They go to the slaughter,

To strike the sudden blow,

And pour on earth, like water,
The best blood of the foe;

To rush on them from rock and height,
And clear the narrow valley,

Or fire their camp at dead of night,
And fly before they rally.

-Chains are round our country pressed,

And cowards have betrayed her,

And we must make her bleeding breast grave of the invader.

The

Not till from her fetters

We raise up Greece again,

And write in bloody letters,

That tyranny is slain,—

Oh, not till then the smile shall steal

Across those darkened faces,

Nor one of all those warriors feel

VOL. I.- -11*

His children's dear embraces.

-Reap we not the ripened wheat, Till yonder hosts are flying,

And all their bravest, at our feet,

Like autumn sheaves are lying.

THE TWO GRAVES.

"Tis a bleak wild hill, but green and bright In the summer warmth and the mid-day light; There's the hum of the bee and the chirp of the

wren,

And the dash of the brook from the alder glen; There's the sound of a bell from the scattered

flock,

And the shade of the beech lies cool on the

rock,

And fresh from the west is the free wind's

breath,―

There is nothing here that speaks of death.

Far yonder, where orchards and gardens lie, And dwellings cluster, 'tis there men die. They are born, they die, and are buried near, Where the populous grave-yard lightens the

bier;

For strict and close are the ties that bind
In death the children of human-kind;
Yea, stricter and closer than those of life,—
"Tis a neighborhood that knows no strife.
They are noiselessly gathered-friend and foe-
To the still and dark assemblies below:
Without a frown or a smile they meet,
Each pale and calm in his winding-sheet;
In that sullen home of peace and gloom,
Crowded, like guests in a banquet-room.

Yet there are graves in this lonely spot, Two humble graves, but I meet them not. I have seen them,-eighteen years are past, Since I found their place in the brambles last,

The place where, fifty winters ago,
And aged man in his locks of snow,
And an aged matron, withered with years,
Were solemnly laid !—but not with tears.
For none, who sat by the light of their hearth,
Beheld their coffins covered with earth;

Their kindred were far, and their children dead,
When the funeral prayer was coldly said.

Two low green hillocks, two small gray stones, Rose over the place that held their bones; But the grassy hillocks are levelled again, And the keenest eye might search in vain, 'Mong briers, and ferns, and paths of sheep, For the spot where the aged couple sleep.

Yet well might they lay, beneath the soil Of this lonely spot, that man of toil,