As 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 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 Haytian seas.

VOL. I.

10

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 birth-day bells;
Of thee her et babe's 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.

H.

[It would be an act of gross injustice to the author of the above magnificent Lyric, were we to withhold the expression of our admiration of its extraordinary beauty. We are sure, too, that in this instance, at least, we have done what is rare indeed in the annals of criticism,-we have given an opinion from which not one of our readers will feel any inclination to dissent.]

MRS. BARBAULD.

The admirers of Mrs. Barbauld will be glad to learn, that a collection is about to be made of her unpublished writings in England, and that arrangements will probably be made for reprinting them in this country. There can be no doubt, that their publication will be a highly acceptable present to the public. It is very certain, that when Mrs. Barbauld began to write verses, no other English poetess had written half so well; and

although, perhaps, at the present day, she is surpassed by Mrs. Hemans, the sweetness, delicacy, and rich imagery of her poetical productions make them very delightful reading, and give her no mean rank among contemporary authors. Her prose writings, also, are distinguished for just thoughts, expressed in a style of great animation, and a sort of unaffected brilliancy of manner, which renders them exceedingly engaging. It is too often the case, that the task of selecting and arranging posthumous works, falls into injudicious hands, or, more properly speaking, that no selection whatever is made. The desire of getting up a large book, in order to increase the profit of the publication, or the indiscriminate admiration of friends, frequently give to the world, along with some things perhaps truly valuable, a great deal that cannot be read, and the unauthorized publication of which, in the life-time of the writer, would have been considered by him as an offence hardly to be forgiven. In this present instance, no danger of this sort need be apprehended. The good sense, and cool, steady judgment of Miss Lucy Aikin, who has undertaken the task of selecting the papers to be published, are the best possible pledge that nothing will be included among them which would tend, in the least degree, to impair the literary reputation of her excellent and yenerable relation. The following is an extract of a letter from that lady to a gentleman in this city, who had offered to dispose of her History of Charles I., a work she is now preparing for the press, to some American bookseller.

"Mrs. Barbauld left behind her a considerable number of manuscripts, both in verse and prose, and I am now closely occupied in preparing a complete edition of her works. This publication will not, I apprehend, extend beyond two moderate octavos; one verse, the other prose. The verse, to which I shall prefix a short memoir, is already in the press, and will be printed, I hope, by the end of next month. It is still matter of doubt with me, whether the second volume can be brought out during the present London book-season, which does not extend beyond the month of June; for I wish some specimens of her epistolary talent, which was very striking, and some time must elapse before all the contributions of her correspondents can be collected. If we cannot be ready with both volumes at once, the prose must be deferred till November or December. Now, sir, I am so well persuaded that the products of Mrs. Barbauld's genius will be cordially received by your American public, that I will venture to transmit to you a copy of the first volume, some time before publication, and beg of you the favor to per

form the same kind office which you have so obligingly offered with respect to my intended work. Nearly two thirds of the volume will consist of matter entirely new, and certainly not inferior, in intrinsic merit, to any thing of hers with which the public is acquainted. Old age has no power to quench in her the light of fancy. She wrote several charming little pieces in the course of the last year.

Stoke Newington, March 31, 1825."

Come to these lonely woods to die alone?
Not many days, it seems, since thou wast heard,
From out the mists of spring, with thy shrill note,
Calling unto thy mates-and their clear answers.
The earth was. brown, then; and the infant leaves
Had not put forth to warm them in the sun,
Or play in the fresh air of heaven. Thy voice,
Shouting in triumph, told of winter gone,
And prophesying life to the sealed ground,

Did make me glad with thoughts of coming beauties.
And now they're all around us ;-offspring bright
Of earth, a mother, who, with constant care,

Doth feed and clothe them all.-Now o'er her fields,
In blessed bands, or single, they are gone,

Or by her brooks they stand, and sip the stream;
Or peering o'er it,-vanity well feigned-
In quaint approval seem to glow and nod
At their reflected graces.-Morn to meet,
They in fantastic labors pass the night,
Catching its dews, and rounding silvery drops
To deck their bosoms.-There, on tall, bald trees,
From varnished cells some peep, and the old boughs
Make to rejoice and dance in the unseen winds.
Over my head the winds and they make music,
And grateful, in return for what they take,
Bright hues and odors to the air they give.
Thus mutual love brings mutual delight-

Brings beauty, life ;-for love is life-hate, death.
Thou Prophet of so fair a revelation!
Thou who abod'st with us the winter long,
Enduring cold or rain, and shaking oft,

From thy dark mantle, falling sleet or snow

Thou, who with purpose kind, when warmer days

Shone on the earth, midst thaw and steam, cam'st forth

From rocky nook, or wood, thy priestly cell,

To speak of comfort unto lonely man

Didst say to him, though seemingly alone

'Midst wastes and snows, and silent, lifeless trees,
Or the more silent ground-that 'twas not death,
But nature's sleep and rest, her kind repair ;—
That Thou, albeit unseen, did'st bear with him
The winter's night, and, patient of the day,
And cheered by hope, (instinct divine in Thee,)
Waitedst return of summer.

More Thou said'st,

Thou Priest of Nature, Priest of God, to man!
Thou spok'st of Faith, (than instinct no less sure,)
Of Spirits near him, though he saw them not:
Thou bad'st him ope his intellectual eye,

And see his solitude all populous:

Thou show'dst him Paradise, and deathless flowers; And did'st him pray to listen to the flow

Of living waters.

Preacher to man's spirit! Emblem of Hope! Companion! Comforter!

Thou faithful one! is this thine end? "Twas Thou, When summer birds were gone, and no form seen In the void air, who cam'st, living and strong,

On thy broad, balanced pennons, through the winds.
And of thy long enduring, this the close!

Thy kingly strength brought down, of storms
Thou Conqueror!

The year's mild, cheering dawn Upon thee shone a momentary light.

The gales of spring upbore thee for a day,
And then forsook thee. Thou art fallen now;
And liest amongst thy hopes and promises;
Beautiful flowers, and freshly springing blades,
Gasping thy life out.-Here for Thee the grass
Tenderly makes a bed; and the young buds
In silence open their fair, painted folds-
To ease thy pain, the one-to cheer thee, these.
But thou art restless; and thy once keen eye
Is dull and sightless now. New blooming boughs,
Needlessly kind, have spread a tent for thee.
Thy mate is calling to the white, piled clouds,
And asks for thee. No answer give they back.
As I look up to their bright angel faces,
Intelligent and capable of voice

They seem to me. Their silence to my soul
Comes ominous. The same to thee, doom'd bird,
Silence or sound. For thee there is no sound,

No silence :-near thee stands the shadow, Death,-
And now he slowly draws his sable veil
Over thine eyes. Thy senses soft he lulls
Into unconscious slumbers. The airy call

Thou'lt hear no longer. Neath sun-lighted clouds,
With beating wing, or steady poise aslant,

Thou'lt sail no more. Around thy trembling claws Droop thy wings' parting feathers. Spasms of death Are on Thee.