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Shame, shame-when there was not a bosom, whose heat,
Ever rose o'er the zero of -'s heart,
That did not, like echo, your war-hymn repeat,
And send all its prayers with your Liberty's start-

When the world stood in hope-when a spirit, that breathed
Full fresh of the olden time, whispered about,
And the swords of all Italy, half-way unsheathed,
But waited one conquering cry to flasb out!

When around you, the shades of your mighty in fame,
Filicajas and Petrarchs seemed bursting to view,
And their words and their warnings-like tongues of

bright flame,
Over Freedom's apostles--fell kindling on you !

Good God! that, in such a proud moment of life,
Worth ages of history--when, had you but hurled
One bolt at your bloody invader, that strife
Between freemen and tyrants that spread through the

world

That then- disgrace upon manhood-e'en then,
You should falter-should cling to your pitiful breath,
Cower down into beasts, when you might have stood men,
And prefer the slave's life of damnation to death!

It is strange—it is dreadful I-Shout, Tylanny, shout
Through your dungeons and palaces, Freedom is o'er -
If their lingers one spark of her light, tread it out,
And return to your empire of darkness, once more.

For, if such are the braggarts that claim to be free,
Come, Despot of Russia, thy feet let me kiss
Far nobler to live the brute bond-man of thee,
Than to sully c'en chains by a struggle like this.

Anon.

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Ye hearts with youthful vigour warm,

In smiling crowds draw near,
And turn from every mortal charm;

A Saviour's voice to hear.

He, Lord of all the worlds on high,

Stoops to converse with you ;
And lays his radiant glories by,

Your friendship to pursue.

« The soul that longs to see my grace,

Is sure my love to gain ;
And those that early seek my face,

Shall never seek in vain.'

What object, Lord, my soul should move,

If once compared with thee ?
What beauty should command my love,

Like what in Christ I see ?

Away, ye false delusive toys,

Vain tempters of the mind ! 'Tis here I fix my lasting choice,

For here true bliss I find !

Doddridge.

GREECE.

He who hath bent him o'er the dead

Ere the first day of death is fled,
The first dark day of nothingness,
The last of danger and distress,
(Before decay's effacing fingers
Have swept the lines where beauty lingers)

And marked the mild angelic air,
The rapture of repose that's there,
The fixed, yet tender traits that streak
The languor of the placid cheek,
And,—but for that sad shrouded

eye,
That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now,
And but for that chill changeless brow,
Where cold obstructions, apathy,
Appals the gazing mourner's heart,
As if to him it could impart
The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon ;
Yes, but for these, and these alone,
Some moments-ay-one treacherous hour,
He still might doubt the tyrant's power ;
So fair,—so calm,-so softly sealed,
The first-last look-by death revealed !
Such is the aspect of this shore ;
'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more !
So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,
We start, for soul is wanting there.
Her's is the loveliness in death,
That parts not quite with parting breath!
But beauty with that fearful bloom,
That hue which haunts it to the tomb;
Expression's last receding ray,
A gilded halo hovering round decay,
The farewell beam of feeling past away!

Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth, Which gleams, but warms no more its cherished earth.

Byron.

A CONTRAST.

Yon cottager, who weaves at her own door,
Pillow and bobbins all her little store ;
Content though mean, and cheerful if not.gay,
Shuffling her threads about the live-long day,
Just earns a scanty pittance, and at night
Lies down secure, her heart and pocket light;
She, for her humble sphere by nature fit,
Has little understanding and no wit,
Receives no praise, but, though her lot be such,
(Toilsome and indigent) she renders much ;
Just knows, and knows no more, her Bible true-
A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew ;
And in that charter reads, with sparkling eyes,
Her title to a treasure in the skies.

O happy peasant ! O unhappy bard!
His the mere tinsel, her's the rich reward;
He praised perhaps for ages yet to come,
She never heard of half a mile from home :

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