But now his nose is thin, And it rests upon his chin Like a staff, And a crook is in his back, And a melancholy crack I know it is a sin For me to sit and grin At him here, But the old three-cornered hat, And the breeches-and all that Are so queer! And if I should live to be The last leaf upon the tree In the spring Let them smile as I do now At the old forsaken bough Where I cling. THE BIRTH OF A POET. BY J. NEAL. ON a blue summer night, While the stars were asleep, Like gems of the deep, In their own drowsy light; While the newly mown hay On the green earth lay, And all that came near it went scented away; There looked out a face, With large blue eyes, Like the wet warm skies, Brim full of water and light; A profusion of hair Flashing out on the air, And a forehead alarmingly bright: 'Twas the head of a poet! He grew As the sweet strange flowers of the wilderness grow, In the dropping of natural dew, Unheeded-alone Till his heart had blown As the sweet strange flowers of the wilderness blow; Till every thought wore a changeable strain With a haughty look and a haughty tread, Full of wo and surprise, Like the eyes of them that can see the dead. Looking about, For a moment or two he stood On the shore of the mighty wood; Then ventured out, With a bounding step and a joyful shout, The broad sea all before him! MARCO BOZZARIS. BY F. G. HALLECK. (He fell in an 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, not a pain."] Ar midnight, in his guarded tent, The Turk was dreaming of the hour In dreams, through camp and court, he bore In dreams his song of triumph heard; At midnight, in the forest shades, There had the Persian's thousands stood, There had the glad earth drunk their blood |