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sky, and the yellow mass of Cathedral Rocks rising opposite in full light, while the valley is divided equally between sunshine and shade. Pine groves and oaks almost black in the shadow are brightened up to clear redbrowns where they pass out upon the lighted plain. The Merced, upon its mirror-like expanse, here reflects deep blue from Capitan, and there the warm Cathedral gold.
LXXXVI. - THE CONQUEROR'S GRAVE.
This poem, which appeared originally in “ Putnam's Magazine,” is one of the most beautiful compositions that ever was written ; admirable in sentiment, admirable in expression. From such poetry we learn how much we owe to those poets whose genius is under the control of moral feeling ; who make the imagination and the sense of beauty ministering servants at the altar of the highest good and the highest truth.
ITHIN this lowly grave a conqueror lies ;
And yet the monument proclaims it not,
A simple name alone,
To the great world unknown,
Lean lovingly against the humble stone.
Here, in the quiet earth, they laid apart
No man of iron mold and bloody hands,
Who sought to wreak upon the cowering lands
But one of tender spirit and delicate frame,
Gentlest in mien and mind
Of gentle womankind,
Its haunt, like flowers by sunny brooks in May; Yet at the thought of others' pain, a shade
Of sweeter sadness chased the smile away.
Nor deem that when the hand that molders here Was raised in menace, realms were chilled with fear,
And armies mustered at the sign, as when
Gray captains leading bands of veteran men
Alone her task was wrought;
Alone the battle fought; Through that long strife her constant hope was staid On God alone, nor looked for other aid.
She met the hosts of sorrow with a look
That altered not beneath the frown they wore ; And soon the lowering brood were tamed, and took
Meekly her gentle rule, and frowned no more. Her soft hand put aside the assaults of wrath,
And calmly broke in twain
The fiery shafts of pain,
By that victorious hand despair was slain :
Her glory is not of this shadowy state,
Glory that with the fleeting season dies ;
But when she entered at the sapphire gate,
What joy was radiant in celestial eyes ! How heaven's bright depths with sounding welcomes rung, And flowers of heaven by shining hands were flung!
And He who, long before,
Pain, scorn, and sorrow bore,
See, as I linger here, the sun grows low;
Cool airs are murmuring that the night is near.
Brief is the time, I know,
The warfare scarce begun ;
The victors' names are yet too few to fill
That ministered to thee is open still.
- SONG OF THE GREEKS.
THESE stirring lines were written while the struggle between the Greeks and Turks was going on, which ended in the establishment of Greece as an independent king. dom.
GAIN to the battle, Achaians !
Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance ;
For the cross of our faith is replanted,
Ah! what though no succor advances,
A breath of submission we breathe not:
has whetted its blade.
blush for its story, Or brighten your lives with its glory!-Our women,--0, say, shall they shriek in despair, Or embrace us from conquest, with wreaths in their hair? Accursed may his memory blacken, If a coward there be who would slacken
Till we've trampled the turban, and shown ourselves worth
Old Greece lightens up with emotion !
PARENTAL ODE TO MY INFANT SON.
THOMAS HOOD was born in London in 1798, and died in 1845. He was destined for commercial pursuits, and at an early age was placed in a counting-house in his native city. Being of a delicate constitution, his health began to fail ; and at the age of fifteen he was sent to Dundee, in Scotland, to reside with some relatives. But his tastes were strongly literary; and at the age of twenty-three he embraced the profession of letters, and began to earn his bread by his pen. His life was one of severe toil, and, from his delicate health and sensitive temperament, of much suffering, always sustained, however, with manly resolution and a cheerful spirit. He wrote much, both in prose and verse. His works consist, for the most part, of collected contributions to magazines and periodicals. His novel of “Tylney Hall” was not very successful. His “Whims and Oddities,” of which three volumes were published, and his “Hood's Own,” are the most popular of his writings. “Up the Rhine” is the narrative of an imaginary tour in Germany by a family party. “Whimsicalities" is a collection of his contributions to the “ New Monthly Magazine,” of which he was at one time the editor. At the time of his death he was conducting a periodical called “ Hood's Magazine,” in which some of his best pieces appear.
Hood was a man of peculiar and original genius, which manifested itself with equal
* The Muses, nine goddesses who presided over the liberal arts. † A mountain in Greece, sacred to Apollo and the Muses.