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In dreams, through camp and court, he bore
The trophies of a conqueror;

In dreams his song of triumph heard;
There 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 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 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 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.

THE FALLS OF THE PASSAIC.

In a wild, tranquil vale, fringed with forests of green,
Where nature had fashioned a soft, sylvan scene,
The retreat of the ringdove, the haunt of the deer,
Passaic in silence rolled gentle and clear.

No grandeur of prospect astonished the sight,
No abruptness sublime mingled awe with delight;
Here the wild flow'ret blossomed, the elm proudly waved,
And pure was the current the green bank that laved,

But the spirit that ruled o'er the thick tangled wood,
And deep in its gloom fixed his murky abode,
Who loved the wild scene that the whirlwinds deform,
And gloried in thunder, and lightning, and storm;

All flushed from the tumult of battle he came,
Where the red men encountered the children of flame,
While the noise of the war-whoop still rang in his ears,
And the fresh bleeding scalp as a trophy he bears:

With a glance of disgust he the landscape surveyed,
With its fragrant wild flowers, its wide waving shade :—
Where Passaic meanders through margins of green,
So transparent its waters, its surface serene.

He rived the green hills, the wild woods he laid low;
He taught the pure streams in rough channels to flow;
He rent the rude rock, the steep precipice gave,
And hurled down the chasm the thundering wave.

Countless moons have since rolled in the long lapse of time,—
Cultivation has softened those features sublime ;

The axe of the white man has lightened the shade,
And dispelled the deep gloom of the thicketed glade.

But the stranger still gazes, with wondering eye,
On the rocks rudely torn, and groves mounted on high;
Still loves on the cliff's dizzy borders to roam,
Where the torrent leaps headlong embosomed in foam.
Washington Irving.

WHAT IS THAT, MOTHER?

What is that, mother?

The lark, my child,—

The morn has but just looked out, and smiled,
When he starts from his humble, grassy nest,
And is up and away with the dew on his breast
And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure bright sphere,
To warble it out in his Maker's ear.

Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays

Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise.

What is that, mother?—

The dove, my son.

And that low, sweet voice, like a widow's moan)
is flowing out from her gentle breast,
Constant and pure by that lonely nest,

As the wave is poured from some crystal urn,
For her distant dear one's quick return,
Ever, my son. be thou like the dove,—

In friendship as faithful, as constant in love.
What is that, mother?—

The eagle, boy,

Proudly careering his course of joy,

Firm in his own mountain vigour relying,
Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying;
His wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun,
He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on.
Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine,
Onward and upward, true to the line.

What is that, mother?—

The swan, my love.—

He is floating down from his native grove,
No loved one now, no nestling nigh;
He is floating down by himself to die;

Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings,
Yet the sweetest song is the last he sings,

Live so, my love, that when death shall come,
Swan-like and sweet, it may waft thee home.—Doane*

THE CORAL INSECT.

Toil on toil on! ye ephemeral* train,

Who build in the tossing and treacherous main;

Toil on,

for the wisdom of man ye mock,

With your sand-based structures and domes of rock;
Your columns the fathomless fountains lave,

And your arches spring up to the crested wave;
Ye're a puny race, thus boldly to rear

A fabric so vast in a realm so drear.

Ye bind the deep with your secret zone,
The ocean is sealed and the surge a stone;
Fresh wreaths from the coral pavement spring,
Like the terraced pride of Assyria's king† ;

* Living only a day.

† Nebuchadnezzar.

The turf looks green where the breakers rolled;
O'er the whirlpool ripens the rind of gold;
The sea-snatched isle is the home of men,
And mountains exult where the wave hath been.

But why do ye plant, 'neath the billows dark,
The wrecking reef for the gallant bark?
There are snares enough on the tented field,
'Mid the blossomed sweets that the valleys yield;
There are serpents to coil, ere the flowers are up;
There's a poison-drop in man's purest cup,
There are foes that watch for his cradle-breath,
And why need ye sow the floods with death?

With mouldering bones the deeps are white,
From the ice-clad pole to the tropics bright;—
The mermaid hath twisted her fingers cold
With the mesh of the sea-boy's curls of gold,
And the gods of ocean have frowned to see
The mariner's bed in their halls of glee;
Hath earth no graves, that ye thus must spread
The boundless sea for the thronging dead?

Ye build,—ye build,—but ye enter not in,
Like the tribes whom the desert devoured in their sin;
From the land of promise ye fade and die,
Ere its verdure gleams forth on your weary eye;
As the kings of the cloud-crowned pyramid
Their noteless bones in oblivion hid;

Ye slumber unmarked 'mid the desolate main,

While the wonder and pride of your works remain.
Lydia H. Sigourney.

FRISBIE.

The author of the two hymns inserted below, was a professor of Moral Philosophy in Harvard University, Cambridge, Massachusetts. Professor Frisbie died in 1821. He was almost entirely deprived of sight, but it happened to him, as to Homer, Milton, and many other highly gifted men, that Providence made him amends for the imperfection of external vision by a more profound insight of holy and heavenly things. Human happiness and virtue, were the subjects of Professor Frisbie's habit

ual and anxious inquiries; "but all his serious thoughts had rest in Heaven"—Piety was the constant frame of his mind, and his conversation and example afforded uniform illustrations of the Christian temper and faith. His death was a loss to the young particularly, and his worth as a man, a scholar, and a Christian, was duly appreciated and felt by those of his college who looked up to him for the exposition of duty and of truth. Perhaps the good seed which he scattered in many minds, is now expanded to fruit, and it may be that the devotional pieces here annexed will yet serve to awaken gratitude to God, and to strengthen resolutions of virtue.

MORNING HYMN.

While nature welcomes in the day,"
My heart its earliest vows would pay
To him whose care has kindly kept
My life from danger while I slept.

His genial rays the sun renews;
How bright the scene with glittering dews!
The blushing flowers more beauteous bloom,
And breathe more sweet their rich perfume.

So may the sun of righteousness,
With kindliest beams my bosom bless
Warm into life each heavenly seed,
To bud and bear some generous deed.

So may the dews of grace distil,
And gently soften all my will;
So may my morning sacrifice.
To heaven like grateful incense rise.
Wilt thou this day my footsteps guide,
And kindly all I need provide ;
With strength divine my bosom arm,
Against temptation's powerful charm?
Where'er I am, oh, may I feel
That God is all around me still;
That all I say, or do, or mean,
By his all-searching eye is seen.

Oh may each day my heart improve!
Increase my faith, my hope, my love;
And thus its shades around me close
More wise and holy than I rose.

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