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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 cheers 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 the ground with Moslem slain,
They conquered-but Bozzaris fell,
Bleeding at every vein.

His few surviving comrades saw
His smile when rung the 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.

TWILIGHT.

THERE is an evening twilight of the heart,
When its wild passion-waves are lulled to rest,
And the eye sees life's fairy scenes depart,
As fades the day-beam in the rosy west.
'Tis with a nameless feeling of regret,

We gaze upon them as they melt away,
And fondly would we bid them linger yet,
But Hope is round us with her angel-lay,
Hailing afar some happier moonlight hour;
Dear are her whispers still, though lost their earthly power.

In youth the cheek was crimsoned with her glow;
Her smile was loveliest then; her matin song
Was heaven's own music, and the note of woe
Was all unheard her sunny bowers among.
Life's little world of bliss was newly born;

We knew not, cared not, it was born to die.
Flushed with the cool breeze and the dews of morn,
With dancing heart we gazed on the pure sky,

And mocked the passing clouds that dimmed its blue,
Like our own sorrows then-as fleeting and as few.

And manhood felt her sway too,-on the eye,
Half-realized, her early dreams burst bright,
Her promised bower of happiness seemed nigh,
Its days of joy, its vigils of delight;

And though at times might lour the thunder storm,
And the red lightnings threaten, still the air
Was balmy with her breath, and her loved form,
The rainbow of the heart was hovering there.

"Tis in life's noontide she is nearest seen,

Her wreath the summer-flower, her robe of summer green.

But though less dazzling in her twilight dress,

There's more of heaven's pure beam about her now!

That angel smile of tranquil loveliness,

Which the heart worships, glowing on her brow,

That smile shall brighten the dim evening-star,
That points our destined tomb, nor e'er depart
Till the faint light of life is fled afar,

And hushed the last deep beating of the heart:
The meteor-bearer of our parting, breath,
A moonbeam in the midnight-cloud of death.

CHARLES SPRAGUE

Is an American poet, resembling rather the writer of prize-poems for an English university, than the bard of a new republic. His taste is correct and refined, his thoughts vigorous and condensed, his diction pointed and forcible.

THE WINGED WORSHIPPERS'.

GAY, guiltless pair,

What seek ye from the fields of heaven?

Ye have no need of prayer,

Ye have no sins to be forgiven.

Why perch ye here,

Where mortals to their Maker bend!

Can

your pure spirits fear

The God ye never could offend?

1 These lines were written on the occasion of two swallows flying into a church

during divine service.

Ye never knew

The crimes for which we come to weep:
Penance is not for you,

Blessed wanderers of the upper deep.
To you 'tis given,

To wake sweet Nature's untaught lays;
Beneath the arch of heaven

To chirp away a life of praise.

Then spread each wing,

Far, far above, o'er lakes and lands,
And join the choirs that sing

In

yon blue dome not reared with hands.

Or if ye stay,

To note the consecrated hour,

Teach me the airy way,

And let me try your envied power.

Above the crowd,

On upward wings could I but fly,
I'd bathe in yon bright cloud,
And seek the stars that gem the sky.

"Twere heaven indeed,
Through fields of trackless light to soar,
On Nature's charms to feed,
And Nature's own great God adore.

ART.

WHEN from the sacred garden driven,
Man fled before his Maker's wrath,
ART left for him her place in heaven,
To guide the wanderer's sunless path.
She led him through the trackless wild,
Where noon-tide sunbeam never blazed:-
The thistle shrank-the harvest smiled,

And nature gladdened as she gazed.
Earth's thousand tribes of living things,
At Art's command to him are given;
The village grows, the city springs,
And point their spires of faith to heaven.

He rends the oak,—and bids it ride,

To guard the shores its beauty graced; He smites the rock,-upheaved in pride, See towers of strength, and domes of taste.

Earth's teeming caves their wealth reveal;
Fire bears his banner on the wave;
He bids the mortal poison heal,

And leaps triumphant o'er the grave.
He plucks the pearls that stud the deep,
Admiring Beauty's lap to fill:

He breaks the stubborn marble's sleep,
And forms it with a master's skill.
With thoughts that swell his glowing soul,
He bids the ore illume the page,
And proudly scorning Time's control,
Commerces with an unborn age.

In fields of air he writes his name,
And treads the chambers of the sky;
He reads the stars, and grasps the flame
That quivers round the throne on high.
In war renowned, in peace sublime,

He moves in greatness and in grace;
His power, subduing space and time,
Links realm to realm and race to race.

JOHN G. C. BRAINARD,

In the circumstances of his life and death, reminds us of Kirke White; but as a poet, he was infinitely White's superior. He was born in Connecticut, A.D. 1796, and was educated for the bar. Disliking the profession, he became the editor of a paper at New York, where he died of consumption, A. D. 1828.

Originality, boldness, force, and pathos, appear in every one of Brainard's poems. His genius resembles that of Burns, both in its simplicity and its strength.

THE DEEP.

THERE's beauty in the deep:

The wave is bluer than the sky:

And though the light shine bright on high,
More softly do the sea-gems glow,
That sparkle in the depths below;
The rainbow's tints are only made
When on the waters they are laid,
And sun and moon most sweetly shine
Upon the ocean's level brine.

There's beauty in the deep.

There's music in the deep:
It is not in the surf's rough roar,
Nor in the whispering, shelly shore ;-
They are but earthly sounds, that tell
But little of the sea-nymph's shell,
That sends its loud clear note abroad,
Or winds its softness through the flood,
Echoes through groves with coral gay,
And dies, on spongy banks, away.
There's music in the deep.

There's quiet in the deep:-
Above let tides and tempests rave,
And earth-born whirlwinds wake the wave;
Above, let care and fear contend
With sin and sorrow to the end:
Here, far beneath the tainted foam,
That frets above our peaceful home,
We dream in joy, and wake in love,
Nor know the rage that yells above.
There's quiet in the deep.

THE FALLS OF NIAGARA.

The thoughts are strange that crowd into my brain,
While I look upward to thee. It would seem
As if God poured thee from his "hollow hand,"
And hung his bow upon thine awful front;
And spoke in that loud voice which seemed to him
Who dwelt in Patmos for his Saviour's sake,
"The sound of many waters;" and had bade
Thy flood to chronicle the ages back,

And notch His centuries in the eternal rocks.
Deep calleth unto deep. And what are we,
That hear the question of that voice sublime?
Oh! what are all the notes that ever rung

From war's vain trumpet, by thy thundering side!
Yea, what is all the riot man can make
In his short life, to thy unceasing roar!
And yet, bold babbler, what art thou to Him
Who drowned a world, and heaped the waters far
Above its loftiest mountains?—a light wave,
That breaks, and whispers of its Maker's might.

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