Space for the ocean, in its giant might, Space for the river, tinged with rosy light, Space for the sun to tread his path in might Space for the glow-worm, calling, by her light, Then, pure and gentle ones, within your ark Blue be the skies above, and your still bark FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.1 [Born in 1795, died in 1868. His maternal descent was from John Eliot, the Apostle of the Indians." He engaged in busi ness, acting for several years as agent to the great capitalist Astor]. MARCO BOZZARIS. AT midnight, in his guarded tent, The Turk was dreaming of the hour In dreams, through camp and court he bore In dreams his song of triumph heard; Then wore his monarch's signet-ring; Then pressed that monarch's throne—a king: As Eden's garden-bird. At midnight, in the forest shades, Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band, In the case of Halleck, and of other American poets who figure also in our selection of Humorous Poems, the notice here given of the writer is repeated from that volume without alteration -save in the case of Whitman. True as the steel of their tried blades, There had the Persian's thousands stood, And now there breathed that haunted air An hour passed on- the Turk awoke; 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 "Strike-till the last armed foe expires; They fought-like brave men, long and well; Bleeding at every vein. His few surviving comrades saw Like flowers at set of sun. Come to the bridal chamber, Death! That close the pestilence are broke, The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier, But to the hero, when his sword Has won the battle for the free, Of sky and stars to prisoned men: 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 с Long loved, and for a season gone. Talk of thy doom without a sigh: A POET'S DAUGHTER. FOR THE ALBUM OF MISS, AT THE REQUEST OE HER FATHER. "A LADY asks the Minstrel's rhyme." A Lady asks? There was a time To wearied boy, That sound would summon dreams sublime But now the spell hath lost its sway; Life's first-born fancies first decay, Gone are the plumes and pennons gay Of young Romance; There linger but her ruins grey, 'Tis a new world—no more to maid, Heaven placed us here to vote and trade, "Tis youth, 'tis beauty asks; the green Are round her; and, half hid, half seen. Nursed by the virtues she hath been Blind passion's picture-yet for this. Unmindful of the serpent's hiss Beauty- the fading rainbow's pride, Age-strengthened, like the oak storm-tried Youth's coffin-hush the tale it tells! And where the grave-mound greenly swells "But what if hers are rank and power, What if from bannered hall and tower |