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, 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 Haytian seas.
Bozzaris! with the storied brave
Greece nurtur❜d 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 lov'd, and for a season gone;
For thee her poet's lyre is wreath'd,
Her marble wrought, her music breath'd:
For thee she rings the birth-day bell;
Of thee her babes first lisping tell:
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 mem'ry 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.
LET US ALONE.
S vonce I valked by a dismal swamp,
There sot an Old Cove in the dark and damp,
And at everybody as passed that road,
A stick or a stone this Old Cove throwed;
And venever he flung his stick or his stone,
He'd set up a song of "Let me alone."
"Let me alone, for I loves to shy
These bits of things at the passers-by;
Let me alone, for I've got your tin,
And lots of other traps snugly in;
Let me alone-I am rigging a boat
To grab votever you've got afloat;
In a veek or so I expects to come
And turn you out of your 'ouse and 'ome;
I'm a quiet Old Cove," says he, with a groan;
"All I axes is, Let me alone.”
Just then came along, on the self-same vay,
Another Old Cove, and began for to say—
"Let you alone! That's comin' it strong!
You've ben let alone-a darned site too long!
Of all the sarce that ever I heerd!
Put down that stick! (You may well look skeered.)
Let go that stone! If you once show fight,
I'll knock you higher than any kite.
You must have a lesson to stop your tricks,
And cure you of shying them stones and sticks;
And I'll have my hardware back, and my cash,
And knock your scow into tarnal smash;
And if ever I catches you round my ranch,
I'll string you up to the nearest branch.
The best you can do is to go to bed,
And keep a decent tongue in your head;
For I reckon, before you and I are done,
You'll wish you had let honest folks alone."
The Old Cove stopped, and t'other Old Cove,
He sot quiet still in his cypress grove,
And he looked at his stick, revolvin' slow,
Vether 'twere safe to shy it, or no;
And he grumbled on, in an injured tone,
"All that I axed vos, Let me alone."
WOMAN.-R. H. Townsend.
YLPH of the blue and beaming eye!
The Muses' fondest wreaths are thine-
The youthful heart beats warm and high,
And joys to own thy power divine!
Thou shinest o'er the flowery path
Of youth; and all is pleasure there!
Thou soothest man, whene'er he hath
An eye of gloom-a brow of care.
To youth, thou art the early morn,
With "light, and melody, and song,"
To gild his path; each scene adorn,
And swiftly speed his time along.
To man thou art the gift of Heav'n,
A boon from regions bright above;
His lot how dark, had ne'er been giv'n
To him the light of woman's love!
When o'er his dark'ning brow the storm
Is gath'ring in its power and might,
The radiant beam of woman's form
Shines through the cloud, and all is light!
When dire disease prepares her wrath
To pour in terror from above,
How gleams upon his gloomy path
The glowing light of woman's love!
When all around is clear and bright,
And pleasure lends her fairest charm;
And man, enraptur'd with delight,
Feels, as he views, his bosom warm,
Why glows his breast with joy profuse,
And all his deeds his rapture prove?
It is because the scene he views
Through the bright rays of woman's love.
O woman! thine is still the power,
Denied to all but only thee,
To chase away the clouds that lower
To harass life's eventful sea.
Thou light of man! his only joy
Beneath a wide and boundless sky,
Long shall thy praise his tongue employ,
Sylph of the blue and beaming eye!
EXAMPLES FOR IRELAND.-T. F. MEAGHER.
THER nations, with abilities far less eminent than those which you possess, having great difficulties to encounter, have obeyed with heroism the commandment from which you have swerved, maintaining that noble order of existence, through which even the poorest state becomes an instructive chapter in the great history of the world.
Shame upon you! Switzerland-without a colony, without a gun upon the seas, without a helping hand from any court in Europe-has held for centuries her footing on the Alps—spite of the avalanche, has bid her little territory sustain, in peace and
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