And, crush'd and bruised by many a blow,
She cower'd beneath her savage foes:
But now again she springs from earth,
Her loud, awakening trumpet speaks;
She rises in a brighter birth,

And sounds redemption to the Greeks.

It is the classic jubilee,

Their servile years have roll'd away;
The clouds that hover'd o'er them flee,
They hail the dawn of freedom's day;
From heaven the golden light descends,
The times of old are on the wing,
And glory there her pinion bends,

And beauty wakes a fairer spring;
The hills of Greece, her rocks, her waves,
Are all in triumph's pomp array'd;
A light that points their tyrants' graves
Plays round each bold Athenian's blade.

The Parthenon, the sacred shrine,

Where wisdom held her pure abode:
The hill of Mars, where light divine
Proclaim'd the true but unknown God;
Where justice held unyielding sway,
And trampled all corruption down,
And onward took her lofty way

To reach at truth's unfading crown:
The rock, where liberty was full,

Where eloquence her torrents roll'd,
And loud, against the despot's rule,
A knell the patriot's fury toll'd:
The stage, whereon the drama spake

In tones that seem'd the words of Heaven,
Which made the wretch in terror shake,
As by avenging furies driven:
The groves and gardens, where the fire
Of wisdom, as a fountain, burn'd,
And every eye, that dared aspire

To truth, has long in worship turn'd:
The halls and porticos, where trod
The moral sage, severe, unstain'd,
And where the intellectual God

In all the light of science reign'd:
The schools, where rose in symmetry
The simple, but majestic pile,
Where marble threw its roughness by,
To glow, to frown, to weep, to smile,
Where colors made the canvas live,
Where music roll'd her flood along,
And all the charms that art can give,
Were blent with beauty, love, and song:
The port, from whose capacious womb

Her navies took their conquering road:
The heralds of an awful doom

To all who would not kiss her rod:-

On these a dawn of glory springs,
These trophies of her brightest fame;
Away the long-chain'd city flings

Her weeds, her shackles, and her shame;
Again her ancient souls awake,

Harmodius bears anew his sword;

Her sons in wrath their fetters break,
And freedom is their only lord.

CONSUMPTION.

There is a sweetness in woman's decay,
When the light of beauty is fading away,
When the bright enchantment of youth is gone,
And the tint that glow'd, and the eye that shone,
And darted around its glance of power,

And the lip that vied with the sweetest flower
That ever in Pæstum's1 garden blew,

Or ever was steep'd in fragrant dew,
When all that was bright and fair is fled,
But the loveliness lingering round the dead.
Oh, there is a sweetness in beauty's close,
Like the perfume scenting the wither'd rose;
For a nameless charm around her plays,
And her eyes are kindled with hallow'd rays,
And a veil of spotless purity

Has mantled her cheek with its heavenly dye;
Like a cloud whereon the queen of night
Has pour'd her softest tint of light;
And there is a blending of white and blue,
Where the purple blood is melting through
The snow of her pale and tender cheek;
And there are tones, that sweetly speak
Of a spirit who longs for a purer day,
And is ready to wing her flight away.

In the flush of youth and the spring of feeling,
When life, like a sunny stream, is stealing
Its silent steps through a flowery path,
And all the endearments, that pleasure hath,
Are pour'd from her full, o'erflowing horn,
When the rose of enjoyment conceals no thorn,
In her lightness of heart, to the cheery song
The maiden may trip in the dance along,
And think of the passing moment, that lies,
Like a fairy dream, in her dazzled eyes,
And yield to the present, that charms around
With all that is lovely in sight and sound,
Where a thousand pleasing phantoms flit,
With the voice of mirth, and the burst of wit,
And the music that steals to the bosom's core,
And the heart in its fulness flowing o'er

1 Biferique rosaria Pæsti.-VIRGIL, Geor. iv. 119.

With a few big drops, that are soon repress'd,
For short is the stay of grief in her breast:
In this enliven'd and gladsome hour

The spirit may burn with a brighter power;
But dearer the calm and quiet day,
When the heaven-sick soul is stealing away.

And when her sun is low declining,
And life wears out with no repining,
And the whisper, that tells of early death,
Is soft as the west wind's balmy breath,
When it comes at the hour of still repose,
To sleep in the breast of the wooing rose;
And the lip, that swell'd with a living glow,
Is pale as a curl of new-fallen snow;

And her cheek, like the Parian stone, is fair,—
But the hectic spot that flushes there,
When the tide of life, from its secret dwelling,
In a sudden gush is deeply swelling,
And giving a tinge to her icy lips,
Like the crimson rose's brightest tips,
As richly red, and as transient too,
As the clouds in autumn's sky of blue,
That seem like a host of glory met

To honor the sun at his golden set:

Oh, then, when the spirit is taking wing,

How fondly her thoughts to her dear one cling,

As if she would blend her soul with his

In a deep and long imprinted kiss!

So fondly the panting camel flies,

Where the glassy vapor cheats his eyes,
And the dove from the falcon seeks her nest,
And the infant shrinks to its mother's breast.
And though her dying voice be mute,
Or faint as the tones of an unstrung lute,
And though the glow from her cheek be fled,
And her pale lips cold as the marble dead,
Her eye still beams unwonted fires

With a woman's love and a saint's desires,
And her last fond, lingering look is given
To the love she leaves, and then to heaven;
As if she would bear that love away
To a purer world and a brighter day.

NIGHT.

Am I not all alone?-The world is still
In passionless slumber,-not a tree but feels
The far-pervading hush, and softer steals
The misty river by.-Yon broad bare hill
Looks coldly up to heaven, and all the stars

Seem eyes deep fix'd in silence, as if bound
By some unearthly spell,-no other sound
But the owl's unfrequent moan.-Their airy cars
The winds have station'd on the montain-peaks.

Am I not all alone?-A spirit speaks

From the abyss of night, "Not all alone,-
Nature is round thee with her banded powers,
And ancient genius haunts thee in these hours,—
Mind and its kingdom now are all thy own."

LOVE OF STUDY.1

And wherefore does the student trim his lamp,
And watch his lonely taper, when the stars
Are holding their high festival in heaven,
And worshipping around the midnight throne?
And wherefore does he spend so patiently,

In deep and voiceless thought, the blooming hours
Of youth and joyance, when the blood is warm,
And the heart full of buoyancy and fire?
He has his pleasures,-he has his reward:
For there is in the company of books,
The living souls of the departed sage,
And bard and hero; there is in the roll
Of eloquence and history, which speak
The deeds of early and of better days;
In these and in the visions that arise
Sublime in midnight musings, and array
Conceptions of the mighty and the good,
There is an elevating influence,

That snatches us a while from earth, and lifts
The spirit in its strong aspirings, where
Superior beings fill the court of heaven.
And thus his fancy wanders, and has talk
With high imaginings, and pictures out
Communion with the worthies of old time.

With eye upturn'd, watching the many stars,
And ear in deep attention fix'd, he sits,
Communing with himself, and with the world,

The universe around him, and with all

The beings of his memory and his hopes;

Till past becomes reality, and joys,

That beckon in the future, nearer draw,

And ask fruition,-oh, there is a pure,

A hallow'd feeling in these midnight dreams!

They have the light of heaven around them, breathe

The odor of its sanctity, and are

Those moments taken from the sands of life,

Where guilt makes no intrusion, but they bloom

Like islands flowering on Arabia's wild.

And there is pleasure in the utterance

Of pleasant images in pleasant words,

"There are many youths, and some men, who most earnestly devote themselves to solitary studies, from the mere love of the pursuit. I have here attempted to give some of the causes of a devotion which appears so unaccountable to the stirring world."

Melting like melody into the ear,
And stealing on in one continual flow
Unruffled and unbroken. It is joy
Ineffable to dwell upon the lines
That register our feelings, and portray,
In colors always fresh and ever new,
Emotions that were sanctified, and loved,
As something far too tender, and too pure,
For forms so frail and fading.

EXTRACT FROM PROMETHEUS.

Our thoughts are boundless, though our frames are frail,
Our souls immortal, though our limbs decay;
Though darken'd in this poor life by a veil
Of suffering, dying matter, we shall play
In truth's eternal sunbeams; on the way
To heaven's high capitol our cars shall roll;
The temple of the Power whom all obey,
That is the mark we tend to, for the soul
Can take no lower flight, and seek no meaner goal.
I feel it, though the flesh is weak, I feel

The spirit has its energies untamed

By all its fatal wanderings; time may heal
The wounds which it has suffer'd; folly claim'd
Too large a portion of its youth; ashamed

Of those low pleasures, it would leap and fly,
And soar on wings of lightning, like the famed
Elijah, when the chariot, rushing by,

Bore him with steeds of fire triumphant to the sky.

We are as barks afloat upon the sea,

Helmless and oarless, when the light has fled
The spirit, whose strong influence can free
The drowsy soul, that slumbers in the dead
Cold night of mortal darkness; from the bed
Of sloth he rouses at her sacred call,

And, kindling in the blaze around him shed,
Rends with strong effort sin's debasing thrall,

And gives to God his strength, his heart, his mind, his all.

Our home is not on earth; although we sleep,

And sink in seeming death a while, yet, then,
The awakening voice speaks loudly, and we leap
To life, and energy, and light, again;
We cannot slumber always in the den
Of sense and selfishness; the day will break,
Ere we forever leave the haunts of men ;
Even at the parting hour the soul will wake,

Nor, like a senseless brute, its unknown journey take.

How awful is that hour, when conscience stings
The hoary wretch, who on his death-bed hears,
Deep in his soul, the thundering voice that rings,
In one dark, damning moment, crimes of years;