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them to submit. Every stroke against France is of advantage to you: America must be conquered in France; France never can be conquered in America.

The war of the Americans is a war of passion; it is of such a nature as to be supported by the most powerful virtues, love of liberty and of their country; and, at the same time, by those passions in the human heart which give courage, strength, and perseverance to man; the spirit of revenge for the injuries you have done them; of retaliation for the hardships you have inflicted on them; and of opposition to the unjust powers you have exercised over them. Every thing combines to animate them to this war, and such a war is without end; for whatever obstinacy, enthusiasm ever inspired man with, you will now find in America. No matter what gives birth to that enthusiasm; whether the name of religion or of liberty, the effects are the same; it inspires a spirit which is unconquerable, and solicitous to undergo difficulty, danger, and hardship and as long as there is a man in America, a being formed such as we are, you will have him present himself against you in the field.

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The war of France is a war of another sort; the war of France is a war of interest: it was her interest which first induced her to engage in it, and it is by that interest that she will measure its continuance. Turn your face at once against her; attack her wherever she is exposed; crush her commerce wherever you can; make her feel heavy and immediate distress throughout the nation: the people will soon cry out to their government. Whilst the advantages she promises herself are remote and uncertain, inflict present evils and distresses upon her subjects: the people will become discontented and clamorous; she will find it a bad bargain, having entered into this business; and you will force her to desert any ally that brings so much trouble and distress upon her.

4

MARCO BOZZARIS.

Ar midnight, in his guarded tent,

Halleck.

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 crouded 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,

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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.

BONAPARTE TO THE ARMY OF ITALY.

SOLDIERS,-You are precipitated like a torrent from the heights of the Appennines; you have overthrown and dispersed all that dared to oppose your march. Piedmont, rescued from Austrian tyranny, is left to its natural sentiments of regard and friendship to the French. Milan is yours; and the republican standard is displayed throughout all Lombardy. The dukes of Parma and Modena are indebted for their political existence only to your generosity.

The army, which so proudly menaced you, has had no other barrier than its dissolution to oppose your invincible courage. The Po, the Tessen, the Adda, could not retard you a single day. The vaunted bulwarks of Italy were insufficient. You swept them with the same rapidity that you did the Appennines. Those successes have carried joy into the bosom of your country. Your representatives de

are

Yes, soldiers, you have done much; but more still remains for you to do. Shall it be said of us, that we know how to conquer, but not to profit by our victories? Shall posterity reproach us with having found a Capua in Lombardy? But already I see you fly to arms. You are fatigued with an inactive repose. You lament the days that are lost to your glory! Well, then, let us proceed; we have other forced marches to make, other enemies to subdue; more laurels to acquire, and more injuries to avenge.

Let those who have unsheathed the daggers of civil war in France; who have basely assassinated our ministers who have burnt our ships at Toulon; let them tremble the knell of vengeance has already tolled!

But to quiet the apprehensions of the people, we declare ourselves the friends of all, and particularly of those who are the descendants of Brutus, of Scipio, and those other great men whom we have taken for our models.

To re-establish the capital; to replace the statues of those heroes who have rendered it immortal; to rouse the Roman people entranced in so many ages of slavery; this shall be the fruit of your victories. It will be an epoch for the admiration of posterity; you will enjoy the immortal glory of changing the aspect of affairs in the finest part of Europe. The free people of France, not regardless of moderation, shall accord to Europe a glorious peace; but it will indemnify itself for the sacrifices of every kind which it has been making for six years past. You will again be restored to your fire-sides and homes; and your fellow-citizens, pointing you out, shall say, "There goes one who belonged to the army of Italy!'

CHARACTER OF MICHAEL ANGELO.

Fuseli.

SUBLIMITY of conception, grandeur of form and breadth of manner are the elements of Michael Angelo's style. By these principles he selected or rejected the objects of imitation. As painter, as sculptor, as architect, he attempted, and above any other man succeeded in uniting magnificence of plan and endless variety of subordinate parts with the utmost simplicity and breadth,

His line is uniformly grand. Character and beauty

were admitted only as far as they could be made subservient to grandeur. The child, the female, meanness, deformity, were by him indiscriminately stamped with grandeur. A beggar rose from his hand the patriarch of poverty; the hump of his dwarf is impressed with dignity; his infants teem with the man; his men are a race of giants.

To give the appearance of perfect ease to the most perplexing difficulty, was the exclusive power of Michael Angelo. He is the inventor of epic painting, in that sublime circle of the Sistine Chapel, which exhibits the origin, the progress, and the final dispensations of theocracy. He has personified motion in the groups of the cartoon of Pisa; embodied sentiment on the monuments of St. Lorenzo, unravelled the features of meditation in the prophets and sibyls of the chapel of Sixtus; and, in the last judgment, with every attitude that varies the human body, traced the master trait of every passion that sways the human heart.

Though as sculptor, he expressed the character of flesh more perfectly than all who went before or came after him, yet he never submitted to copy an individual, Julio the second only excepted; and in him he represented the reigning passion rather than the man.

In painting he contented himself with a negative colour, and, as the painter of mankind, rejected all meretricious ornament. The fabric of St Peter, scattered into infinity of jarring parts by Bramante and his successors, he concentrated; suspended the cupola, and, to the most complex, gave the air of the most simple of edifices.

Such was Michael Angelo, the salt of art: sometimes he, no doubt, had his moments of dereliction, deviated into manner, or perplexed the grandeur of his forms with futile and ostentatious anatomy. These faults met with armies of copyists, whilst his grandeur had no rival.

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