Poetry of Life; in 1848, The Sunday-School, and other Poems; and in 1849, Late and Early Poems. While engaged in the preparation of a new volume, he fell a victim to the epidemic then prevailing in Boston,-the cholera,—on the 19th of June, 1849. His death was deeply and widely lamented; for it was felt that a good man, who was devoting to the cause of sacred literature the high gift God had given him, had been taken away in the midst of his usefulness. "With the simplicity of a child, he combined the polish and dignity of the Christian gentleman; with the glowing fancy of the poet, the lowly spirit of the saint; with the severest scrutiny of his own heart, the largest charity for others."

The following pieces will give some idea of the pure and elevated Christian feeling that pervades his poetry.

THERE IS AN HOUR OF PEACEFUL REST.

There is an hour of peaceful rest,

To mourning wanderers given;
There is a joy for souls distress'd,
A balm for every wounded breast-
'Tis found above, in heaven.

There is a soft, a downy bed,

Far from these shades of even;
A couch for weary mortals spread,
Where they may rest the aching head,
And find repose in heaven.

There is a home for weary souls,

By sin and sorrow driven,

When toss'd on life's tempestuous shoals,
Where storms arise and ocean rolls,
And all is drear-'tis heaven.

There Faith lifts up her cheerful eye,
The heart no longer riven;

And views the tempest passing by,
The evening shadows quickly fly,
And all serene in heaven.

There fragrant flowers, immortal, bloom,
And joys supreme are given:
There rays divine disperse the gloom,-
Beyond the confines of the tomb
Appears the dawn of heaven.

GETHSEMANE.

'Tis midnight, and on Olive's brow
The star is dimm'd that lately shone;
'Tis midnight; in the garden now,
The suffering Saviour prays alone.

'Tis midnight, and, from all removed,
Immanuel wrestles, lone, with fears;
E'en the disciple that he loved,

Heeds not his Master's grief and tears.

'Tis midnight, and for others' guilt
The Man of Sorrows weeps in blood;
Yet he that hath in anguish knelt,
Is not forsaken by his God.

'Tis midnight, from the heavenly plains
Is borne the song that angels know;
Unheard by mortals are the strains
That sweetly soothe the Saviour's woe.

WHY SHOULD WE SIGH?

Why should we sigh, when Fancy's dream,-
The ray that shone 'mid youthful tears,-
Departing, leaves no kindly gleam,

To cheer the lonely waste of years?
Why should we sigh?-The fairy charm
That bound each sense in folly's chain
Is broke, and Reason, clear and calm,
Resumes her holy rights again.

Why should we sigh that earth no more
Claims the devotion once approved?
That joys endear'd, with us are o'er,
And gone are those these hearts have loved?
Why should we sigh?-Unfading bliss
Survives the narrow grasp of time;

And those that ask'd our tears in this,
Shall render smiles in yonder clime.

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.

THIS well-known poet was born at Guilford, Connecticut, in August, 1795. In 1813, he entered a banking-house in New York, and remained in that city engaged in mercantile pursuits till 1849, when he returned to Connecticut, where he now resides. At an early age he showed a taste for poetry; but he first attracted public attention by a series of humorous and satirical odes published in the "Evening Post," in 1819, and written in conjunction with his friend Drake, with the signature of "Croaker." Towards the close of the same year, he published Fanny, the longest of his satirical poems, which passed through several editions. In 1823, he went to Europe, and after his return, in 1827, he published a small volume containing, among other pieces, Alnwick Castle, and that spirited, finished, and justly-admired ode, Marco Bozzaris,-the corner-stone of his glory. In 1847, Appleton & Co. published a beautifully-illustrated edition of all he had then written; and in 1852 a volume containing additional poems was published

by Redfield.

It has always been regretted by the public that one who writes so

well should have written so little.2

MARCO BOZZARIS.3

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.

At midnight, in the forest shades,

BOZZARIS ranged his Suliote band,
True as the steel of their tried blades,
Heroes in heart and hand.

There had the Persian's thousands stood,
There had the glad earth drunk their blood
On old Platæa's day;

And now there breathed that haunted air
The sons of sires who conquer'd there,
With arm to strike, and soul to dare,

As quick, as far as they.

An hour pass'd on-the Turk awoke;

That bright dream was his last;

This year (1859) has appeared a new edition of his poems, in one small volume, in blue and gold, published by Appleton & Co.

2" Mr. Halleck has written very little, but that little is of great excellence. His poetry is polished and graceful, and finished with great care under the guidance of a fastidious taste. A vein of sweet and delicate sentiment runs through all his serious productions, and he combines with this a power of humor of the most refined and exquisite cast. He has the art of passing from grave to gay, or the reverse, by the most skilful and happily-managed transitions."-G. S. HILLARD. "The poems of Fitz-Greene Halleck, although limited in quantity, are perhaps the best known and most cherished, especially in the latitude of New York, of all American verses. All his verses have a vital meaning, and the clear ring of pure metal. They are few, but memorable. The school-boy and the old Knickerbocker' both know them by heart. Burns, and the Lines on the Death of Drake.* have the beautiful impressiveness of the highest elegiac verse. Marco Bozzaris is perhaps the best martial lyric in the language, Red Jacket the most effective Indian portrait, and Twilight an apt piece of contemplative verse; while Ainwick Castle combines his grave and gay style with inimitable art and admirable effect. As a versifier, he is an adept in that relation of sound to sense which embalms thought in deathless melody."-HENRY T. TUCKERMAN.

3 He fell in an attack upon the Turkish camp at Lapsi, the site of the ancient Platea, August 20, 1823, and expired in the moment of victory. The modern Greeks, like the Italians, pronounce a as in father, and zz like tz. This hero's name, therefore, is pronounced Bot-zah'ri. * See p. 400.

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 arm'd 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 conquer'd-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 flowers at set of sun.

Come to the bridal chamber, Death!
Come to the mother's, when she feels,
For the first time, her first-born's breath;
Come when the blessed seals

That close the pestilence are broke,
And crowded cities wail its stroke;
Come in Consumption's ghastly form,
The earthquake shock, the ocean 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.
Come, when his task of fame is wrought-
Come, with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought-
Come, in her crowning hour-and then
Thy sunken eye's unearthly light
To him is welcome as the sight

Of sky and stars to prison'd men:
Thy grasp is welcome as the hand
Of brother in a foreign land;
Thy summons welcome as the cry
That told the Indian isles were nigh

To the world-seeking Genoese,

When the land-wind, from woods of palm,
And orange-groves, and fields of balm,
Blew o'er the Haytien seas.

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.

She wore no funeral weeds for thee,

Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume,
Like torn branch from death's leafless tree,
In sorrow's pomp and pageantry,

The heartless luxury of the tomb:

But she remembers thee as one
Long loved and for a season gone.
For thee her poets' lyre is wreathed,
Her marble wrought, her music breathed:
For thee she rings the birthday bells;
Of thee her babes' first lisping tells:
For thine her evening prayer is said
At palace couch, and cottage bed;
Her soldier, closing with the foe,
Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow;
His plighted maiden, when she fears
For him, the joy of her young years,
Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears.
And she, the mother of thy boys,
Though in her eye and faded cheek
Is read the grief she will not speak,
The memory of her buried joys,
And even she who gave thee birth,
Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth,

Talk of 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.

BURNS.

TO A ROSE, BROUGHT FROM NEAR ALLOWAY KIRK, IN AYRSHIRE, IN THE AUTUMN OF 1822.

Wild Rose of Alloway! my thanks:

Thou 'mindst me of that autumn noon
When first we met upon "the banks
And braes o' bonny Doon."

Like thine, beneath the thorn-tree's bough,
My sunny hour was glad and brief,
We've cross'd the winter sea, and thou
Art wither'd-flower and leaf.

And will not thy death-doom be mine

The doom of all things wrought of clay

And wither'd my life's leaf like thine,
Wild rose of Alloway!