The Death of Moses.-JOHN S. TAYLOR.
ON Nebo's hill the patriarch stood,
Who led the pilgrim bands
Of Israel through the foaming waves,
And o'er the desert sands.
How beauteous is the scene that spreads
Before him far and wide,
Beyond the fair and fated bourn
Of Jordan's glorious tide!
Stretched forth in varied loveliness,
The land of promise smiled,
Like Eden in its wondrous bloom,
Magnificent and wild.
He looked o'er Gilead's pleasant land.
A land of fruit and flowers,
And verdure of the softest green,
That drinks the summer showers.
He saw fair Ephraim's fertile fields
Laugh with their golden store,
And, far beyond, the deep blue wave
Bathed Judah's lovely shore.
The southern landscape led his glance
O'er plains and valleys wide,
And hills with spreading cedars crowned,
And cities in their pride.
There Zoar's walls are dimly seen,
And Jericho's far towers
Gleam through the morning's purple mist, Among their palmy bowers.
Is it the sun, the morning sun,
That shines so full and bright,
Pouring on Nebo's lonely hill
A flood of living light?
No dim and earthly is the glow
Of morning's loveliest ray,
And dull the cloudless beams of noon,
To that celestial day.
Is it an angel's voice that breathes
Divine enchantment there,
As floating on his viewless wings
He charms the balmy air?
No 'tis a greater, holier power,
That makes the scene rejoice;
Thy glory, God, is in that light,—
Thy spirit, in that voice!
The patriarch hears, and lowly bends,
Adoring his high will,
Who spoke in lightnings from the clouds
Of Sinai's awful hill.
Now flash his eyes with brighter fires
E'er yet their light depart;
And thus the voice of prophecy
Speaks to his trembling heart :-
"The land, which I have sworn to bless
To Abraham's chosen race,
Thine eyes behold; but not for thee
That earthly resting-place."
With soul of faith the patriarch heard
The awful words, and lay
A time entranced, until that voice
In music died away;-
Then raised his head,-one look he gave
Towards Jordan's palmy shore;
Fixed was that look, and glazed that eye,
Which turned to earth no more.
A beauteous glow was on his face-
Death flung not there its gloom;
On Nebo's hill the patriarch found
His glory and his doom.
He sleeps in Moab's silent vale,
Beneath the dewy sod,
Without a stone to mark his grave,
Who led the hosts of God.
Let marble o'er earth's conquerors rise,
And mock the mouldering grave;
His monument is that blest Book,
Which opens but to save.
Sonnet on the Entrance of the American Woods.--GALT.
WHAT solemn spirit doth inhabit here!
What sacred oracle hath here a home!
What dread unknown thrills through the heart in fear,
And moves to worship in this forest-dome
Ye storied fanes, in whose recesses dim
The mitred priesthood hath their altars built,
Aisles old and awful, where the choral hymn
Bears the rapt soul beyond the sphere of guilt,
Stoop your proud arches, and your columns bend,
Your tombs and monumental trophies hide;
The high, umbrageous vaults, that here extend,
Mock the brief limits of your sculptured pride.
Stranger forlorn, by fortune hither cast,
Dar'st thou the genius brave, the ancient and the vast?
Marco Bozzaris.*-HALLECK.
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.
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 pressed that monarch's throne,—a king;
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,
As Eden's garden bird.
At midnight, in the forest shades,
Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band,
True as the steel of their tried blades,
Heroes in heart and hand.
There had the Persian's thousands stood,
There had the glad earth drunk their blood
On old Platea's day;
And now there breathed that haunted air
The sons of sires, who conquered there,
With arm to strike, and soul to dare,
As quick, as far as they.
An hour passed on-the Turk awoke-
That bright dream was his last;
He woke to hear his sentries 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
* Bozzaris was the Epaminondas of Modern Greece. He fell in an attack upon the Turkish camp, at Laspi, the site of the ancient Platæa, August 20, 1823, and expired in the moment of victory. His last words were--"To die for liberty, is a pleasure, and not a pain."
As lightnings from the mountain cloud;
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud,
Bozzaris cheer his band:
"Strike! till the last armed 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 rang the 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.
Come to the bridal chamber, Death!
Come to the mother when she feels,
For the first time, her first born's breath;
Come when the blessed seals,
That close the pestilence, are broke,
And crowded cities wail its stroke;
Come in Consumption's ghastly form,
The earthquake shock, the ocean storm;
Come when the heart beats high and warm,
With banquet-song, and dance, and wine-
And thou art terrible: the tear,
The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier,
And all we know, or dream, or fear,
Of agony, are thine.
But to the hero, when his sword
Has won the battle for the free,
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word;
And in its hollow tones are heard
The thanks of millions yet to be.
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