ticipated cruel treatment, if their nation was discovered, and bor rowed sailors' clothes that they might pass for Englishmen. Thus disguised, they lay in close concealment for two days, when word was brought to Perry, that two Indians were concealed below who had not tasted food for eight and forty hours. He had them brought up on deck, where they made a most uncouth and ludicrous appearance, with their borrowed garments bagging about them. They expected nothing less than to be butchered and scalped, but, notwithstanding, preserved the most taciturn inflexibility of muscle. Perry, however, after putting a few good-humoured questions to them, ordered them to be taken away and fed; a degree of lenity which seemed to strike them with more surprise than their stoic natures are apt to evince.

The only time that the coolness and self command of Perry experienced any thing like a shock, was on seeing his young brother, a midshipman, knocked down by a hammock, which had been driven in by a ball. In the momentary agony of mind he gave him up as slain, but had the delight to see him rise up perfectly unhurt.

Perry speaks highly of the bravery and good conduct of the negroes, who formed a considerable part of his crew. They seemed to be absolutely insensible to danger. When Captain Barclay came on board the Niagara, and beheld the sickly and particoloured beings around him, an expression of chagrin escaped him, at having been conquered by such men. The fresh water service had very much impaired the health of the sailors, and crowded the sick list with patients.

We shall close these few particulars of this gallant and romantic affair, with the affecting fate of Lieutenant Brookes of the marines. It presents an awful picture of the scenes which the warrior witnesses in battle-his favourite companions suddenly cut down before his eyes-those dreadful transitions from the flush of health and the vivacity of youth, to the ghastliness of agonized death-from the cheering and the smile, to the shriek and the convulsion.

Brookes was a gay, animated young officer, remarkable for his personal beauty. In the midst of the engagement he accosted Perry in a spirited tone, with a smile on his countenance, and was making some observations about the enemy, when a cannon ball struck him in the thigh, and dashed him to the opposite side of

the deck. The blow shattered him dreadfully, and the sudden anguish forced from him the most thrilling exclamations. He implored Perry to shoot him and put an end to his torture: the lat ter directed some of the marines to carry him below and consign him to the surgeon. The scene was rendered more affecting, by the conduct of a little mulatto boy of twelve years of age, a favourite of Brookes's. He was carrying cartridges to one of the guns, but on seeing his master fall, he threw himself on the deck, with the most frantic gesticulations and piercing cries, exclaiming that his master was killed; nor could he be appeased until orders were given to take him below; when he immediately returned to carrying cartridges.

Mr. Hamilton, the purser, who had worked at a gun like a common sailor, being wounded, was carried below and laid on the same mattress with Brookes. The wound of the latter was stanched, and he lay composed, calmly awaiting his approaching death. Hamilton observes that he never looked so perfectly beautiful as at this moment, when the anguish of his wound had imparted a feverish flush and lustre to his usually blooming countenance. He asked with great solicitude after Perry, and how the battle went. He gave a few directions about his own affairs, and, while his voice was growing weaker and weaker, recommended his little mulatto to kindness and protection, directing into whose hands he should be placed. While he was yet talking, Hamilton's attention was suddenly attracted by some circumstance which occasioned him to look another way for a moment-the voice of his companion died away upon his ear, and when he turned his face again, poor Brookes had expired!

POETRY.

THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS

A new poem with this title has recently been published in England, from the pen of Lord Byron. It is a Turkish tale, and a companion piece to his Giaour. The following splendid description of Asiatic scenery opens the first canto.

KNOW ye the land where the cypress and myrtle

Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime,
Where the rage of the vulture-the love of the turtle-
Now melt into sorrow-now madden to crime?-
Know ye the land of the cedar and vine?

Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine,
Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppressed with perfume,
Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul in her bloom;

Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit,

And the voice of the nightingale never is mute;

Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky,

In colour though varied, in beauty may vie,

And the purple of Ocean is deepest in die;

Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine,

And all, save the spirit of man, is divine

'Tis the clime of the east-'tis the land of the sun

Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done?

O! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell

Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they tell.

The following is a description of Zuleika, the heroine of the poem

Fair-as the first that fell of womankind

When on that dread yet lovely serpent smiling,
Whose image then was stamped upon her mind-
But once beguiled-and ever more beguiling;
Dazzling as that, O! too transcendent vision

To sorrow's phantom-peopled slumber given,
When heart meets heart again in dreams Elysian,
And paints the lost on earth, revived in heaven-
Soft-as the memory of buried love-

Pure-as the prayer which childhood wafts above-
Was she-the daughter of that rude old chief,
Who met the maid with tears-but not of grief.

Who hath not proved-how feebly words essay
To fix one spark of beauty's heavenly ray?
Who doth not feel-until his failing sight
Faints into dimness with its own delight-
His changing cheek-his sinking heart confess
The might-the majesty of loveliness?
Such was Zuleika-such around her shone-
The nameless charms unmarked by her alone--

The light of love-the purity of grace

The mind-the music breathing from her face!
The heart whose softness harmonized the whole-

And O! that eye was in itself a soul!

The following is an exquisite picture of female gentleness and sensibility.

And red to pale, as through her ears
Those winged words like arrows sped→
What could such be but maiden fears?
So bright the tear in beauty's eye,
Love half regrets to kiss it dry-
So sweet the blush of bashfulness,
Even pity scarce can wish it less!

For the Analectic Magazine.

ON FRIENDSHIP.

How sweet is the mem'ry of joys that are past,
But joys are delusive as virtue is rare ;

And when age cools the passions and deadens the taste,
We barely remember that once such things were.

So friendships, sometimes-c'er they ripen, grow old,
As the frost nips the spring-buds that soonest appear;
And the heart that first opens is first to grow cold,

And pretends to forget that of late-such things were.

I've seen one on whom smiles and caresses were heap'd,
"Till the burden of kindness seemed heavy to bear;
And the warm grateful heart in sincerity leaped,
And swore that 'twould never forget-such things were.

I have heard the professions of friendship the dearest,
While suspicion's sharp glance could not fancy a fear;
But the friendship I fancied the firmest, sincerest,

Has broke and I've blush'd, as I thought such things were. Philadelphia.

TIMID LOVE

By Mrs. Grant.

say not that Arthur will see me no more,
His kindness I merit, his anger deplore;

Though doubt made me silent, yet why should he ay,
Since the dawn of affection is timid and shy?

I've nourished the woodlark he brought from the nest,
The flowers he presented I placed in my breast;
When their beauty no longer delighted my eyes,
With their last dying odours I mingled my sighs.

Beneath yon steep cliff, where the strawberries grow,
Though the surf in rude tumults beats ever below;
By the dim light of morning, unseen, I repair,
To gather the fruit, that my Arthur may share.

Alone in the dusk of the evening I rove,
With my harp I resort to the depth of the grove;
With secret delight, there I sing all his lays,
And practise the music made sweet by his praise.

will he return, his loved haunts to retrace?
Will no rash resentment appear in his face?
No more like a blast will he rush through the door,
And wring my sad heart with reproaches no more!

THE BARD'S INCANTATION

Written under the threat of invasion, in the autumn of 1804.
By Walter Scott.

The forest of Glenmore is drear,

It is all of black pine, and the dark oak-tree;
And the midnight wind, to the mountain deer,
Is whistling the forest lullaby :-

The moon looks through the drifting storm,
But the troubled lake reflects not her form,
For the waves roll whitening to the land,
And dash against the shelvy strand.

There is a voice among the trees

That mingles with the groaning oak

That mingles with the stormy breeze,

And the lake-waves dashing against the rock ;-

There is a voice within the wood,

The voice of the Bard in fitful mood;

His song was louder than the blast,

As the Bard of Glenmore through the forest past.

"Wake ye from your sleep of death,
Minstrels and Bards of other days!
For the midnight wind is on the heath,
And the midnight meteors dimly blaze;
The Spectre with his bloody hand,*
Is wandering through the wild woodland;
The owl and the raven are mute for dread,
And the time is meet to awake the dead!

"Souls of the mighty! wake and say

To what high strains your harps were strung,
When Lochlin ploughed her billowy way,

And on your shores her Norsemen flung?
Her Norsemen, trained to spoil and blood,
Skilled to prepare the raven's food,
All by your harpings doom'd to die'
On bloody Largs and Loncarty.f

"Mute are ye all? no murmurs strange
Upon the midnight breeze sail by;

Nor through the pines with whistling change,
Mimic the harp's wild harmony!

Mute are ye now ?--Ye ne'er were mute

When murder with his bloody foot,

And rapine with his iron hand,

Were hovering near your mountain strand.

The forest of Glenmore is haunted by a spirit called Lhamdearg, or Red-hand. Where the Norwegian invader of Scotland received two bloody defeats.