From morn to night repeated still
The winning harmony of song.

Land of dead heroes! living slaves!
Shall Glory gild thy clime no more?
Her banner float above thy waves

Where proudly it hath swept before?
Hath not Remembrance then a charm
To break the fetters and the chain,
To bid thy children nerve the arm,
And strike for freedom once again?

No! coward souls, the light which shone
On Leuctra's war-empurpled day,
The light which beamed on Marathon
Hath lost its splendour, ceased to play;
And thou art but a shadow now,

With helmet shattered-spear in rust— Thy honour but a dream—and thou Despised-degraded in the dust!

Where sleeps the spirit, that of old

Dashed down to earth the Persian plume, When the loud chant of triumph told How fatal was the despot's doom? The bold three hundred-where are they, Who died on Battle's gory breast ?

Tyrants have trampled on the clay

Where Death hath hushed them into rest.

Yet, Ida, yet upon thy hill

A glory shines of ages fled;

And Fame her light is pouring still,

Not on the living, but the dead!

But 'tis the dim, sepulchral light
Which sheds a faint and feeble ray,
As moonbeams on the brow of Night,
When tempests sweep upon their way.

Greece! yet awake thee from thy trance-
Behold, thy banner waves afar;
Behold, the glittering weapons glance

Along the gleaming front of war!
A gallant chief, of high emprise,
Is urging foremost in the field,
Who calls upon thee to arise

In might in majesty revealed.

In vain, in vain the hero calls-
In vain he sounds the trumpet loud!

His banner totters-see! it falls

In ruin, Freedom's battle-shroud :
Thy children have no soul to dare
Such deeds as glorified their sires;
Their valour's but a meteor's glare,
Which gleams a moment, and expires.

Lost land! where Genius made his reign,
And reared his golden arch on high;
Where Science raised her sacred fane,
Its summits peering to the sky;
Upon thy clime the midnight deep
Of Ignorance hath brooded long,
And in the tomb, forgotten, sleep
The sons of Science and of Song.

Thy sun hath set-the evening storm
Hath passed in giant fury by,

To blast the beauty of thy form,

And spread its pall upon the sky! Gone is thy glory's diadem,

And Freedom never more shall cease To pour her mournful requiem

O'er blighted, lost, degraded Greece!

I

Mary E. Brooks.

DREAM OF LIFE.

HEARD the music of the wave,

As it rippled to the shore,

And saw the willow-branches lave,
As light winds swept them o'er-
The music of the golden bow

That did the torrent span;
But I heard a sweeter music flow

From the youthful heart of man.

The wave rushed on-the hues of heaven Fainter and fainter grew,

And deeper melodies were given

As swift the changes flew :
Then came a shadow on my sight;
The golden bow was dim-
And he that laughed beneath its light,
What was the change to him?

I saw him not; only a throng

Like the swell of troubled ocean,

Rising, sinking, swept along

In the tempest's wild commotion:
Sleeping, dreaming, waking then,
Chains to link or sever-
Turning to the dream again,
Fain to clasp it ever.

There was a rush upon my brain,
A darkness on mine eye;
And when I turned to gaze again,
The mingled forms were nigh:
In shadowy mass a mighty hall
Rose on the fitful scene;

Flowers, music, gems, were flung o'er all,

Not such as once had been.

A phantom seemed to be;

The something of a by-gone day—

But oh, how changed was he!
He rose beside the festal board,
Where sat the merry throng;
And, as the purple juice he poured,
Thus woke his wassail song:

SONG.

"Come! while with wine the goblets flow, For wine, they say, has power to bless; And flowers, too—not roses, no!

Bring poppies, bring forgetfulness!

"A lethè for departed bliss,

And each too well remembered scene:

Earth has no sweeter draught than this,

Which drowns the thought of what has been.

"Here's to the heart's cold iciness,

Which cannot smile, but will not sigh:

If wine can bring a chill like this,

Come, fill for me the goblet high!

"Come-and the cold, the false, the dead,
Shall never cross our revelry;
We'll kiss the wine-cup sparkling red,
And snap the chain of Memory."

Charles Fenno Hoffman.

THE MYRTLE AND STEEL.

ONE bumper yet, gallants, at parting,

One toast, ere we arm for the fight;
Fill round, each to her he loves dearest!
"Tis the last he may pledge her to-night.
Think of those who of old at the banquet
Did their weapons in garlands conceal,

The patriot heroes who hallowed

The entwining of myrtle and steel!
Then hey for the myrtle and steel,

Then ho for the myrtle and steel,

Let every true blade that e'er loved a fair maid, Fill round to the myrtle and steel!

'Tis in moments like this, when each bosom With its highest-toned feeling is warm,

Like the music that's said from the ocean

To rise ere the gathering storm,