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They fought, like brave men, long and well,
They piled that ground with Moslem slain, They conquered—but Bozzaris fell,
Bleeding at every vein.
And the red field was won;
Like flowers at set of sun.
Come to the bridal chamber, Death!
Come to the mother, when she feels,
Come when the blessed seals
With banquet-song, and dance, and wine,-
Of agony, are thine.
Has won the battle for the free,
The thanks of millions yet to be.
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 ;
That were not born to die.
Weehawken.-F. G. HALLECK.
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 dash 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,
In such an hour, he turns, and on his view,
Ocean, and earth, and heaven, burst before him
Of summer's sky, in beauty bending o'er him
Tall spire, and glittering roof, and battlement,
And banners floating in the sunny air,
Green isle, and circling shore, are blended there,
Whose infant breath was drawn, or boyhood days Of happiness were passed beneath that sun,
That in his manhood prime can calmly gaze
On laying the Corner Stone of the Bunker Hill Monu
0, 18 not this a holy spot?
'Tis the high place of Freedom's birth! God of our fathers! is it not
The holiest spot of all the earth ?
Quenched is thy flame on Horeb's side;
The robber roams o'er Sinai now;
No more on Zion's mournful brow.
But on this hill thou, Lord, hast dwelt,
Since round its head the war-cloud curled,
In prayer and battle for a world.
And we, the children of the brave,
10 lay our offering on their grave,
Free as the waves below us spread,
Its shadow on their sacred bed.
But on their deeds no shade shall fall,
While o'er their couch thy sun shall flame :
And thy right hand shall guard their fame.
Rousseau and Cowper.-CARLOS Wilcox.
ROUSSEAU could weep; yes, with a heart of stone,
Oa the white sails that o'er its bosom glide,
But his were not the tears of feeling fine
Of wasting fire, chills with the icy snow
Was he but justly wretched from his crimes ?
To render vain faith's lifted telescope,
He, too, could give himself to musing deep;
From fronting shore and woody island near
And he could cherish wild and mournful dreams,
He wandered o'er its stripes of light and shade,
'was thus, in nature's bloom and solitude, e nursed his grief till nothing could assuage; i'was thus his tender spirit was subdued, ill in life's toils it could no more engage ; .nd his had been a usele 33 pilgrimage, lad be been gifted with no sacred power, ['o send his thoughts to every future age ; But he is gone where grief will not devour, aere beauty will not fade, and skies will never lower. To that bright world where things of earth appear Stripped of false charms, my fancy often flies, To ask him there what life is happiest here; And, as he points around him, and replies With glowing lips, my heart within me dies, And conscience whispers of a dreadful bar, When, in some scene where every beauty lies, A soft, sweet pensiveness begins to mar The joys of social life, and with its claims to war.
To the Dead.-BRAINARD.
How many now are dead to me
That live to others yet!
Till dead can ne'er forget.
In his lone dungeon shone.
Dead to the world, alive to me;
Though months and years have passed,
As when I saw him last.