He chose a mournful muse.
Soft pity to infuse :

He sung Darius great and good!
By too severe a fate,

Fallen fallen! fallen! fallen!
Fallen from his high estate,
And weltering in his blood!
Deserted at his utmost need
By those his former bounty fed,
On the bare earth exposed he lies,
With not a friend to close his eyes!
With downcast look the joyless victor sate,
Revolving, in his altered soul,

The various turns of fate below;
And now and then a sigh he stole,
And tears began to flow!

The mighty master smiled, to see
That love was in the next degree :
"Twas but a kindred sound to move;
For pity melts the mind to love.
Softly sweet, in Lydian measures,
Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures:
War, he sung, is toil and trouble;
Honour, but an empty bubble;
Never ending, still beginning,

Fighting still, and still destroying.
If the world be worth thy winning,
Think, oh think it worth enjoying!
Lovely Thais sits beside thee,-

Take the good the gods provide thee.

The many rend the skies with loud applause :

So Love was crowned; but Music won the cause.The prince, unable to conceal his pain,

Gazed on the fair

Who caused his care,

And sighed and looked, sighed and looked,
Sighed and looked, and sighed again :

At length, with love and wine at once oppressed,
The vanquished victor-sunk upon her breast!

Now strike the golden lyre again!

A louder yet, and yet a louder strain!
Break his bands of sleep asunder,

And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder!
Hark! hark!-the horrid sound

Has raised up his head,

As awaked from the dead;
And amazed he stares around!
Revenge! revenge! Timotheus cries-

See the Furies arise!

See the snakes that they rear,

How they hiss in their hair,

And the sparkles that flash from their eyes!
Behold a ghastly band,

Each a torch in his hand!

These are Grecian ghosts that in battle were slain,
And, unburied, remain
Inglorious on the plain !
Give the vengeance due

To the valiant crew!

Behold! how they toss their torches on high,
How they point to the Persian abodes,

And glittering temples of their hostile gods !—

The princes applaud with a furious joy;

And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy ; Thais led the way,

To light him to his prey!

And, like another Helen, fired another Troy.

Could swell the soul to rage-or kindle soft desire. At last divine Cecilia came,

Inventress of the vocal frame.

The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store,
Enlarged the former narrow bounds,
And added length to solemn sounds,

With nature's mother-wit and arts unknown before.

Let old Timotheus yield the prize,

Or both divide the crown:
He raised a mortal to the skies;
She drew an angel down!

X.-MARCO BOZZARIS.

(FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.)

Marco Bozzaris was the great hero of modern Greece in her struggle for independence. He was killed in 1823, while heading an assault by night on the Turkish camp at Laspi, where stood the ancient Platæa, famed for a victory (479 B.C.) of the Greeks over Mardonius, the Persian commander. The dying expression of Bozzaris was, "To die for liberty is a pleasure, not a pain." Mr. Halleck is an American poet of some note. He was born in Connecticut in

1795.

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.

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 hurrah
And the red field was won;

They 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 blessèd seals

That close the pestilence are broke,
And crowded cities wail its stroke;
Come in consumption's ghastly form,
The earthquake's shock, the ocean's 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.
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!

XI.—THE CID'S FUNERAL PROCESSION.

(MRS. HEMANS.)

Felicia Dorothea Browne, Mrs. Hemans, was born in Liverpool in 1793, and died in Dublin in 1835. She is best known by her minor pieces, which have always been highly popular; but some of her more ambitious efforts, such as the "Forest Sanctuary," and "Vespers of Palermo," are no less deserving of favour.

Don Roderigo Dias de Bivar, called the Cid,—that is, Lord or Noble,—was a famous Spanish hero. The city of Valencia being besieged by the Moors while he lay on his death-bed, he gave orders that when a sally was made his dead body should be carried out to battle.

THE Moor had beleaguered Valencia's towers,
And lances gleamed up through her citron-bowers,
And the tents of the desert had girt her plain,
And camels were trampling the vines of Spain,
For the Cid was gone to rest.

There were men from wilds where the death-wind sweeps,
There were spears from hills where the lion sleeps,
There were bows from sands where the ostrich runs;
For the shrill horn of Afric had called her sons
To the battles of the West.

The midnight bell o'er the dim seas heard,
Like the roar of waters the air had stirred;
The stars were shining o'er tower and wave,
And the camp lay hushed as a wizard's cave;
But the Christians woke that night.

They reared the Cid on his barbed1 steed,
Like a warrior mailed for the hour of need;
And they fixed the sword in the cold right hand,
Which had fought so well for his father's land,
And the shield from his neck hung bright.

1 Covered with armour.