ing the compositions of a lady. They have the depth of thought and boldness in the treatment usually found only in the writings of men, and only of the ablest men. This is a singularly powerful poem, and will live by the side of HOOD's Song of the Shirt.

Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers,
Ere the sorrow comes with years?

They are leaning their young heads against their mothers—
And that cannot stop their tears.

The young lambs are bleating in the meadows;
The young birds are chirping in the nest;
The young fawns are playing with the shadows;
The young flowers are blowing toward the west-
But the young, young children, O my brothers,
They are weeping bitterly!-

They are weeping in the playtime of the others,
In the country of the free.

Do you question the young children in the sorrow,
Why their tears are falling so?—

The old man may weep for his to-morrow
Which is lost in Long Ago-

The old tree is leafless in the forest-
The old year is ending in the frost-
The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest-
The old hope is hardest to be lost:

But the young, young children, O my brothers,
Do you ask them why they stand

Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers,
In our happy Fatherland?

They look up with their pale and sunken faces,
And their looks are sad to see,

For the man's grief abhorrent draws and presses
Down the cheeks of infancy-

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"Your old earth," they say, "is very dreary;"
"Our young feet," they say, are very weak!
Few paces have we taken, yet are weary-
Our grave-rest is very far to seek!

Ask the old why they weep, and not the children,
For the outside earth is cold,-

And we young ones stand without, in our bewildering,
And the graves are for the old!"

"True," say the young children, "it may happen

That we die before our time!

Little Alice died last year-the grave is shapen
Like a snowball, in the rime.

We look'd into the pit prepared to take her--
Was no room for any work in the close clay:
From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her,
Crying Get up, little Alice! it is day.'

If you listen by that grave, in sun and shower,

With your ear down, little Alice never cries!

Could we see her face, be sure we should not know her, For the smile has time for growing in her

eyes,

And merry go her moments, lull'd and still'd in
The shroud, by the kirk-chime!

It is good when it happens," say the children,
"That we die before our time!"

Alas, the wretched children! they are seeking
Death in life, as best to have!

They are binding up their hearts away from breaking,
With a cerement from the grave.

Go out, children, from the mine and from the city,-
Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do-
Pluck you handfuls of the meadow-cowslips pretty-
Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them through!
But they answer, "Are your cowslips of the meadows

Like our weeds anear the mine?

Leave us quiet in the dark of the coal-shadows,
From your pleasures fair and fine!

"For oh," say the children, "we are weary,
And we cannot run or leap-

If we cared for any meadows, it were merely
To drop down in them and sleep.

Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping-
We fall upon our faces, trying to go;
And, underneath our heavy eyelids drooping,
The reddest flower would look as pale as snow.

For, all day, we drag our burden tiring,

Through the coal-dark, underground-
Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron
In the factories, round and round.

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For, all day, the wheels are droning, turning,—
Their wind comes in our faces,-

Till our hearts turn,—our heads, with pulses burning,
And the walls turn in their places-

Turns the sky in the high window blank and reeling—
Turns the long light that droppeth down the wall-
Turn the black flies that crawl along the ceiling—
All are turning, all the day, and we with all!-
And all day, the iron wheels are droning;
And sometimes we could pray,

'O ye wheels,' (breaking out in a mad moaning)
'Stop! be silent for to-day !'

Ay! be silent! Let them hear each other breathing
For a moment, mouth to mouth-

Let them touch each other's hands, in a fresh wreathing
Of their tender human youth!

Let them feel that this cold metallic motion

Is not all the life God fashions or reveals-
Let them prove their inward souls against the notion
That they live in you, or under you, O wheels!-
Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward,

As if Fate in each were stark;

And the children's souls, which God is calling sunward,
Spin on blindly in the dark.

MARCO BOZZARIS.

Marco Bozzaris fell in an assault on the Turkish camp at Laspi, the site of the Ancient Plutoa, on the 20th August, 1823, and expired at the very moment of victory. His last words were, "To die for liberty is a pleasure, and not a pain." The incident has been celebrated by an American poet, F. G. HALLECK, in these very fine and spirited stanzas. Ar 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;

-a king;

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

An hour pass'd on-the Turk awoke:
That bright dream was his last;
He woke to hear his sentry's 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
As lightnings from the mountain cloud;
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud,
Bozzaris cheer his band;-

"Strike-till the last arm'd 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 conquer'd, 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

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.
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.
We tell 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 FICKLENESS OF LOVE.

An exquisite passage from MOORE's Lalla Rookh.

ALAS!-how light a cause may move
Dissension between hearts that love!
Hearts that the world in vain has tried,

And sorrow but more closely tied ;

That stood the storm when waves were rough,

Yet in a sunny hour fall off,

Like ships that have gone down at sea,
When heaven was all tranquillity!
A something light as air-a look,

A word unkind or wrongly taken-
O! love, that tempests never shook,

A breath, a touch like this has shaken-
And ruder words will soon rush in
To spread the breach that words begin;
And eyes forget the gentle ray
They wore in courtship's smiling day;