FEATS OF DEATH.

I HAVE passed o'er the earth in the darkness of night,
I have walked the wild winds in the morning's broad light;
I have paused o'er the bower where the infant lay sleeping,
And I've left the fond mother in sorrow and weeping.

My pinion was spread, and the cold dew of night,
Which withers and moulders the flowers in its light,
Fell silently o'er the warm cheek in its glow,
And I left it there blighted, and wasted, and low;
I culled the fair bud, as it danced in its mirth,
And I left it to moulder and fade on the earth.

I paused o'er the valley, the glad sounds of joy
Rose soft through the mist, and ascended on high;
The fairest were there, and I paused in my flight,
And the deep cry of wailing broke wildly that night.

I stay not to gather the lone one to earth,

I spare not the young in their gay dance of mirth,

But I sweep them all on to their home in the grave,

I

stop not to pity-I stay not to save.

FITZGREEN HALLECK.

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."]

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.

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 ash 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 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 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.