For bright through the tempest his own home appeared-
Ay, though leagues intervened, he can see;

There's the clear, glowing hearth, and the table prepared,
And his wife with their babes at her knee.

Blest thought! how it lightens the grief-laden hour,
That those we love dearest are safe from its power!

"It snows!" cries the Belle-"Dear, how lucky!" and turns
From her mirror to watch the flakes fall;

Like the first rose of summer, her dimpled cheek burns
While musing on sleigh-ride and ball:

There are visions of conquest, of splendor, and mirth,
Floating over each drear winter's day;

But the tintings of Hope, on this storm-beaten earth,
Will melt, like the snow-flakes, away;

Turn, turn thee to Heaven, fair maiden, for bliss ;
That world has a fountain ne'er opened in this.

"It snows!" cries the Widow-"Oh God!" and her sighs
Have stifled the voice of her prayer;

Its burden ye'll read in her tear-swollen eyes,

On her cheek, sunk with fasting and care.

'Tis night-and her fatherless ask her for bread

But "He gives the young ravens their food,"

And she trusts, till her dark hearth adds horror to dread,

And she lays on her last chip of wood.

Poor suff'rer! that sorrow thy God only knows-
"Tis a pitiful lot to be poor, when it snows!

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.

THIS well-known poet was born at Guilford, Connecticut, in August, 1795. In 1813, he entered a banking-house in New York, and remained in that city engaged in mercantile pursuits till 1849, when he returned to Connecticut, where he now resides. At an early age he showed a taste for poetry, but he first attracted public attention by a series of humorous and satirical odes published in the "Evening Post," in 1819, over the signature of "Croaker." Towards the close of the same year he published “Fanny," the longest of his satirical poems, which passed through several editions. In 1823, he went to Europe, and after his return, in 1827, he published a small volume containing "Alnwick Castle," "Marco Bozzaris,” and some other pieces. In 1847, the Appletons published a beautifully illustrated edition of all he had then written. The last collection of his works, published in 1852 by

Redfield, contains a considerable addition to his former works. It has always been regretted by the public that one who writes so well should have written so little.'

MARCO BOZZARIS.2

At midnight, in his guarded tent,
The Turk was dreaming of the hour
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,
Should tremble at his power:

In dreams, through camp and court he bore
The trophies of a conqueror;

In dreams his song of triumph heard;
Then wore his monarch's signet ring:
Then pressed that monarch's throne-a king;
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,
As Eden's garden bird.

At midnight, in the forest shades,
BOZZARIS ranged his Suliote band,
True as the steel of their tried blades,
Heroes in heart and hand.

There had the Persian's thousands stood,
There had the glad earth drunk their blood
On old Platæa's day;

And now there breathed that haunted air
The sons of sires who conquered there,
With arm to strike, and soul to dare,
As quick, as far as they.

An hour passed on-the Turk awoke;
That bright dream was his last;

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

"Mr. Halleck has written very little, but that little is of great excellence. His poetry is polished and graceful, and finished with great care under the guidance of a fastidious taste. A vein of sweet and delicate sentiment runs through all his serious productions, and he combines with this a power of humor of the most refined and exquisite cast. He has the art of passing from grave to gay, or the reverse, by the most skilful and happily-managed transitions."-G. S. Hillard.

He fell in an attack upon the Turkish camp at Lapsi, the site of the ancient Platæa, August 20, 1823, and expired in the moment of victory. His last words were, "To die for liberty is a pleasure, not a pain."

The modern Greeks, like the Italians, pronounce a as in father, and zz like tz. This hero's name, therefore, is pronounced Bot-zah'-ris.

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, 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 prisoned 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 Haytien seas.

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 poets' lyre is wreathed,
Her marble wrought, her music breathed:
For thee she rings the birth-day bells;
Of thee her babes' first 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.

BURNS.

To a rose, brought from near Alloway Kirk, in Ayrshire, in the autumn of 1822.

Wild Rose of Alloway! my thanks:

Thou 'mindst me of that autumn noon
When first we met upon "the banks
And braes o' bonny Doon."

Like thine, beneath the thorn-tree's bough,
My sunny hour was glad and brief,
We've cross'd the winter sea, and thou
Art wither'd-flower and leaf.

And will not thy death-doom be mine-
The doom of all things wrought of clay-
And wither'd my life's leaf like thine,
Wild rose of Alloway!

Not so his memory, for whose sake
My bosom bore thee far and long,
His-who a humbler flower could make
Immortal as his song.

There have been loftier themes than his,
And longer scrolls, and louder lyres,
And lays lit up with Poesy's

Purer and holier fires:

Yet read the names that know not death;
Few nobler ones than Burns are there;
And few have won a greener wreath
Than that which binds his hair.

His is that language of the heart

In which the answering heart would speak, Thought, word, that bids the warm tear start, Or the smile light the cheek;

And his that music, to whose tone

The common pulse of man keeps time, In cot or castle's mirth or moan,

In cold or sunny clime.

And who hath heard his song, nor knelt
Before its spell with willing knee,
And listen'd, and believed, and felt
The Poet's mastery?

O'er the mind's sea, in calm and storm,

O'er the heart's sunshine and its showers, O'er Passion's moments, bright and warm, O'er Reason's dark, cold hours;

On fields where brave men "die or do,"

In halls where rings the banquet's mirth, Where mourners weep, where lovers woo, From throne to cottage hearth;

What sweet tears dim the eyes unshed,
What wild vows falter on the tongue,
When "Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled,"
Or "Auld Lang Syne" is sung!

Pure hopes, that lift the soul above,

Come with his Cotter's hymn of praise,
And dreams of youth, and truth, and love,
With "Logan's" banks and braes.

And when he breathes his master-lay
Of Alloway's witch-haunted wall,

All passions in our frames of clay

Come thronging at his call.