Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson, Yet our full-leaved willows are in their freshest green. Such a kindly autumn, so mercifully dealing

With the growths of summer, I never yet have seen. Like this kindly season may life's decline come o'er me; Past is manhood's summer, the frosty months are here; Yet be genial airs and a pleasant sunshine left me,

Leaf, and fruit, and blossom, to mark the closing year! Dreary is the time when the flowers of earth are wither'd; Dreary is the time when the woodland leaves are cast, When, upon the hillside, all harden'd into iron,

Howling, like a wolf, flies the famish'd northern blast! Dreary are the years when the eye can look no longer With delight on nature, or hope on human kind! Oh may those that whiten my temples, as they pass me, Leave the heart unfrozen, and spare the cheerful mind!

WAITING BY THE GATE.

BESIDE a massive gateway built up in years gone by,
Upon whose top the clouds in eternal shadow lie,
While streams the evening sunshine on quiet wood and lea,
I stand and calmly wait till the hinges turn for me.
The tree tops faintly rustle beneath the breeze's flight,
A soft and soothing sound, yet it whispers of the night;
I hear the wood-thrush piping one mellow descant more,
And scent the flowers that blow when the heat of day is
o'er.

Behold the portals open, and o'er the threshold, now,
There steps a weary one with a pale and furrow'd brow;
His count of years is full, his allotted task is wrought;
He
passes to his rest from a place that needs him not.

In sadness then I ponder how quickly fleets the hour

Of human strength and action, man's courage and his power. I muse while still the wood-thrush sings down the golden day,

And as I look and listen the sadness wears away.

Again the hinges turn, and a youth, departing, throws
A look of longing backward, and sorrowfully goes;
A blooming maid, unbinding the roses from her hair,
Moves mournfully away from amidst the young and fair.

Oh glory of our race that so suddenly decays!

Oh crimson flush of morning that darkens as we gaze!
Oh breath of summer blossoms that on the restless air
Scatters a moment's sweetness and flies we know not where !

I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn ;

But still the sun shines round me: the evening bird sings

on,

And I again am sooth'd, and, beside the ancient gate,
In this soft evening sunlight, I calmly stand and wait.

Once more the gates are open'd; an infant group go out, The sweet smile quench'd forever, and still'd the sprightly shout.

Oh frail, frail tree of Life, that upon the greensward strows Its fair young buds unopen'd, with every wind that blows!

So come from every region, so enter, side by side,

The strong and faint of spirit, the meek and men of pride. Steps of earth's great and mighty, between those pillars gray,

And prints of little feet, mark the dust along the way.

And some approach the threshold whose looks are blank with fear,

And some whose temples brighten with joy in drawing

near,

As if they saw dear faces, and caught the gracious eye
Of Him, the Sinless Teacher, who came for us to die.

I mark the joy, the terror, yet these, within my heart,
Can neither wake the dread nor the longing to depart;
And, in the sunshine streaming on quiet wood and lea,
I stand and calmly wait till the hinges turn for me.

JAMES FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.*

Born at Guilford, Conn: 1795--died 1867.

MARCO BOZZARIS.

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 press'd 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 Platea's day;

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

An hour pass'd 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 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; * See Note 10.

fires;

Strike-for your altars and your
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's, when she feels,
For the first time, her first-born's breath;
Come when the blessèd 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 eyes' unearthly light
To him is welcome as the sight

Of sky and stars to prison'd 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 Haytian 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 poet's lyre is wreath'd,
Her marble wrought, her music breath'd;
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.