest-till their change and thine shall come;
Still voices whisper through the shade;

A light is glimmering round the tomb;
The temple rends! the sleep is ended-
The dead are gone, the pure ascended!

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