THE ARCTIC LOVER.

GONE is the long, long winter night,
Look, my beloved one!

How glorious, through his depths of light,
Rolls the majestic sun.

The willows, waked from winter's death,
Give out a fragrance like thy breath-
The summer is begun!

Ay, 'tis the long bright summer day:
Hark, to that mighty crash!
The loosened ice-ridge breaks away —
The smitten waters flash.

Seaward the glittering mountain rides,
While, down its green translucent sides,
The foamy torrents dash.

See, love, my boat is moored for thee,
By ocean's weedy floor-

The petrel does not skim the sea

More swiftly than my oar.

We'll go where, on the rocky isles,

Her eggs the screaming sea-fowl piles
Beside the pebbly shore.

Or, bide thou where the poppy blows,

With wind-flowers frail and fair,

While I, upon his isle of snows,

Seek and defy the bear.

Fierce though he be, and huge of frame,

This arm his savage strength shall tame, And drag him from his lair.

When crimson sky and flamy cloud.
Bespeak the summer o'er,

And the dead valleys wear a shroud
Of snows that melt no more,
I'll build of ice thy winter home,
With glistening walls and glassy dome,

And spread with skins the floor.

The white fox by thy couch shall play;

And from the frozen skies,

The meteors of a mimic day

Shall flash upon thine eyes.

And I for such thy vow meanwhile

Shall hear thy voice and see thy smile,

Till that long midnight flies.

* THE MASSACRE AT SCIO.

WEEP not for Scio's children slain

Their blood, by Turkish falchions shed, Sends not its cry to Heaven in vain

For vengeance on the murderer's head.

Though high the warm red torrent ran
Between the flames that lit the sky,

Yet, for each drop, an armed man
Shall rise, to free the land, or die.

And for each corpse, that in the sea
Was thrown, to feast the scaly herds,
A hundred of the foe shall be

A banquet for the mountain birds.

Stern rites and sad, shall Greece ordain
To keep that day, along her shore,
Till the last link of slavery's chain

Is shivered, to be worn no more.

*This poem, written about the time of the horrible butchery of the Sciotes by the Turks, in 1824, has been more fortunate than most poetical predictions. The independ

VERSION OF A FRAGMENT OF

SIMONIDES.

THE night winds howled the billows dashed

Against the tossing chest ;

And Danäe to her broken heart

66

Her slumbering infant pressed.

My little child”—in tears she said—

"To wake and weep is mine,

But thou canst sleep — thou dost not know

Thy mother's lot, and thine.

"The moon is up, the moonbeams smile

They tremble on the main ;

But dark, within my floating cell,

To me they smile in vain.

"Thy folded mantle wraps thee warm,

Thy clustering locks are dry,

Thou dost not hear the shrieking gust,

Nor breakers booming high.

-

ence of the Greek nation, which it foretold, has come to pass, and the massacre, by inspiring a deeper detestation of their oppressors, did much to promote that event.

"As o'er thy sweet unconscious face
A mournful watch I keep,

I think, didst thou but know thy fate,
How thou wouldst also weep.

"Yet, dear one, sleep, and sleep, ye winds
That vex the restless brine — ·

When shall these eyes, my babe, be sealed
As peacefully as thine?"

23-L & B-T