On old Platea's' day; And now, there breathed that haunted air 3. An hour passed on-the Turk ǎwōke; He woke to hear his sentries shriek, "To arms!—they come! the Greek! the Greek! "Strike-till the last armed foe expires; 4. They fought-like brave men, long and well; Bleeding at every vein. His few surviving comrades saw His smile, when rang their proud huzza, Like flowers at set of sun. 5. Come to the bridal chamber, Death! That close the pestilence are broke, 1 Platæa, (plå tè å), a ruined city of Greece. Near it, B. c. 479, the Greeks, under Pausanias, totally de feated and nearly annihilated the grand Persian army, under Mardonius, who was killed in the action. Come when the heart beats high and warm The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier; 6. But to the hero, when his sword Greece nurtured in her glory's time, We tell thy doom without a sigh; For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's,- That were not born to die! HALLECK. FITZ-GREENE HALLECK was born at Guilford, in Connecticut, August, 1795, and at the age of eighteen entered the banking-house of Jacob Barker, in New York, with which he was associated several years, susequently performing the duties of a book-keeper in the private office of John Jacob Astor. Soon after the decease of that noted millionaire, in 1848, he retired to his birth-place, where he has since resided. He evinced a taste for poetry and wrote verses at a very early period. "Twilight," his first offering to the "Evening Post," appeared in October, 1818. The year following he gained his first celebrity in literature as a town wit, by producing, with his friend Drake, several witty and satirical pieces, which appeared in the columns of the "Evening Post" with the signature of Croaker & Co.; and his fame was fully established by the publication of a volume of his poems in 1827. His poetry is characterized by its music and perfection of versification, and its vigor and healthy sentiment. SECTION XXIV. I. 129. THE CLOSING YEAR. IS midnight's holy hour-and silence now Is brooding, like a gentle spirit, o'er The still and pulselèss world. Hark! on the winds The bell's deep tones are swelling-'tis the knell 2. 3. 4. Of the departed year. No funeral train In mournful cadences, that come abroad Like the far wind-harp's wild and touching wail, Gone from the earth forever. 'Tis a time For memory and for tears. Within the deep, And, bending mournfully above the pale, Sweet forms that slumber there, scatters dead flowers O'er what has passed to nothingness. The year Has gone, and with it, many a glorious throng It passed o'er The battle-plain, where sword, and spear, and shield, 5. 6. Flashed in the light of mid-day,-and the strength In the dim land of dreams. Remorseless Time! Fierce spirit of the glass and scythe!-what power He presses, and forever. The proud bird, Through heaven's unfathomable depths, or brave And bathe his plumage in the thunder's home, And night's deep darkness has no chain to bind Revolutions sweep O'er earth, like troubled visions o'er the breast PRENTICE. Amid the mighty wrecks that strew his path, To sit and muse, like other conquerors, Upon the fearful ruin he has wrought. GEORGE D. PRENTICE was born at Preston, in Connecticut, December 18th, 180, and was educated at Brown University, in Providence, where he graduated In 1823. In 1828 he commenced "The New England Weekly Review," at Hartford, which he edited for two years, when, resigning its management to Mr. Whittier, he removed to Louisville, Kentucky, where he has since conducted the "Journal," of that city, one of the most popular gazettes ever published in this country. His numerous poetical writings have never been published collectively. II. 130. OUR HONORED DEAD. [OW bright are the honors which await those who with sacred fortitude and patriot'ic patience have endured all things that they might save their native land from division and from the power of corruption! The honored dead! They that die for a good cause are redeemed from death. Their names are gathered and garnered. Their memory is precious. Each place grows proud for them who were born there. 2. There is to be, ere long, in every village and in every neighborhood, a glowing pride in its martyred heroes. Tablets shall preserve their names. Pious love shall renew their inscriptions as time and the unfeeling elements decay them. And the national festivals shall give multitudes of precious names to the orator's lips. Children shall grow up under mōre sacred inspirations, whose elder brothers, dying nobly for their country, left a name that honored and inspired all who bōre it. Orphan children shall find thousands of fathers and mothers to ove and help those whom dying heroes left as a legacy to the gratitude of the public. 3. Oh, tell me not that they are dead-that generous höst, that airy army of invisible heroes! They hover as a cloud of witnesses above this nation. Are they dead that yet speak louder than we can speak, and a mōre universal language? Are they dead that yet act? Are they dead that yet move upon society, and inspire the people with nobler motives and more heroic pātriötism? 4. Ye that mourn, let gladnèss mingle with your tears. He was your son; but now he is the nation's. He made your |