5. Old Greece lightens up with emotion! Her inlands, her isles of the ocean, Fanes rebuilt, and fair towns, shall with jubilee ring, That were cold, and extinguished in sadness; Shall have crimsoned the beaks of our ravens! THOMAS CAMPBELL. AT IV. 128. MARCO BOZZARIS. T midnight, in his guarded tent, In dreams, through camp and court, he bōre In dreams, his song of triumph heard; As Eden's garden bird. 2. At midnight, in the forest shades, Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band, True as the steel of their tried blades, There had the Persian's thousands stood, 1Hěl' ĭ con, a famous mountain in Boeotia, in Greece, from which flows a fountain, and where resided the Muscs. Marco Bozzaris, (bôt' så ris), a Suliote of Arnaout and Greek descent, was born in 1789. He was early involved in revolutionary movements. His most brilliant exploit is the one here described, in which, with a handful of five hundred Suliotes, at midnight, August 20th, 1823, he surprised a Turkish army of twenty thousand men, fought his way to the very tent of the commander-in-chief, and was killed by a random shot, while making the pasha prisoner. The victory, however, was complete. On old Platea's' day; And now, there breathed that haunted air 3. An hour passed on-the Turk ǎwōke; "To arms!-they come! the Greek! the Greek! "Strike-till the last armed foe expires; 4. They fought-like brave men, long and well; Bleeding at every vein. His few surviving comrades saw His smile, when rang their proud huzza, Then saw in death his eyelids close, Like flowers at set of sun. 5. Come to the bridal chamber, Death! That close the pestilence are broke, 1 Platæa, (plå tè å), a ruined city of Greece. Near it, B. C. 479, the Greeks, under Pausanias, totally de feated and nearly annihilated the grand Persian army, under Mardonius, who was killed in the action. Come when the heart beats high and warm The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier; Of agony, are thine. 6. But to the hero, when his sword The thanks of millions yet to be. Greece nurtured in her glory's time, We tell thy doom without a sigh; For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's,- That were not born to die! HALLECK. FITZ-GREENE HALLECK was born at Guilford, in Connecticut, August, 1795, and at the age of eighteen entered the banking-house of Jacob Barker, in New York, with which he was associated several years, susequently performing the duties of a book-keeper in the private office of John Jacob Astor. Soon after the decease of that noted millionaire, in 1848, he retired to his birth-place, where he has since resided. He evinced a taste for poetry and wrote verses at a very carly period. "Twilight," his first offering to the "Evening Post," appeared in October, 1818. The year following he gained his first celebrity in literature as a town wit, by producing, with his friend Drake, several witty and satirical pieces, which appeared in the columns of the "Evening Post" with the signature of Croaker & Co.; and his fame was fully established by the publication of a volume of his poems in 1827. His poetry is characterized by its music and perfection of versification, and its vigor and healthy sentiment. T SECTION XXIV. I. 129. THE CLOSING YEAR. IS midnight's holy hour-and silence now a Is brooding, like a gentle spirit, o'er The still and pulselèss world. Hark! on the winds The bell's deep tones are swelling-'tis the knell 2. 3. 4. Of the departed year. No funeral train Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn's solemn form, And Winter with his agèd locks,—and breathe, In mournful cadences, that come abroad Like the far wind-harp's wild and touching wail, Gone from the earth forever. 'Tis a time For memory and for tears. Within the deep, And, bending mournfully above the pale, Sweet forms that slumber there, scatters dead flowers O'er what has passed to nothingness. The year Has gone, and with it, many a glorious throng It passed o'er The battle-plain, where sword, and spear, and shield, 5. 6. Flashed in the light of mid-day,—and the strength In the dim land of dreams. Remorseless Time! Fierce spirit of the glass and scythe!-what power He presses, and forever. The proud bird, Through heaven's unfathomable depths, or brave And bathe his plumage in the thunder's home, Revolutions sweep To darkle in the trackless void: yet Time- |