And when the dewy morning breaks, Through hill, and plain, and dell. The wild bird trills his song-and from the wood There, when the sun sets on the sea, To those sweet shades come down. Bright and mysterious forms that green shore throng, And pour in evening's ear their charmed song. E'en on this cold and cheerless shore, While all is dark and quiet near, The huntsman, when his toils are o'er, And see, faint gleaming o'er the waters' foam, INDIAN SUMMER-1828. BY C. F. HOFFMAN. LIGHT as love's smiles the silvery mist at morn The weeping birch, like banners idly waving, Beaded with dew the witch-elm's tassels shiver; I love thee, Autumn, for thy scenery ere I love the splendour of thy sunset skies, And wings her loitering flight to summer climes away. Oh, Nature! still I fondly turn to thee With feelings fresh as e'er my childhood's were ;Though wild and passion-tost my youth may be, Toward thee I still the same devotion bear; To thee to thee-though health and hope no more Life's wasted verdure may to me restore— I still can, child-like, come as when in prayer I bowed my head upon a mother's knee, And deemed the world, like her, all truth and purity. GREECE-1832. BY J. G. BROOKS. LAND of the brave! where lie inurned In whom the fire of valour, burned, Land, where the gallant Spartan few Land of the Muse! within thy bowers Land of dead heroes! living slaves! Where proudly it hath swept before? No! coward souls! the light which shone And thou art but a shadow now, With helmet shattered-spear in rustThy 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?— GREECE-1832. The bold three hundred-where are they, Yet, Ida, yet upon thy hill A glory shines of ages fled; And fame her light is pouring still, Which sheds a faint and feeble ray, Greece! yet awake thee from thy trance, 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, ་་ན་ 57 Upon thy clime the midnight deep Thy sun hath set-the evening storm Gone is thy glory's diadem, And freedom never more shall cease To pour her mournful requiem O'er blighted, lost, degraded Greece! IMPROMPTU TO A LADY BLUSHING. BY C. F. HOFFMAN. THE lilies faintly to the roses yield, As on thy lovely cheek they struggling vie, (Who would not strive upon so sweet a field To win the mastery?) And thoughts are in thy speaking eyes revealed, Pure as the fount the prophet's rod unsealed. I could not wish that in thy bosom aught Should e'er one moment's transient pain awaken, Yet can't regret that thou-forgive the thoughtAs flowers when shaken Will yield their sweetest fragrance to the wind, |