His image. Thou dost mark them flushed with

hope,

As on the threshold of their vast designs Doubtful and loose they stand, and strik'st them down.

Alas! I little thought that the stern power Whose fearful praise I sung, would try me thus Before the strain was ended. It must ceaseFor he is in his grave who taught my youth The art of verse, and in the bud of life Offered me to the muses. Oh, cut off Untimely when thy reason in its strength, Ripened by years of toil and studious search, And watch of Nature's silent lessons, taught Thy hand to practise best the lenient art To which thou gavest thy laborious days, And, last, thy life. And, therefore, when the

earth

Received thee, tears were in unyielding eyes And on hard cheeks, and they who deemed thy skill

Delayed their death-hour, shuddered and turned

pale

When thou wert gone. This faltering verse, which thou

Shalt not, as wont, o'erlook, is all I have
To offer at thy grave-this-and the hope
To copy thy example, and to leave

A name of which the wretched shall not think
As of an enemy's, whom they forgive

As all forgive the dead. Rest, therefore, thou Whose early guidance trained my infant stepsRest, in the bosom of God, till the brief sleep Of death is over, and a happier life

Shall dawn to waken thine insensible dust.

Now thou art not-and yet the men whose

guilt

Has wearied Heaven for vengeance-he who

bears

False witness-he who takes the orphan's bread,
And robs the widow-he who spreads abroad
Polluted hands in mockery of prayer,
Are left to cumber earth. Shuddering I look
On what is written, yet I blot not out
The desultory numbers; let them stand,
The record of an idle revery.

VOL. I.-4*

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.