Che sa ridere e trescar. Ah, cupido è meglio innanzi Che fra morti ignudo io danzi Dar gli affanni ai venti e al mar. Foscolo's Essays on Petrarch. THE DEATH OF LEONIDAS. BY THE REV. GEORGE CROLY, A. M. THE imagery in the following lines is highly poetic; but the antiquated style in which it is written, and the spirit of imitation that characterizes its author, cannot be too much censured. The poet who cannot rise to fame by following the impulse of his own genius, will never become immortal by serving a servile apprenticeship to the Muses.-Ep. It was the wild midnight A storm was on the sky; The torrent swept the glen, Swift from the deluged ground He spoke no warrior word, The fiery element Show'd with one mighty gleam, All up the mountain's side, Waved the Persian banners pale. And foremost from the pass, Among the slumbering band, Sprang King Leonidas, Like the lightning's living brand. Then double darkness fell, And the forest ceased its moan: But there came a clash of steel, And a distant dying groan. Anon, a trumpet blew, And a fiery sheet burst high, That o'er the midnight threw, A blood-red canopy. A host glared on the hill; A host glared by the bay; But the Greeks rush'd onwards still, Like leopards in their play. The air was all a yell, And the earth was all a flame, Where the Spartan's bloody steel On the silken turbans came. And still the Greek rush'd on, Where the fiery torrent roll'd, Till, like a rising sun, Shone Xerxes' tent of gold. They found a royal feast, His midnight banquet there; And the treasures of the East Lay beneath the Doric spear. Then sat to the repast The bravest of the brave! That feast must be their last, That spot must be their grave. They pledged old Sparta's name They took the rose-wreathed lyres And taught the languid wires The sounds that freedom gave. But now the morning star Crown'd ta's twilight brow; And the Persian horn of war From the hills began to blow. Up rose the glorious rank, To Greece one cup pour'd highThen, hand in hand they drank "To immortality!" Fear on King Xerxes fell, When, like spirits from the tomb, But down swept all his power, They gather'd round the tent, To Greece one look they sent, Then on high their torches flung. Their king sat on the throne, Thus fought the Greek of old! Bring forth the self-same men? ONE MOMENT MORE. We are pleased with the following lines, but we should fear to recommend them to imitation. The warrior seems to have no great delicacy of feeling in declaring his passion so abruptly to his companion; and we feel disappointed by the poet totally concealing from us the tender scene that is supposed to have taken place between the lovers. We are only told abruptly, and rather unceremoniously, that "the struggle's past." In this there is a want of tenderness.-ED. One moment more, ere fast and far, The battle-field I press; That past, I grasp my cymetar, And glory's form caress. Those bright blue eyes,-how tearful now To clasp that hand, to kiss that brow,— And then, 'midst other scenes,-with thee, I'll drown this bitter agony. Thou wilt not chide, for thou hast known, What 'tis such joy to hold! One moment then, few may be flown Ere we in death lie cold! The struggle's past !-Her golden hair Waves on my helmet's crest; |