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JUNE, 1825.


[The Epaminondas of modern Greece.--He fell in a night 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.”]

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 pressed 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 Platæa's day;
And now there breathed that haunted air
The sons of sires wbo conquered there,
With arm to strike, and soul to dare,

As quick, as far as they.
An hour passed on-the Turk awoke ;

That bright dream was his last ;
He woke--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 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 hur rah,

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 first born's breatha ;--

Come when the blessed seals
Which close the pestilence are broke
And crowded cities wail its stroke;
Come in consumption's ghastly forni,
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 eyes' unearthly light
To him is welcome as the sight

Of sky and stars to prisoned men ;
Thy grasp is welcome as the hand
Of brother in a foreign land;
Thy summons welcome as the cry
Which 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.
Vol. I.



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 birth-day bells ;
Of thee beriman babe's 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.

H. [It would be an act of gross injustice to the author of the above magnificent Lyric, were we to withhold the expression of our admiration of ils extraordinary beauty. We are sure, too, that in this instance, at least, we have done what is rare indeed in the annals of criticism,-we have given an opinion from which not one of our readers will feel any inclination to dissent.)


The admirers of Mrs. Barbauld will be glad to learn, that a collection is about to be made of her unpublished writings in England, and that arrangements will probably be made for reprinting them in this country. There can be no doubt, that their publication will be a highly acceptable present to the public. It is very certain, that when Mrs. Barbauld began to write verses, no other English poetess had written half so well; and


although, perhaps, at the present day, she is surpassed by Mrs. Hemans, the sweetness, delicacy, and rich imagery of her

poetical productions make them very delightful reading, and give her no mean rank among contemporary authors. Her prose writinys, also, are distinguished for just thoughts, expressed in a style of great animation, and a sort of unaffected brilliancy of manner, which renders them exceedingly engaging. It is too often the case, that the task of selecting and arranging posthumous works, falls into injudicious hands, or, more properly speaking, that no selection whatever is made. The desire of getting up a large book, in order to increase the profit of the publication, or the indiscriminate admiration of friends, frequently give to the world, along with some things perhaps truly valuable, a great deal that cannot be read, and the unauthorized publication of which, in the life-time of the writer, would have been considered by him as an offence hardly to be forgi

In this present instance, no danger of this sort need be apprehended. The good sense, and cool, steady judgment of Miss Lucy Aikin, who has undertaken the task of selecting the papers to be published, are the best possible pledge that nothing will be included among them which would tend, in the least degree, to impair the literary reputation of her excellent and venerable relation. The following is an extract of a letter from that lady to a gentleman in this city, who had offered to dispose of her History of Charles I., a work she is now preparing for the press, to some American bookseller.

“ Mrs. Barbauld left behind her a considerable number of manuscripts, both in verse and prose, and I am now closely occupied in preparing a complete edition of her works. This publication will not, I apprehend, extend beyond two moderate octavos; one verse, the other prose. The verse, to which I shall prefix a short memoir, is already in the press, and will be printed, I hope, by the end of next month. It is still matter of doubt with me, whether the second volume can be brought out during the present London book-season, which does not extend beyond the month of June; for I wish some specimens of her epistolary talent, which was very striking, and some time must elapse before all the contributions of her correspondents can be collected. If we cannot be ready with both volumes at once, the

prose must be deferred till November or December. Now, sir, I am so well persuaded that the products of Mrs. Barbauld's genius will be cordially received by your American public, that I will venture to transmit to you a copy of the first volume, some time before publication, and beg of you the favor to per

form the same kind office which you have so obligingly offered with respect to my intended work. Nearly two thirds of the volume will consist of matter entirely new, and certainly not inferior, in intrinsic merit, to any thing of hers with which the public is acquainted. Old age has no power to quench in her the light of fancy. She wrote several charming little pieces in the course of the last year.

Stoke Newington, March 31, 1825."


Come to these lonely woods to die alone ?
Not many days, it seems, since thou wast heard,
From out the mists of spring, with thy shrill note,
Calling unto thy mates—and their clear answers.
The earth was brown, then; and the infant leaves
Had not put forth to warm them in the sun,
Or play in the fresh air of heaven. Thy voice,
Shouting in triumph, told of winter gone,
And prophesying life to the sealed ground,
Did make me glad with thoughts of coming beauties.
And now they're all around us ;-offspring bright
Of earth,-a mother, who, with constant care,
Doth feed and clothe them all.—Now o'er her fields,
In blessed bands, or single, they are gone,
Or by her brooks they stand, and sip the stream ;
Or peering o'er it,--vanity well feigned-
In quaint approval seem to glow and nod
At their reflected graces.--Morn to meet,
They in fantastic labors pass the night,
Catching its dews, and rounding silvery drops
To deck their bosoms.- There, on tall, bald trees,
Froin varnished cells some peep, and the old boughs
Make to rejoice and dance in the unseen winds.
Over my head the winds and they make music,
And grateful, in return for what they take,
Bright hues and odors to the air they give.

Thus mutual love brings mutual delight-
Brings beauty, life ;-for love is life-hate, death.

Thou Prophet of so fair a revelation !
Thou who abod'st with us the winter long,
Enduring cold or rain, and shaking oft,
From thy dark mantle, falling sleet or snow-
Thou, who with purpose kind, when warmer days
Shone on the earth, midst thaw and steam, cam'st forth
From rocky nook, or wood, thy priestly cell,
To speak of confort unto lonely man-
Didst say to him,--though seemingly alone

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