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 Platea's day;

And now there breathed that haunted air
The sons of sires who conquered there,
With arm to strike and soul to dare,
As quick, as far as they.

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
Like forest-pines before the blast,

Or 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;
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
Which close the pestilence are broke,
And crowded cities wail its stroke;
Come in Consumption's ghastly form,
The earthquake's 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 eyes' unearthly light
To him is welcome as the sight

Of sky and stars to prisoned men ;
Thy grasp is welcome as the hand
Of brother in a foreign land;
Thy summons welcome as the cry
Which 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 poet's lyre is wreathed,
Her marble wrought, her music breathed;
For thee she rings the birthday bells;
Of thee her babe's 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!

EDGAR ALLAN POE.

This singular and unfortunately degraded man of genius-the Richard Savage of American literature was born at Boston, January 19, 1809. He was left destitute when a child by the death of his parents (strolling players), but was adopted and liberally educated by a benevolent Virginian planter, Mr Allan. All attempts to settle him respectably in life failed. He was reckless, debauched, and unmanageable. He was expelled from college and from a military academy in which he was placed by Mr Allan; he enlisted in the army, but soon deserted; and after various scenes of wretchedness, he became a contributor to, and occasional editor of, several American periodicals. His prose tales attracted notice from their ingenuity and powerful, though morbid and gloomy painting; and his poem of The Raven, coloured by the same diseased imagination, but with bright gleams of fancy, was hailed as the most original and striking poem that America had ever produced. Poe died in a hospital at Baltimore, the victim of intemperance, October 7, 1849. A complete edition of the works of Poe, with Memoir by John H. Ingram, was published in 1875, in four volumes-three of them prose, and one poetry. The editor clears the memory of the unfortunate poet from certain charges brought against him by Griswold, the American editor. Some of the criticisms by Poe collected in this edition of his works are marked by a fine critical taste and acuteness.

The Raven.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamberdoor :

"Tis some visitor,' I muttered, 'tapping at my chamberdoor

Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah! distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow

From my books surcease of sorrow-sorrow for the lost Lenore

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore

Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me-filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating:

"Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamberdoor

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamberdoor:

This it is, and nothing more.'

Presently my soul longer, 'Sir,' said I, 'or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

grew stronger; hesitating then no

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber-door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you '-here I opened

wide the door

Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before ;

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, 'Lenore !'

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, 'Lenore!'

Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping something louder than

before.

'Surely,' said I-'surely that is something at my window lattice;

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore

Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore.

'Tis the wind, and nothing more.'

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of

Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven, wandering from the nightly shore

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's
Plutonian shore !'
Quoth the Raven: 'Nevermore.'

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning-little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber-door

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber-door, With such name as 'Nevermore.'

But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered

Till I scarcely more than muttered: Other friends have flown before

On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'

Then the bird said: 'Never more.'

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, 'Doubtless,' said I, 'what it utters is its only stock and

store,

Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful

disaster

an unseen censer

Swung by seraphim, whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.

Wretch !' I cried, 'thy god hath lent thee-by these angels he hath sent thee

Respite-respite and nepenthe from thy memories of

Lenore!

Quaff, O quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Quoth the Raven: 'Never more!'

Lenore!'

'Prophet!' said I, 'thing of evil!-prophet still, if bird or devil!

Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

E'en while I sing, see Faction urge her claim,
Mislead with falsehood and with zeal inflame;
Lift her black banner, spread her empire wide,
And stalk triumphant with a Fury's stride!
She blows her brazen trump, and at the sound
A motley throng, obedient, flock around
;
A mist of changing hue around she flings,
And Darkness perches on her dragon wings!
Oh, might some patriot rise, the gloom dispel,
Chase Error's mist, and break her magic spell!
But vain the wish-for, hark, the murmuring meed
Of hoarse applause from yonder shed proceed!
Enter and view the thronging concourse there,
Intent with gaping mouth and stupid stare;
While in their midst their supple leader stands,
Harangues aloud and flourishes his hands,
To adulation tones his servile throat,

And sues successful for each blockhead's vote.

From this perilous course of political versifying, the young author was removed by being placed at Williams College. He was admitted to the bar, and practised for several years with fair success; but in 1825 he removed to New York, and entered upon that literary life which he has ever since followed. In 1826 Mr Bryant became editor of the New York Evening Post, and his connection with that journal still subsists. His poetical works consist of Thanatopsis-an exquisite solemn strain of blank verse, first published in 1816; The Ages, a survey of the experience of mankind, 1821; and various pieces scattered through periodical works. Mr Washington Irving, struck with the beauty of Bryant's poetry, had it collected and published in London in 1832. The British public, he said, had expressed its delight at the graphic descriptions of American scenery and wild woodland characters contained in the works of Cooper. 'The same keen eye and just feeling for nature,' he added, 'the same indigenous style of thinking and local peculiarity of imagery, which give such novelty and interest to the pages of that gifted writer, will be found to characterise this volume, condensed into a narrower compass, and sublimated into poetry. From this opinion Professor Wilson-who reviewed the volume in Blackwood's Magazine dissented, believing that Cooper's pictures are infinitely richer in local peculiarity of imagery and thought. 'The chief charm of Bryant's genius,' he considered, 'consists in a tender pensiveness, a moral melancholy, breathing over all his contemplations, dreams, and reveries, even such as in the main are glad, and giving assurance of a pure spirit, benevolent to all living creatures, and habitually pious in the felt omnipresence of the Creator. His poetry overflows with natural religion-with what Wordsworth calls the religion of the woods.' This is strictly applicable to the Thanatopsis and Forest Hymn; but Washington Irving is so far right that Bryant's grand merit is his nationality and his power of painting the American landscape, espeHis diction is pure and lucid, with scarcely a flaw, cially in its wild, solitary, and magnificent forms. and he is a master of blank verse. Mr Bryant has translated the Iliad and Odyssey, 4 vols. (Boston, 1870-1872).

From Thanatopsis"

Not to thy eternal resting-place

Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world—with kings,
The powerful of the earth, the wise, the good-
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past-
All in one mighty sepulchre! The hills,
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun-the vales,
Stretching in pensive quietness between-
The venerable woods, rivers that move

In majesty, and the complaining brooks

That make the meadows green; and, poured round all,

Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste-
Are but the solemn decorations all

Of the great tomb of man! The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings
Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce,

Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound
Save his own dashings; yet, the dead are there,
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep-the dead reign there alone.
So shalt thou rest. And what if thou shalt fall
Unheeded by the living, and no friend

Take note of thy departure! All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of Care
Plod on, and each one as before will chase
His favourite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glide away, the sons of men-

The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron, and maid,
And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man-
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side,
By those who in their turn shall follow them.

So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan that moves

To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,

Scourged to his dungeon; but, sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

The Wind-flower.

Lodged in sunny cleft Where the cold breezes come not, blooms alone The little wind-flower, whose just-opened eye Is blue as the spring heaven it gazes at, Startling the loiterer in the naked groves With unexpected beauty, for the time Of blossoms and green leaves is yet afar.

The Disinterred Warrior.

Gather him to his grave again,
And solemnly and softly lay,
Beneath the verdure of the plain,

The warrior's scattered bones away.
Pay the deep reverence, taught of old,
The homage of man's heart to death;
Nor dare to trifle with the mould

Once hallowed by the Almighty's breath. The soul hath quickened every partThat remnant of a martial brow, Those ribs that held the mighty heart,

That strong arm-strong no longer now.
Spare them, each mouldering relic spare,
Of God's own image; let them rest,
Till not a trace shall speak of where
The awful likeness was impressed.
For he was fresher from the Hand
That formed of earth the human face,
And to the elements did stand

In nearer kindred than our race.
In many a flood to madness tossed,
In many a storm has been his path;
He hid him not from heat or frost,
But met them, and defied their wrath.

Then they were kind-the forests here,
Rivers, and stiller waters, paid

A tribute to the net and spear
Of the red ruler of the shade.

Fruits on the woodland branches lay,
Roots in the shaded soil below,
The stars looked forth to teach his way,
The still earth warned him of the foe.

A noble race! But they are gone, With their old forests wide and deep, And we have built our homes upon

Fields where their generations sleep. Their fountains slake our thirst at noon, Upon their fields our harvest waves, Our lovers woo beneath their moon

Ah, let us spare at least their graves!

An Indian at the Burying-place of his Fathers.
It is the spot I came to seek-

My fathers' ancient burial-place,
Ere from these vales, ashamed and weak,
Withdrew our wasted race.

It is the spot-I know it well-
Of which our old traditions tell.

For here the upland bank sends out
A ridge toward the river-side;

I know the shaggy hills about,

The meadows smooth and wide; The plains that, toward the eastern sky, Fenced east and west by mountains lie.

A white man, gazing on the scene,

Would say a lovely spot was here,
And praise the lawns, so fresh and green,
Between the hills so sheer..

I like it not-I would the plain
Lay in its tall old groves again.

The sheep are on the slopes around,
The cattle in the meadows feed,
And labourers turn the crumbling ground,
Or drop the yellow seed,

And prancing steeds, in trappings gay,
Whirl the bright chariot o'er the way.

Methinks it were a nobler sight

To see these vales in woods arrayed, Their summits in the golden light,

Their trunks in grateful shade;
And herds of deer, that bounding go
O'er rills and prostrate trees below.
And then to mark the lord of all,

The forest hero, trained to wars,
Quivered and plumed, and lithe and tall,
And seamed with glorious scars,
Walk forth, amid his train, to dare
The wolf, and grapple with the bear.
This bank, in which the dead were laid,
Was sacred when its soil was ours;
Hither the artless Indian maid

Brought wreaths of beads and flowers,
And the gray chief and gifted seer
Worshipped the God of thunders here.

But now the wheat is green and high
On clods that hid the warrior's breast,
And scattered in the furrows lie

The weapons of his rest;
And there, in the loose sand, is thrown
Of his large arm the mouldering bone.

Ah, little thought the strong and brave,

Who bore their lifeless chieftain forth, Or the young wife that weeping gave Her first-born to the earth,

That the pale race, who waste us now, Among their bones should guide the plough!

They waste us-ay, like April snow

In the warm noon, we shrink away; And fast they follow, as we go Toward the setting day—

R. H. DANA-N. P. WILLIS-O. W. HOLMES.

RICHARD HENRY DANA (born at Cambridge, Massachusetts, in 1787) was author of a small volume, The Buccaneer, and other Poems (1827); which was hailed as an original and powerful contribution to American literature. He had previously published The Dying Raven, a poem (1825), and contributed essays to a periodical work. The Buccaneer is founded on a tradition of a murder committed on an island on the coast of New England by a pirate, and has passages of vivid, dark painting resembling the style of Crabbe.

on the

NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS (1806-1867) was a prolific and popular American writer, who excelled in light descriptive sketches. He commenced author in 1827 with a volume of fugitive pieces, which was well received, and was followed in 1831 and 1835 by two volumes of similar character. In 1835 he published two volumes of prose, Pencillings by the Way, which formed agreeable reading, though censurable score of personal disclosures invading the sanctity of private life. On this account, Willis was sharply criticised and condemned by Lockhart in the Quarterly Review. Numerous other works of the same kind-Inklings of Adventure (1836), Dashes at Life (1845), Letters from Wateringplaces (1849), People I have Met (1850), &c., were thrown off from time to time, amounting altogether to thirty or forty separate publications; and besides this constant stream of authorship, Mr Willis was editor of the New York Mirror and other periodicals. Though marred by occasional affectation, the sketches of Willis are light, graceful compositions.

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES (born at Cambridge, Massachusetts, in 1809) contributed various pieces to American periodicals, and in 1836 published a collected edition of his Poems. In 1843 he published Terpsichore, a poem; in 1846, Urania; in 1850, Astræa, the Balance of Allusions, a poem; and in 1858, The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table, a series of light and genial essays, full of fancy and humour, which has been successful both in the Old and the New World. Mr Holmes is distinguished as a physician. He practised in Boston; in 1836 took his degree of M.D. at

Cambridge; in 1838 was elected Professor of Anatomy and Physiology in Dartmouth College; and in 1847 succeeded to the chair of Anatomy in Harvard University. In 1849 he retired from general practice. Some of the quaint sayings of Holmes have a flavour of fine American humour:

Give me the luxuries of life, and I will dispense with its necessaries.

Talk about conceit as much as you like, it is to human character what salt is to the ocean; it keeps it sweet, and renders it endurable. Say, rather, it is like the natural unguent of the sea-fowl's plumage, which enables him to shed the rain that falls on him, and the wave in which he dips.

Insanity is often the logic of an accurate mind overtasked. A weak mind does not accumulate force enough to hurt itself. Stupidity often saves a man from going mad. Any decent person ought to go mad, if he really holds such and such opinions. It is very much to his discredit in every point of view, if he does not. I am very much ashamed of some people for retaining their reason, when they know perfectly well that if they were not the most stupid or the most selfish of human beings, they would become non-compotes at once.

What a comfort a dull but kindly person is, to be sure, at times! A ground-glass shade over a gas-lamp such a one to our minds. There are men of esprit who does not bring more solace to our dazzled eye than are excessively exhausting to some people. They are the talkers that have what may be called the jerky minds. They say bright things on all possible subjects, but their zigzags rack you to death. After a jolting half-hour with these jerky companions, talking with a dull friend affords great relief. It is like taking the cat in your lap after holding a squirrel.

Don't you know how hard it is for some people to get out of a room after their visit is over? We rather think we do. They want to be off, but they don't know built in your room, and were waiting to be launched. how to manage it. One would think they had been for such visitors, which being lubricated with certain I have contrived a sort of ceremonial inclined plane smooth phrases, I back them down, metaphorically speaking, stern foremost, into their native element of out-of-doors.

The Buccancer's Island.-By DANA.
The island lies nine leagues away.
Along its solitary shore,

Of craggy rock and sandy bay,
No sound but ocean's roar,

Save where the bold, wild sea-bird makes her home,
Her shrill cry coming through the sparkling foam.

But when the light winds lie at rest,
And on the glassy heaving sea,
The black duck, with her glossy breast,
Sits swinging silently-

How beautiful! no ripples break the reach,
And silvery waves go noiseless up the beach.

And inland rests the green, warm dell;
The brook comes tinkling down its side;
From out the trees the Sabbath bell
Rings cheerful, far and wide,
Mingling its sound with bleatings of the flecks,
That feed about the vale among the rocks.

Nor holy bell, nor pastoral bleat,
In former days within the vale;
Flapped in the bay the pirate's sheet;
Curses were on the gale;

Rich goods lay on the sand, and murdered men;
Pirate and wrecker kept their revels then.