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[The Epaminondas of modern Greece.--He fell in a night attack upon the Turkish Camp at Laspi, the site of the ancient Platæa, August 20, 1823, and expired in the moment of victory. His last words were- To die for liberty is a pleasure and not a pain.”]
At midnight, in his guarded tent,
The Turk was dreaming of the hour
Should tremble at his power;
In dreams his song of triumph heard ;
As Eden's garden bird.
At midnight, in the forest shades,
Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band,
Heroes in heart and hand.
On old Platæa's day;
As quick, as far as they.
That bright dream was his last ;
As lightnings from the mountain cloud ;
Bozzaris cheer his band ;
God—and your native land !"
They fought-like brave men, long and well,
They piled that ground with Moslem slain,
Bleeding at every vein.
And the red field was won ;
Like flowers at set of sun.
Come to the bridal chamber, Death!
Come to the mother's, when she feels
Come when the blessed seals
With banquet-song, and dance, and wine-
Of agony, are thine.
But to the hero, when his sword
Has won the battle for the free,
The thanks of millions yet to be.
Come in her crowning hour; and then
Of sky and stars to prisoned men ;
To the world-seeking Genoese,
Blew o'er the Haytian seas.
Bozzaris! with the storied brave
Greece nurtured in her glory's time,
Even in her own proud clime.
Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume,
The heartless luxury of the tomb;
And she, the mother of thy boys,
The memory of her buried joys,
Talk of thy doom without a sigh;
H. [It would be an act of gross injustice to the author of the above magnificent Lyric, were we to withhold the expression of our admiration of ils extraordinary beauty. We are sure, too, that in this instance, at least, we have done what is rare indeed in the annals of criticism,-we have given an opinion from which not one of our readers will feel any inclination to dissent.)
The admirers of Mrs. Barbauld will be glad to learn, that a collection is about to be made of her unpublished writings in England, and that arrangements will probably be made for reprinting them in this country. There can be no doubt, that their publication will be a highly acceptable present to the public. It is very certain, that when Mrs. Barbauld began to write verses, no other English poetess had written half so well; and
although, perhaps, at the present day, she is surpassed by Mrs. Hemans, the sweetness, delicacy, and rich imagery of her
poetical productions make them very delightful reading, and give her no mean rank among contemporary authors. Her prose writinys, also, are distinguished for just thoughts, expressed in a style of great animation, and a sort of unaffected brilliancy of manner, which renders them exceedingly engaging. It is too often the case, that the task of selecting and arranging posthumous works, falls into injudicious hands, or, more properly speaking, that no selection whatever is made. The desire of getting up a large book, in order to increase the profit of the publication, or the indiscriminate admiration of friends, frequently give to the world, along with some things perhaps truly valuable, a great deal that cannot be read, and the unauthorized publication of which, in the life-time of the writer, would have been considered by him as an offence hardly to be forgi
In this present instance, no danger of this sort need be apprehended. The good sense, and cool, steady judgment of Miss Lucy Aikin, who has undertaken the task of selecting the papers to be published, are the best possible pledge that nothing will be included among them which would tend, in the least degree, to impair the literary reputation of her excellent and venerable relation. The following is an extract of a letter from that lady to a gentleman in this city, who had offered to dispose of her History of Charles I., a work she is now preparing for the press, to some American bookseller.
“ Mrs. Barbauld left behind her a considerable number of manuscripts, both in verse and prose, and I am now closely occupied in preparing a complete edition of her works. This publication will not, I apprehend, extend beyond two moderate octavos; one verse, the other prose. The verse, to which I shall prefix a short memoir, is already in the press, and will be printed, I hope, by the end of next month. It is still matter of doubt with me, whether the second volume can be brought out during the present London book-season, which does not extend beyond the month of June; for I wish some specimens of her epistolary talent, which was very striking, and some time must elapse before all the contributions of her correspondents can be collected. If we cannot be ready with both volumes at once, the
prose must be deferred till November or December. Now, sir, I am so well persuaded that the products of Mrs. Barbauld's genius will be cordially received by your American public, that I will venture to transmit to you a copy of the first volume, some time before publication, and beg of you the favor to per
form the same kind office which you have so obligingly offered with respect to my intended work. Nearly two thirds of the volume will consist of matter entirely new, and certainly not inferior, in intrinsic merit, to any thing of hers with which the public is acquainted. Old age has no power to quench in her the light of fancy. She wrote several charming little pieces in the course of the last year.
Stoke Newington, March 31, 1825."
THE DYING RAVEN.
Come to these lonely woods to die alone ?
Thus mutual love brings mutual delight-
Thou Prophet of so fair a revelation !