'Tis sure some dream, some vision vain,
What I, the child of rank and wealth;
Am I the wretch that clanks this chain,
Deprived of freedom, friends, and health?
Ah! while I dwell on blessings fled,

Which never more my heart must glad,
How aches my heart; how burns my head!
But 'tis not mad! no! 'tis not mad!

They'll make me mad! they'll make me mad!

His rosy lips, how sweet they smiled!

His mild blue eyes, how bright they shone!

None ever bore a lovelier child!

And art thou now for ever gone,

And shall I never see thee more,

My pretty, pretty, pretty lad;
I will be free, unbar the door!
I am not mad! I am not mad!

Oh hark! what mean those yells and cries?
His chain some furious madman breaks;
He comes! I see his glaring eyes!

Now, now my dungeon grate he shakes;
Help! help!
He's gone.
-Oh! fearful woe,

Such screams to hear, such sights to see;
My brain! my brain! I know, I know,
I am not mad, but soon shall be !

Yes soon! for, lo, you! while I speak, Mark how yon demon's eye-balls glare, now, with dreadful shriek,

He sees me

He whirls a serpent high in air.

Horror! the reptile strikes his tooth

Deep in my heart, so crush'd and sad!

Ay, laugh ye fiends! I feel the truth,

Your task is done!

I'm mad! I'm mad!

LEWIS.

THE OLD ARM CHAIR.

I LOVE it! I love it! and who shall dare

To chide me for loving that old arm chair?

I've treasured it long as a sainted prize,

I've bedew'd it with tears and embalm'd it with sighs;

'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart,

Not a tie will break, not a link will start;

Would you know the spell? a mother sat there!

And a sacred thing is that old arm chair.

In childhood's hour I linger'd near
That hallow'd seat with a list'ning ear,
And gentle words that mother would give,
To fit me to die, and teach me to live;

She told me shame would never betide,
With truth for my creed, and God for my guide;
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer,
As I knelt beside that old arm chair.

I sat and watch'd her many a day

When her eye grew dim, and her locks were gray,
And I almost worshipp'd her when she smiled
And turn'd from her bible to bless her child:
Years roll'd on, but the last one sped,
My idol was shatter'd, my earth-star fled!
I felt how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in that old arm chair.

'Tis past! 'tis past! but I gaze on it now
With quivering lip and throbbing brow;
'Twas there she nurs'd me, 'twas there she died,
And memory still flows with lava tide.

Say it is folly, and deem me weak,

As the scalding drops dart down my cheek;
But I love it! I love it! and cannot tear

My soul from a mother's old arm chair!

MARCO BOZZARIS.

AT midnight, in his guarded tent,

The Turk was dreaming of the hour, When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, Should tremble at his power.

COOK.

In dreams through camp and court he bore,
The trophies of a conqueror;

In dreams his song of triumph heard;

Then wore his monarch's signet ring,

Then press'd that monarch's throne — a king ;
As wild his thoughts and gay of wing,
As Eden's garden bird.

An hour pass'd on— the Turk awoke;
That bright dream was his last :

He woke to hear his sentry's shriek,

"To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!" He woke to die midst flame and smoke, And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke, And death-shots falling thick and fast As lightnings from the mountain cloud: And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, Bozzaris cheer his band :— "Strike― till the last arm'd foe expires, Strike for your altars and your fires, Strike for the green graves of your sires, God—and your native land!”

They fought-like brave men, long and well,
They piled that ground with Moslem slain;
They conquered—but Bozzaris fell,

Bleeding at every vein.

His few surviving comrades saw

His smile when rung their proud hurrah,

And the red field was won;

Then saw in death his eyelids close

Calmly, as to a night's repose

Like flowers at set of sun.

HALLECK.