The hope of vengeance-glory-plunder too,
Through all the host with speed electric flew ;
Order arose, where tumult lately fired,
And each obedient to his post retired.

'Twas now the evening of the holy day;
The Christians sought their sacred domes to pray;
To plead for mercy at the throne of God,
And beg him to avert his fiery rod.

Soon as the twilight's shadows kiss'd the ground,
From all the Turkish camp and fleet around,
Innumerable lights burst on the eye,
And glitter'd like another starry sky:
Across the port they shone, and o'er the plain,
And round the city, like a comet train;
That seem'd to threaten from its fiery path,
Destruction, slaughter, and consuming wrath:
Girdling the ramparts with a zone of light;
As heaven's bright galaxy encircles night.
They shone a signal for the morrow's fast,
T' implore of Heaven to crown their toils at last;
To give up its own temples to the foe,
And lay its worshippers and altars low.

Oh! impious mockery! oh! that man should dare
Ask Deity his guilt and rage to share!
The work of pillage and of blood to aid,
And leave the weaker-better cause betray'd!
As if He could behold with aught but ire,

The reeking weapon, and consuming fire-
But conquerors before-and since have raised

The murderous hand, still dropping gore, and praised
With anthem'd insult the eternal One,

Who saw not fit to smite them into stone.

Through all the coming day they did not slack
The means for irresistible attack;

Determined with one great attempt to close
The war, and perish, or destroy their foes.

The cannon pour'd their thunders through the night,
To tear new breaches for the morrow's fight;
All were commanded ere the dawn of day,
To be in arms, and ready for the fray.
And tedious did the sleepless night appear,
To those inspired beyond the reach of fear;
And many a spirit hope was flattering there,
That the next night-would hope not, nor despair.

Nor less was Constantine alert to foil
Th' attack, forewarn'd; than they to seize the spoil:
That night his limbs scarce prest the couch of rest;
Care was too busy in his anxious breast-

Rack'd with forebodings, horrible and deep,
His eyes were blest not with the balm of sleep-
No! he had slept his last- his doom was seal'd-
Though still by Heaven in kindness not reveal'd;
At night's mid hour his friends around him stood,
Ere their last post they sought, to yield their blood.
How few of those who fill'd that circle then,
Would ever hear each other's voice again!

Those eyes
that there in kindling kindness met-
Far from each other, soon in death would set.
They scarce could hope for conquest, and the foe
They knew would spare them not to meet in woe.
Twice did the Emperor attempt to speak-—

Grief choked his utterance-tears were on his cheek-
Terror he knew not-but his soul was rent,
As on those faithful forms his eye was bent-
He saw them living-blooming now-but doom'd,
Ere set another sun, to lie entombed!

At last his struggling feelings forced their way -
"My faithful friends," he cried-" another day
Will show us victors, or will find us not—
Buried-but not dishonoured-nor forgot!
Is it not better in the grave to sleep,
Than o'er our fallen homes to live and weep?
When morning would but rise to see us chain'd,
While o'er our land a tyrant savage reign'd:
Our wives, our daughters, victims to his lust,
Our hopeless children trodden in the dust:
Ourselves but suffer'd at his will to breathe,
Groaning through life his iron scourge beneath-
I see you spurn the thought! your looks proclaim,
That you
will rather die the death of fame!
'Tis but one heave-one pang-and all is o'er-
Nor war, nor tyrants, can disturb us more:
Few years perchance, for life is short at best-
Would lay us all within the grave of rest:
Why should we shrink if Heaven decree it now?-
Death sits as lightly on the manly brow,
As on the head of age that time has paled,
And pain and weakness day by day assail'd.
And who can slumber in a nobler bed,

Than they whose blood is for their country shed?
Who dies before the foe has pass'd our wall,
Is blest-is guiltless of his country's fall!
The proudest tomb that riches ever gave,
Is mean beside the hero's humble grave.
Look on yon smiling streets-yon glorious towers!
Where we have past so many happy hours-
Let us, at least, maintain them ours till death;
And on unconquer'd ground resign our breath;

And those dear objects who possess them still,
Them we must leave to God's all-righteous will:
Their golden locks are number'd in his sight-
The Judge of all the earth can do but right!'
Dying in their defence—our duties end-
But fear not-still will He remain their friend.
For every blessing that to man is dear
We fight and it were infamy to fear.
Nor do we arm for earthly joys alone
But also for religion's sacred throne!
Heaven's own defenders-if we fall in death,
Its Angels will receive our parting breath;
Since for its holy truths our blood we shed,
And leave these bodies mouldering with the dead,
Th' immortal spirit freed-will mount on high,
Crown'd with eternal blessings in the sky."

He ceased-and to the altar bent his way,
Once more in Saint Sophia's fane to pray:
Bending his knee in supplication there,
Heaven, he besought, his suffering land to spare;
But bowed submissive to its wiser will,
With holy feeling mingling courage still.
These duties done, the sacrament received,
His soul was tranquil and his heart relieved.
He sought the palace, where, in happier hour,
He sat enthron'd in all the pomp of power-
But all its grandeur now seem'd past away-
Robed in the darkness of that threat'ning day!
Proving the worthlessness of all below,

Whose highest blessings soon are changed to woe.
There he embraced his ministers of state,
And those unalter'd friends who wept his fate;

And as a tear upon their bosoms fell,

He breathed, in broken sighs, a sad farewell.

He spoke he felt-as if he ne'er again

Should meet them-as if then he closed his reign;

And now had nought to do but seek the field,

And in the battle's front his being yield.

Though feeble were the hopes that cheer'd him there,

He did not madly rush upon despair;

Hope will-must linger-if but life remain;

Else who its closing duties could sustain:

The spirit still in kindness it deceives;
The sinking heart of half its load relieves;
And yields a light that glitters round our feet,
Though darkness gather, and though tempests beat.
No! he could scarcely hope-nor did despair-
But still resolved to do his duty there:
War has its chances--and there might be one,
To leave him victor, and the foe undone:

The Christian altars Heaven might deign to save—
And doom the infidel a bloody grave.

camp;

"Twas darkness yet-the heroes all had sought
The station mark'd with holy courage fraught.
The Emperor, by the Roman gate took post,
Near where a breach might tempt the adverse host;
A breach, that mighty gun had rent at last;
Through which its deadly bolts of thunder past:
There with a chosen band, that on their arms
Lay anxious, listening to the loud alarms ;-
They spent a night that well the soul might damp;
Hearing the noise that shook the Turkish
And deeming every instant that the foe,
Would pour by thousands in-and lay them low.
And O what awful feelings fill the soul,
Throbbing the panting heart beyond control;
When the mind ponders, through the sleepless night,
The chance the horror-of the next day's fight:
When busy fancy strives to paint in vain,
Who may be victims on the bloody plain-
And in the search, may even point to one,
Seldom the first to doom himself undone :

Who scarcely dares to breathe-lest he should break
The silence-or the sounds of battle wake.

It may not yet be fear-but thrilling thought,

By which the soul is so intensely wrought-
'Tis like descending to a father's tomb,

When deep and burning thoughts alone find room :
As awful as the interval between

Two earthquake shocks, that shake the mountain scene.
It is like verging towards an early grave,

Uncertain yet if Heaven may deign to save;
At once a mingled sense of life and death-
A cling to earth-a yielding of the breath-

A feverish rolling of the frenzied eye;

That soon may flash its last wild glance and die-
Now wishing time to linger - now to flee-
And end the harrowing uncertainty:
Invoking-dreading the decisive hour,
When wasting war its myriads would devour.
The ties of life cling closer round the heart,
That from this fair creation shrinks to part;
Yet not the less must brave, with desperate aim,
Th' unsparing field of slaughter and of flame.
'Twas doubly awful there, because they knew
Their foes were countless, and their friends but few:
Foes, who nor age, nor sex, were known to spare,
Whose joy was slaughter, and whose path despair;

Who, mad with fury, bore in either hand,
The reeking weapon, and the burning brand-
The desolators of each conquer'd lam..

J. B.

END OF BOOK III.

DISCUSSION:

ARE NOVELS AND ROMANCES PRODUCTIVE OF MORE BENEFIT OR INJURY TO THE MIND?

In our day every one reads; and the larger portion of the world, occasionally at least, read novels and romances. It is therefore, of no inconsiderable importance to ascertain the effect of these productions, both upon the mind and heart; affording, as they now do, the favourite amusement of all ranks of society; and, in many instances, the sole mental occupation.

The very names by which these two classes of works are distinguished, suggest objections to them: they intimate that their authors rely upon readers possessed with an inordinate love of the new and the wonderful. Now the love of novelty, when uncontrolled by judgment, can engender nothing but mischief: it will produce indecision of character and of conduct; it will create dissatisfaction even with pleasures of long standing or of frequent occurrence; it will prompt an abandonment of the good in possession, for the better, which is only in fancy; it will destroy that unconquerable perseverance, so essential to success in almost every walk of life. It will manifest itself by an utter disregard of all the suggestions of prudence, and even of the sacred claims of friendship and of duty. If novels found this propensity in the mind, they fixed it there. Nourished by them, it flourished and grew wanton, till from a propensity, it became an appetite; and, from an appetite, a passion,-raging for gratification, and gaining strength from indulgence. This is illustrated by the fate of novels themselves. What genuine novel reader would peruse that which he had ever read before? Sedulously as the authors of these productions toiled to meet the demands of their readers, they could scarcely keep pace with them. Το read a novel was but the employment of an afternoon; and, when read, it was neither seen nor thought of again: a new day required a new book; it was found,-and, having bestowed the gratification of an hour, it shared the fate of its