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To thee the palm of scoffing we ascribe,
Arch-mocker, and mad Abbot of Misrule!

For such thou art by day—but all night long

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Thou pour'st a soft, sweet, pensive, solemn strain,

As if thou didst, in this thy moonlight song,
Like to the melancholy Jaques, complain,

Musing on falsehood, folly, vice, and wrong,
And sighing for thy motley coat again.

Fitz-GREENE HALLECK is the well-known author of that effective and artistic poem, Marco Bozzaris,—the hero who fell in an attack upon the Turkish camp, on the site of the ancient Platæa, and

expired in the moment of victory, exclaiming, “To die for Liberty is a pleasure, not a pain!” Here are some of the lines :

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.

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 Aowers at set of sun.

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.

For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's;
One of the few, the immortal names

That were not born to die!

Halleck's fine Elegy on Burns abounds with impassioned and glowing beauties. We extract a few stanzas :

His is that language of the heart,

In which the answering heart would speak,
Thought, word, that bids the warm tear start,
Or the smile light the cheek;

And his that music, to whose tone

The common pulse of man keeps time, In cot or castle's mirth or moan,

In cold or sunny clime.

*

What sweet tears dim the eyes unshed,

What wild vows falter on the tongue, When “Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled,”

Or “Auld Lang Syne,” is sung?

Pure hopes, that lift the soul above,

Come with his Cotter's Hymn of praise ; And dreams of youth, and truth, and love,

With Logan's banks and braes.

And when he breathes his master-lay

Of Alloway's witch-haunted wall, All passions in our frames of clay

Come thronging at his call.

*

And consecrated ground it is,

The last, the hallowed home of one Who lives upon all memories,

Though with the buried gone.

Such graves as his are pilgrim-shrines,

Shrines to no code or creed confined, The Delphian vales, the Palestines, The Meccas of the mind !

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