MARCO BOZZARIS.-Halleck.

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 press'd that monarch's throne, a king,
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,

As Eden's garden bird.

2.

An hour pass'd 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 arm'd foe expires,
Strike-for your altars and your fires,
Strike-for the green graves of your sires,
God-and your native land!"

3.

They fought-like brave men, long and well;
They piled that ground with Moslem slain;

They conquer'd-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.

4.

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.

5.

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.

SPEECH OF A CHRISTIAN MARTYR.—Croly.

For what have these my brethren died? Answer me, priests of Rome; what temple did they force-what altar overthrow-what insults offer to the slightest of your public celebrations? Judges of Rome, what offence did they commit against the public peace? Consuls, where were they found in rebellion against the Roman majesty? People! patricians! who among your thousands can charge one of these holy dead with extortion, impurity, or violence; can charge them with anything, but the patience that bore wrong without a murmur, and the charity that answered tortures only by prayers?

2. Do I stand here demanding to be believed for opinions No; but for facts. I have seen the sick made whole, the lame walk, the blind receive their sight, by the mere name of Him whom you crucified. I have seen men once ignorant of all languages but their own, speaking with the language of every nation under heaven-the still greater wonder, of the timid defying all fear, the unlearned instantly made wise in the mysteries of things divine and human, putting to shame the learned, humbling the proud, enlightening the darkened; alike in the courts of kings, before the furious people, and in the

dungeon, armed with an irrepressible spirit of knowledge, reason, and truth, that confounded their adversaries.

3. I have seen the still greater wonder of the renewed heart; the impure, suddenly abjuring vice; the eovetous, the cruel, the faithless, the godless, gloriously changed into the holy, the gentle, the faithful, the worshiper of the true God in spirit and in truth; the conquest of the passions which defied your philosophers, your tribunals, your rewards, your terrors, achieved in the one mighty name. These are facts, things which I have seen; and who, that had seen them, could doubt that the finger of the eternal God was there?

4. I dared not refuse my belief to the divine mission of the Being by whom, and even in memory of whom, things, baffling the proudest human means, were brought before my eyes. Thus, irresistibly compelled by facts to believe that Christ was sent by God, I was with equal force compelled to believe in the doctrines declared by this glorious messenger of the Father, alike of quick and dead. And thus I stand before you this day, at the close of a long life of labor and hazard, a Christian.

LOCHINVAR.-Sir W. Scott.

O, young Lochinvar is come out of the West,
Through all the wide border his steed was the best;
And save his good broad sword he weapon had none,
He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

He stayed not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone,
He swam the Esk river where ford there was none;
But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,

The bride had consented, the gallant came late :
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,

Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

2.

So boldly he enter'd the Netherby hall,

Among bride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all

Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,} "Oh come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar ?"

3.

"I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied ;-
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide-
And now am I come with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar."

4.

The bride kiss'd the goblet; the knight took it up,
He quaff'd off the wine, and he threw down the cup.
She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,-
"Now tread we a measure," said young Lochinvar.
So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace;
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,