sky, and the yellow mass of Cathedral Rocks rising oppovalley is divided equally be

site in full light, while the tween sunshine and shade. black in the shadow are browns 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.

Pine groves and oaks almost brightened up to clear red

LXXXVI. — THE CONQUEROR'S GRAVE.

BRYANT.

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

WI

;

And yet the monument proclaims it not,
Nor round the sleeper's name hath chisel wrought
The emblems of a fame that never dies,

Ivy and amaranth in a graceful sheaf
Twined with the laurel's fair, imperial leaf.
A simple name alone,

To the great world unknown,

Is graven here, and wild-flowers rising round,
Meek meadow-sweet and violets of the ground,
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
The passions that consumed his restless heart;

But one of tender spirit and delicate frame,
Gentlest in mien and mind

Of gentle womankind,

Timidly shrinking from the breath of blame; One in whose eyes the smile of kindness made 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
Clouds rise on clouds before the rainy east,

Gray captains leading bands of veteran men
And fiery youths to be the vultures' feast.
Not thus were waged the mighty wars that gave
The victory to her who fills this grave;

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,

And rent the nets of passion from her path.
By that victorious hand despair was slain :
With love she vanquished hate, and overcame
Evil with good in her great Master's name.

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,

The mighty Sufferer, with aspect sweet,

Smiled on the timid stranger from his seat, -
He who, returning glorious from the grave,
Dragged death, disarmed, in chains, a crouching slave.

See, as I linger here, the sun grows low;

Cool airs are murmuring that the night is near.
O gentle sleeper, from thy grave I go

Consoled, though sad, in hope, and yet in fear!
Brief is the time, I know,

The warfare scarce begun;

Yet all may win the triumphs thou hast won ;
Still flows the fount whose waters strengthened thee;
The victors' names are yet too few to fill
Heaven's mighty roll; the glorious armory
That ministered to thee is open still.

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 kingdom.

A

GAIN to the battle, Achaians !

Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance;

Our land,

the first garden of Liberty's tree,

It hath been, and shall yet be, the land of the free;

For the cross of our faith is replanted,

The pale dying crescent is daunted,

And we march that the footprints of Mahomet's slaves May be washed out in blood from our forefathers' graves. Their spirits are hovering o'er us,

And the sword shall to glory restore us.

Ah! what though no succor advances,

Nor Christendom's chivalrous lances

Are stretched in our aid?-Be the combat our own!
And we'll perish or conquer more proudly alone!
For we've sworn by our country's assaulters,
By the virgins they 've dragged from our altars,
By our massacred patriots, our children in chains,
By our heroes of old, and their blood in our veins,
That, living, we shall be victorious,

Or that, dying, our deaths shall be glorious.

A breath of submission we breathe not:

The sword that we 've drawn we will sheathe not:
Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid,
And the vengeance of ages has whetted its blade.
Earth may hide, waves ingulf, fire consume us;
But they shall not to slavery doom us.

If they rule, it shall be o'er our ashes and graves :
But we've smote them already with fire on the waves,
And new triumphs on land are before us :

To the charge! - Heaven's banner is o'er us.

This day, shall ye blush for its story,

Or brighten your lives with its glory?

Our women, O, 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 Being sprung from, and named for, the godlike of earth. Strike home! - and the world shall revere us

As heroes descended from heroes.

Old Greece lightens up with emotion !

Her inlands, her isles of the ocean,

Fanes rebuilt, and fair towns shall with jubilee ring,

And the Nine * shall new hallow their Helicon's t spring.
Our hearths shall be kindled in gladness,

That were cold, and extinguished in sadness;

Whilst our maidens shall dance with their white waving arms, Singing joy to the brave that delivered their charms,

When the blood of yon Mussulman cravens

Shall have crimsoned the beaks of our ravens !

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.