As a contrast to this supine security, the following stanza is artistically brought in. It introduces the hero with fine effect:

“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 drank their blood
On old Platea's day:

And now they 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 past 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 shot, and groan, and sabre stroke,
And death-shots falling thick and fast.
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 filled the 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.

Bozzaris! with the storied brave,

Greece mustered 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 birthday 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.
Her 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 hundred 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."

The close of this fine poem is worthy of Collins. There is a slight want of arrangement in the images, but they are well wrought up. The idea of his personal influence reaching through the various channels of action by way of retribution, is poetically conceived and beautifully executed.

They are too fond When this is done, he over-refines and

The poem in which Mr. Halleck shines most brightly is that "To Burns." It is not unworthy to stand by the side of Wordsworth's on the same subject. There is a condensation of thought, and a vigorous simplicity of style in this production, which is not often reached by a modern poet. of elaboration and carrying out their idea. the author has two risks One is that wearies the reader, or presses him to deny his aptness of selection. In sentimental and moralizing poetry, we do not think Mr. Halleck very successful. There is a feebleness of idea and diction, which contrasts strongly with his poems on and "Marco Bozzaris."

66 Burns"

Twilight has been a favorite subject with most bards, and many have produced on the mind that particular sensation which may be presumed to rest upon nature at that calm hour. There is a charm in the very sound of the word, which throws an atmosphere around us. Gray has produced a corresponding effect on the reader's mind at the commencement of his far

famed Elegy. Collins, also, in his matchless ode to "Evening " has been equally successful. It is a pleasant study to select some of the best poems of these fine writers, and examine how appropriate and suggestive is every epithet they employ. Collins is wonderfully pure and exact. We are aware that many object to Gray's adjectives on account of some appearing as mere expletives. We have never perceived this; but, while admitting an occasional pedantry in a phrase or two, we have always admired his nicety of taste. Indeed, the impression left on our mind is a fastidiousness which is carried to an ultra point.

Wordsworth, in like manner, has, by a few lines, thrown the spell of poetic power over the reader's attention.

Mr. Halleck is, in our opinion, deficient in this faculty. There is a feeling of artificiality about most of his sentimental verses, having reference to the outward aspect of nature. Many of his epithets seem placed in after the verse was written. They do not seem natural, nor born on the spot: they are emigrants from some foreign thought, and not natives.

We will quote a part of his "Twilight."

"There is an evening twilight of the heart,

When its wild passion waves are lulled to rest,
And the eye sees life's fairy scenes depart,
As fades the day-beam in the rosy west!

"'Tis with a nameless feeling of regret

We gaze upon them as they melt away,
And fondly would we bid them linger yet,

But Hope is round us with her angel lay

Hailing afar some happier moonlight hour,

Dear are her whispers still, though lost their early power."

"In youth her cheek was crimsoned with her glow;

Her smile was loveliest then; her matin song
Was heaven's own music, and the note of woe

Was all unheard her sunny bowers among."

This line is an evidence of the poet's suffering the necessity of a rhyme to spoil a fine line. How much better would it have read thus:

“Was all unheard among her sunny bowers!"

A finished poet should not suffer himself to be conquered even in the minutiae of his art.

"Life's little world of bliss was newly born;

We knew not-cared not-it was born to die;
Flushed with the cool breeze, and the dews of morn,
With dancing heart we gazed on the pure sky,
And mocked the passing clouds that dimmed its blue,
Like our own sorrows then, as fleeting and as few."

It is difficult to realize that these were written by the author of the former quotations.

As a proof of what may be done by a few simple lines, we quote a passage from Wordsworth's "Hartleap Well."

"The trees were grey with neither arms nor head;
Half wasted the square mound of tawny green;

So that you just might say, as then I said,

'Here in old time the hand of man hath been.'

"I looked upon the hill both far and near,

More doleful place did never eye survey,