harvests, the bounty of Heaven and the reward of industry, consumed in a moment or trampled under foot, while famine and pestilence follow the steps of desolation. There, the cottages of peasants given up to the flames-mothers expiring through fear, not for themselves but their infantsthe inhabitants flying with their helpless babes in all directions, miserable fugitives on their native soil! In another part, you witness opulent cities taken by storm; the streets, where no sounds were heard but those of peaceful industry, filled on a sudden with slaughter and blood, resounding with the cries of the pursuing and the pursued; the palaces of nobles demolished, the houses of the rich pillaged, and every age, sex, and rank, mingled in promiscuous massacre and ruin! THE ISLES OF GREECE. THE isles of Greece, the isles of Greece! The Scian and the Teian muse, The hero's harp, the lover's lute, The mountains look on Marathon- For, standing on the Persians' grave, A King sate on the rocky brow And where are they? and where art thou, My country? On thy voiceless shore The heroic lay is tuneless now The heroic bosom beats no more! And must thy lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine? 'Tis something, in the dearth of fame, Must we but weep o'er days more bless'd- What, silent still? and silent all? But one arise, we come; we come!" 'Tis but the living who are dumb. In vain-in vain: strike other chords; You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, The nobler and the manlier one? Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! We will not think of themes like these! It made Anacreon's song divine: He served but served PolycratesA tyrant; but our masters then Were still, at least, our countrymen. Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! Such as the Doric mothers bore; Trust not for freedom to the Franks- But Turkish force, and Latin fraud, Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! Place me on Sunium's marbled steep- SOLILOQUY OF A PRINCE IN HIS DUNGEON. DOTH the bright sun from the high arch of heaven, Do the flocks bleat, and the wild creatures bound And sadly think how small a space divides me From the wide-spreading bounds of beauteous nature Peace, peace!-He who regards the poorest worm, The air feels chill; methinks it should be night, STRICTURES ON JOHNSON'S LIFE OF MILTON. MILTON has not yet reaped his due harvest of esteem and veneration. The envious mists, which the prejudices and bigotry of Johnson spread over his bright name, are not yet wholly scattered, though fast passing away. We wish not to disparage Johnson. We could find no pleasure in sacrificing one great man to the manes of another. But we owe it to Milton and to other illustrious names, to say, that Johnson has failed of the highest end of biography, which is to give immortality to virtue, and to call forth fervent admiration towards those who have shed splendour on past ages. We acquit Johnson, however, of intentional misrepresentation. He did not, and could not appreciate Milton. We doubt whether two other minds, having so little in common, as those of which we are now speaking, can be found in the higher walks of literature. Johnson was great in his own sphere, but that sphere was, comparatively, of the earth; whilst Milton's was only inferior to that |