Thanks to thy lyre! she liveth yet,
O poet, in thy numbers-
The peerless star of Avignon,

Who shone o'er all thy slumbers:
Entire and sole idolatry

At LAURA's shrine was given,

Yet was her life-lot severed far

From thine as earth and heaven!

And thou, the crowned of Rome-gifted and great-Stood in thy glory still alone and desolate!

James Gordon Brooks.

GREECE IN 1832.

LAND of the brave! where lie inurned

The shrouded forms of mortal clay,

In whom the fire of valour burned,

And blazed upon the battle's fray:
Land, where the gallant Spartan few
Bled at Thermopyla of yore,
When Death his purple garment threw
On Helle's consecrated shore!

Land of the Muse! within thy bowers
Her soul-entrancing echoes rung,
While on their course the rapid hours
Paused at the melody she sung—

Till every grove and every hill,

And every stream that flowed along,

From morn to night repeated still
The winning harmony of song.

Land of dead heroes! living slaves!
Shall Glory gild thy clime no more?
Her banner float above thy waves

Where proudly it hath swept before?
Hath not Remembrance then a charm
To break the fetters and the chain,
To bid thy children nerve the arm,
And strike for freedom once again?

No! coward souls, the light which shone
On Leuctra's war-empurpled day,
The .ight which beamed on Marathon
Hath lost its splendour, ceased to play;
And thou art but a shadow now,

With helmet shattered-spear in rust-
Thy honour but a dream-and thou
Despised-degraded in the dust!

Where sleeps the spirit, that of old

Dashed down to earth the Persian plume,

When the loud chant of triumph told

How fatal was the despot's doom?
The bold three hundred--where are they,
Who died on Battle's gory breast?

Tyrants have trampled on the clay

Where Death hath hushed them into rest.

Yet, Ida, yet upon thy hill

A glory shines of ages fled;

And Fame her light is pouring still,

Not on the living, but the dead!

But 'tis the dim, sepu'chral light
Which sheds a faint and feeble ray,
As moonbeams on the brow of Night,
When tempests sweep upon their way.

Greece! yet awake thee from thy trance-
Behold, thy banner waves afar;
Behold, the glittering weapons glance
Along the gleaming front of war!
A gallant chief, of high emprise,
Is urging foremost in the field,
Who calls upon thee to arise

In might in majesty revealed.

In vain, in vain the hero calls—
In vain he sounds the trumpet loud'
His banner totters-see! it falls

In ruin, Freedom's battle-shroud:
Thy children have no soul to dare

Such deeds as glorified their sires; Their valour's but a meteor's glare, Which gleams a moment, and expires.

Lost land! where Genius made his reign,
And reared his golden arch on high;
Where Science raised her sacred fane,
Its summits peering to the sky;
Upon thy clime the midnight deep

Of Ignorance hath brooded long,
And in the tomb, forgotten, sleep
The sons of Science and of Song.

Thy sun hatn set-the evening storm
Hath passed in giant fury by,

To blast the beauty of thy form,

And spread its pall upon the sky! Gone is thy glory's diadem,

And Freedom never more shall cease To pour her mournful requiem

O'er blighted, lost, degraded Greece!

I

Mary E. Brooks.

DREAM OF LIFE.

HEARD the music of the wave,

As it rippled to the shore,

And saw the willow-branches lave,
As light winds swept them o'er-
The music of the golden bow

That did the torrent span;
But I heard a sweeter music flow

From the youthful heart of man.

The wave rushed on-the hues of heaven Fainter and fainter grew,

And deeper melodies were given

As swift the changes flew :
Then came a shadow on my sight;
The golden bow was dim-
And he that laughed beneath its light,
What was the change to him?

I saw him not; only a throng

Like the swell of troubled ocean,

Rising, sinking, swept along

In the tempest's wild commotion⚫
Sleeping, dreaming, waking then,
Chains to link or sever-
Turning to the dream again,
Fain to clasp it ever.

There was a rush upon my brain,
A darkness on mine eye;
And when I turned to gaze again,
The mingled forms were nigh:
In shadowy mass a mighty hall
Rose on the fitful scene;

Flowers, music, gems, were flung o'er all,
Not such as once had been.

Then in its mist, far, far away,
A phantom seemed to be;
The something of a by-gone day--
But oh, how changed was he!
He rose beside the festal board,
Where sat the merry throng;
And, as the purple juice he poured,
Thus woke his wassail song:

SONG.

"Cone while with wine the goblets flow, For wine, they say, has power to bless; And flowers, too—not roses, no!

Bring poppies, bring forgetfulness!

"A lethè for departed bliss,

And each too well remembered scene: Earth has no sweeter draught than this,

Which drowns the thought of what has been.