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HELLAS.

FAIR land! where every mountain dell,
To old poetic legends given,
Of patriot-valor's deeds could tell,

Unnumbered as the stars of heaven;
Land of the Muses' only home,

The Muses' first and latest love, Where Pindus and gray Helicon,

And every stream and mountain-grove, Recalls the voice of ages past;

The warrior's meed, the poet's song, The echoing trumpet's battle-blast,

The lay of love thy plains along: Land of the olive and the vine,

Of sunny crag and dark blue skies, Where roses with the bay entwine,

To form the wreath that never dies: The wreath that hung around thy name, Child of the Muse, Minerva's pride! Still claims for thee the envied fame, The swelling wave of glory's tide: Land of the old poetic dream,

Where erst Apollo loved to dwell, And poured along Thessalia's stream* The music of his golden shell; Where from each height an Oread sung, Each tree a Dryad's native home, While from her urn each Naiad fung

The crystal fountain's silvery foam : Oh! where are we, and where art thou, Beloved of heaven, fair freedom's pride! In dust thy glorious banner low,

And shiver'd spear, lie side by side! Oh! where is now that spirit free, When, as the turban'd slave came on, The voice of old Thermopyla

Sent back the cry of Marathon? Lord of the lion-heart and name, t

Awake! arouse thee from the tomb! Thy country calls from tower and plain, And glory's watch-fires, quenched in gloom.

Where, isle of Teucer, where are they Whose blood once crimsoned freedom's wave,

When down along gina's bay,

Proud Persia's myriads found a grave? Oh where, Citharon,§ is the band

That kept Platea's field of fame, And onward, for their native land, Drove tyrant-threat, and slavery's chain? Land of the brave! for thee no more The patriot-prayer shall rise to heaven, No more along thy rocky shore

The exulting victor's shout be given;
Gone is the lightning of thine eye,

And gone the banner and the spear;
Around thy path dark shadows lie,
And strangers drop for thee the tear.

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'Salamis.'

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And gone is old Athena's' power,
The city of Minerva's sway,
Where crumbling fane and roofless tower
Look lovely still, amid decay.
Or shall I stand on Lunium's brow,
And gaze along the gean wave,
Whose thousand islands sleep below,
Lull'd by the murmuring waters' lave?
Ah, God of Day! 'tis only thou

Remain'st of all that once was fair;
Thy beauteous isles are lonely now,
Yet still thou lov'st to linger there!
Where is thy Dolos, Sun-God, where
Thy natal island of the seas
Latona's wave-emerging lair,

The star-gem of the Cyclades?
Thy shrine hath sunk, and thou art left,
God of the voice and vision old!
Of fount, of song, and lyre bereft,
Thy throne in dust, thy altar cold!

Thou of the vineyard and the vine,

Does Naxos* still thy presence own, The verdant tendrils still entwine

Around thy temple's once loved home? Child of the wave! fair beauty's queen, Whom ocean gave to light above, While round thy brow were clustering seen The golden flowers of life and love; Say, does thine own Cythera'st dome With streaming incense greet no more, No more the circumambient foam

Make music with its rocky shore? Lord of Olympus! Ægis-king!

Around whose calm majestic brow The Phidian curls hung clustering, While ether bathed thy throne below: God of the rattling thunder-peal,

Of regal eye, and stern command, Who mad'st the guilty nations feel The terrors of thy living brand; Son of the banished lord of heaven,§ Thy father's hate, thy father's foe, To whom the sceptre once was given,

O'er sunny skies, and earth below; Still high in air thy mountain soars,

Snow-diadem'd, of many a peak, il Still mid its billowy foliage roars

The warrior-blast from Ossa's steep.

* Naxos was sacred to Bacchus.

Island of Cythera, near which Venus is said to have sprung from the sea, and where she had a cel-brated temple.

Phidias declared that he derived his model of the statue of Olympian Jove from the cele

The field of Platea lay near the base of brated line of Homer.

Mount Citheron.

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'Saturn.'

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But where art thou, Eternal Jove!
And where the altar and the fane,*
That down along the Eliant grove
Graced Pisa's loved and sunny plain?
All, all has vanished like a dream,

The muses' lay, the poet's creed;
No more the Naiad haunts the stream,
No more a thousand victims bleed.
Gone are the Dorian melodies,+

The incense-cloud, the choral strain,
And Delphi now neglected lies-

Forever ceased Apollo's reign:
Yet, fairest mount of poet's dream,
Parnassus of the double peak,
Still from thy rocks Castalia's stream
In prattling music loves to leap:
Still winds the bee his little horn,

O'er thy lone sides, Hymettus fair;
The crystal dew-drops of the morn,

The mountain thyme, still linger there; And still Alpheus loves to flow,

And join his bride § in western seas, While still are heard thy whisperings low, O king of rivers! to the breeze.ll Ah! land of beauty, and of love,

Of cave, and dell, and valley green, And moss-grown fane, and haunted grove, And golden skies, and crystal stream! Ah! parent of a valiant line,

Whose deeds shall live on history's scroll,
Beyond the power of scathing time,
While seas shall heave, and planets roll;
Ah! nurse of earlier, happier years,
Whose name comes fraught with every
charm,

To call forth pity's scalding tears,
Or with heroic feelings warm!
Eternal fountain of the mind,

Thy gushing waters still ascend, And at them all of human kind Still low the knee of homage bend; To thee the lonely scholar comes, With care-dimmed eye, and pallid brow, And muses mid thy ruined homes, Where all he loves is silent now. To thee the patriot ever turns,

O glorious nurse of freedom's tree! For on thy hallowed altar burns

The watch-fire of the brave and free; For thee e'en Beauty heaves the sigh, For thee she drops the pensive tear Since with thee from her native sky,

She came to linger many a year. She came to Plato's hallowed grove, And taught the lay of other spheres, Where, bathed in fires of heavenly love, Our long-lost home at length appears; She came to breathe along the page,

Where fancy's visions ever dwell, Unscathed by time, undimmed by age, The music that she loved so well.

And now for thee, sweet land! once more She oft recalls those happier days, When all around thy rocky shore

The Sun of Freedom poured its rays. When hill, and stream, and tower, and town,

Freed from dark slavery's vassalage, Exchanged the blood-stained tyrant's crown,

For freedom's holiest heritage. Farewell, a long farewell to thee,

Land of the brave, and wise, and good! Thy day-spring ne'er again may be, Thy sun hath set mid waves of blood.

E. H. J.

THE PEACE

OH what can compare to the peace of God,
When it cometh upon the heart,
Where once contending passions trod,
When it bids them all depart:
Oh! not the peace of the battle plain,
When the day's hot fight is o'er;
There war may madly rage again

In that heart it can rage no more.

'Tis not like the peace to the ocean given,
When above the soft skies smile;
True, it may image the face of heaven,

And be gentle and calm awhile;
But shall not the clouds again be hung
Above it, in gorgeous gloom,
And shall not many a life be flung
Away on that stormy tomb?

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OF GOD.'

| 'T is not like the peace of the fruitful land,
When the valleys are thick with corn;
That peace all hearts may understand,
For of earthly things 't is born;
But thou wouldst not call it peace, hadst
Before God's holy shrine, [knelt
And that blessed calm in thy spirit felt
That none can e'er define.

Turn not to earth, for its brightest joys
Beside his light are dim;
But there is a pleasure nought destroys,
And it flows alone from him.
Oh, be that peace within thy breast!
Then shalt thou surely know,
That save his pure and holy rest,
There is no true peace below.

M. A. B.

*Plato's doctrine of the To Kaλov, or eternal beauty, blended with his other doctrine of the immortality of the soul, and its return to earth from its dwelling in the skies.

THE JESUIT'S SERMON.

ALL persons who are in the least familiar with the early history of the West, know with what pure and untiring zeal the Catholic missionaries pursued the work of conversion among the savages. Before a Virginian had crossed the Blue Ridge, and while the Connecticut was still the extreme frontier of New-England, more than one man, whose youth had been passed among the warm valleys of Languedoc, had explored the wilds of Wisconsin, and caused the hymn of Christian praise to rise from the prairies of Illinois. The Catholic priest went even before the soldier and trader. From lake to lake, from river to river, the Jesuits pressed on, unresting, and with a power that no other Christians have exhibited, won to their faith the warlike Miamis, and the luxurious Illinois. For more than a hundred years did this work go forward. Of its temporary results we know little. The earliest of the published letters from the missionaries were written thirty years after La Salle's voyage down the Great River. But, were the family records of France laid before us, I cannot doubt that we should find there evidences of savage hate diminished, and savage cruelty prevented, through the labors of the brotherhood of Jesus. And yet it was upon these men that England charged the war of Pontiac! Though every motive for a desperate exertion existed on the part of the Indians - the dread of annihilation, the love of their old homes and hunting-grounds, the reverence for their fathers' graves all that nerved Philip, and fired Tecumseh yet to the Protestant English the readiest explanation was, that Catholics, that Jesuits, had poisoned the savage mind! It was during this war the war of extermination which the savages commenced as one man, on Michigan, Huron, Erie, and Ontario, along the frontiers, and among the quiet hollows of Pennsyl vania and Virginia — that the incidents occurred which I am about to relate.

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A chief of the Wyandots, which tribe had returned to its old home upon the Maumee, since the conclusion of the war between the Iroquois and Miami confederacy, instead of joining Pontiac, who commanded at the north, went with some of his warriors to the aid of the Shawanese, then living upon the Scioto. He was a man much resembling Logan, so celebrated ten years later-calm, stern; in peace kindly, but in war a true Indian; of vast personal strength, and commanding energies, he led wherever he went. Many a mother, during the terrible summer of '63, started at the howl of the watch-dog, and listening, thought she heard the dreaded voice of the Deep-river, as the Wyandot chief was called; and many a mother did hear that voice. He had taken up the hatchet for extermination, and he spared not age, or sex, or beauty, or courage. Forty scalps, that autumn, stretched upon twigs, were drying in the air at his wigwam door.

Yet the Deep-river had spared one. In a narrow valley near the Green-briar, not far from the now fashionable White Sulphur Spring, dwelt a little family of four, who, when they heard in April of the peace that had been concluded between France and England, thanked

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God that their dangers were now over; that they might now sow and reap in safety. Four months passed by, and but one of the circle remained alive. He was a boy, about ten years old; a true backwoodsman bold, resolute, quick, and fearless. When the savages burst into his father's cabin, and the Wyandot chieftain, throwing open the door of their sleeping-room, buried his tomahawk in the old man's brain, the boy Emanuel had caught down a pistol from the shelf, and, standing upon the bed, dealt the Indian a blow across the eyes that he felt for weeks. His followers would have tortured the child, but the Deep-river said: 'No! he is Indian; he shall live.' So the boy remained through the fall, among the many captives that thronged the Indian towns upon the Scioto, most of whom were afterward delivered up to Col. Bouquet; and early in the winter of '64 was taken by the Wyandot to his own country; for the chief saw that the efforts of the red men would be in vain. Fort Pitt had been relieved, and Pontiac had been foiled at Detroit. Dark and gloomy were the thoughts of both captor and captive, as they journeyed to the frozen home of the Wyandots.

While Emanuel had been among the other white children, he had not realized his losses, but when he reached the villages on the Maumee, and saw about him only the grim features of the warriors, the scowling squaws, and the dark faces of the Indian boys, he felt that he had indeed lost all he once clung to, and his buoyant spirit drooped at length. So one evening he came home, and sitting down at the feet of the Deep-river, who was musing bitterly over the embers, he said: Chief, I have no father; will you be my father?' The heart of the Indian was touched, and he determined to adopt as his own the son of the man he had murdered.

While the Wyandot warriors had been gone to the war, a new dweller had built his wigwam in their village. It was a Jesuit priest, named Du Quesne, a relative, I think, of the old governor. He was young, ardent, full of faith, and void of all worldliness. Upon the banks of the little Rhone-stream that sung by his father's door, he had read of the labors of the Catholics in China, India, and America, among the mountains of Mexico, and by the mighty lakes of Canada; and his quick spirit had been wrought to that point that crowns and kingdoms, wealth, power, and fame were as dust in the balance, against the sufferings and labors, the trials and glories, of a missionary. And now that he was amid those trials, he walked as one worthy of them; and so kindly, so loving, so true, were all his words and ways, that the young Wyandot women, who understood but one word in ten, came with their children and listened to him, as we listen to a sweet song in a foreign tongue.

But the Deep-river was no woman; and when he heard, at his return, of the hold Father Louis had taken on the affections of his people, he would almost have driven him from the village, had he not been French, the foe of his foe; for he felt as Red Jacket felt and said, in after years: If you wish us well, keep away; do not disturb us; we like our religion, and do not want another."

I have said that the Wyandot chief meant to adopt the boy Emanuel; and though the ceremonies of adoption were still delayed, he treated him as a son, and as a son expected him to fear and obey

him. But the Virginia lad was little disposed, at times, to do any one's will but his own, and his Indian father then punished him, Indian fashion-broke a hole in the ice, and thrust him in. Such treatment brought on contests, and the contests produced ill-feeling. The young Long-knife, as his red play-mates called him, was hot and quick, and the Deep-river was one who would be obeyed.

Upon an occasion of this kind, the Wyandot, thinking he was ruining the boy by too great mildness, pulled forth a buffalo thong, and gave him a scourging, that went through muscles and bones to the soul itself. Noon came, and Emanuel was not in the wigwam. Night came, and still he was not in the wigwam. The chief needed to reflect but one moment, and his own feelings told him that the beaten child had left his lodge. The mind of the savage is like a nicely-poised weight, and for a while the Deep-river balanced between admiration and enmity; affection stronger than ever, and more deadly hate.

The boy had, as he supposed, left him full of the agony and impotence of boyish resentment. He had seen, while at play, another white face in the village, and went at once to the hut of the Jesuit. His story was soon made intelligible to one that read English as well as Father Louis did, and they slept, that night, side by side.

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With the first dawning of day, the Wyandot chief was abroad. His mind balanced no longer. It was the part of a squaw to spare him as I did,' he said. The Great Spirit is angry; he would smell the blood of the Long-knife.' He stood for an instant in the centre of the Indian town; then, with unerring instinct, went straight to the Frenchman's door.

Emanuel lay upon the arm of his new protector, dreaming of that quiet vale upon the Green-briar, where he had chased butterflies with his sisters, and where the bones of those sisters now whitened in the rains of winter. Suddenly the dim light of morning broke through the opened door, and was hid again by the form of the Deep-river. He bent over the sleepers, and seeing it to be as he supposed, shook the priest by the arm.

'What want you?' said Du Quesne, alarmed, and half awake. The Wyandot pointed to the child, who, with pale cheek, but set teeth, drew back from his dreaded father. The Frenchman shrugged, and shook his head.

'He is my son!' said the savage, sternly.

'Those words drove fear from Emanuel's heart, for the night of his father's death was fresh before his mind. 'It's a lie!' he said,

'you murdered my father you stole me !'

'Shall I take him?' said the Deep-river, calmly.

'For what?' asked the doubting priest.

'Death!' was the brief, but all-comprehending answer.

'Never! I will die myself sooner!' said the Jesuit, his clear eye dilating.

'It is well!' and the chief turned on his heel as he spoke.

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It lacks half an hour of full noon. The Indian children have left their sports on the frozen river, and stand silent about the door of the council-house. The warriors are met in judgment; the club,

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