Then saw in death his eyelids close Like flowers at set of sun. Come to the bridal chamber, Death! The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier; 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; The thanks of millions yet to be. 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 Haytian 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; Believe it not-though lonely Though Time thy bloom is stealing, LOVE. -The imperial votaress pass'd on In maiden meditation, fancy free. Midsummer Night's Dream. Shall I never see a bachelor of three-score again? BENEDICT, in Much Ado about Nothing. WHEN the tree of love is budding first, Ere yet, by shower and sunbeam nurst The wild bee's slightest touch might wring As the gentle dip of the swallow's wing But when its open leaves have found Pluck them, and there remains a wound The blight of hope and happiness Is felt when fond ones part, And the bitter tear that follows is When the flame of love is kindled first, "Tis the fire-fly's light at even, 'Tis dim as the wandering stars that burst A breath can bid it burn no more, Come on the memory, they pass o'er But when that flame has blazed into And smiled in scorn upon the dew That fell in its first warm hour, 'Tis the flame that curls round the martyr's head, Whose task is to destroy; 'Tis the lamp on the altars of the dead, Whose light is not of joy! Then crush, even in their hour of birth, And tread his growing fire to earth, may be CONNECTICUT. FROM AN UNPUBLISHED POEM. AND still her gray rocks tower above the sea And where none kneel, save when to heaven they pray, Theirs is a pure republic, wild, yet strong, A "fierce democracie," where all are true (If red, they might to Draco's code belong ;) A vestal state, which power could not subdue, Nor promise win-like her own eagle's nest, Sacred-the San Marino of the west. A justice of the peace, for the time being, In price or creed, dismiss him without fear; They have a natural talent for foreseeing And knowing all things;—and should Park appear From his long tour in Africa, to show The Niger's source, they'd meet him with-"we know." They love their land, because it is their own, And think it kindness to his majesty ; A stubborn race, fearing and flattering none. Such are they nurtured, such they live and die: All-but a few apostates, who are meddling With merchandise, pounds, shillings, pence, and peddling; Or wandering through southern countries, teaching A decent living. The Virginians look As Gabriel on the devil in paradise. But these are but their outcasts. View them near And there the lowliest farm-house hearth is graced Faithful in love, in honor stern and chaste, In friendship warm and true, in danger brave, And minds have there been nurtured, whose control Is felt even in their nation's destiny; Men who swayed senates with a statesman's soul, Names that adorn and dignify the scroll, Whose leaves contain their country's history, And tales of love and war-listen to one, Of the Green-Mountaineer-the Stark of Bennington. When on that field his band the Hessians fought, "Soldiers! those German gentlemen are bought |