Or as the Greek who rends his bonds in twain,
All mindful of his country's ancient name,
And places Freedom on her shrine again,
Vowing no more to be the cold and tame
Who hugged the thraldom of his clanking chain,
But lights his torch at Liberty's pure flame;
Musing on all the glorious light that shone
O'er ye, THERMOPYLA and MARATHON!

Oh, GLORIOUS GREECE! in thought I turn aside,
And, pilgrim like, approach thy sacred soil;
Thy very name awakens all our pride,
And stills the ruder passions' hot turmoil,
The spirits of the brave in fancy glide

Before me now: as, after woe and toil,
I see the banner of old Greece arise
Red with the blood of thousand victories.

And lo! with joyful looks, but still severe,
The indignant spirits of the dead are met,
Around that banner see they gather there,

And fire is flashing from each eye of jet;
And proudly gaze they on the maidens, fair
As sculptured beauty, whose soft lids are wet
With tears, unwonted tears, not shed for woe
But joyful ones for tyranny laid low.

Let NAVARINO'S fight-so proudly won-
Blanch with despair the infidel's dark brow,
Yet is the work of warfare but begun,

Still must thy sons bear unrelenting woe,
England has many a gallant CODRINGTON,

And many a heart will battle 'gainst the foe, Who war for aye against that glorious land,

Where Freedom first arose, and waved her flashing brand.

And tho' proud bard, fair Greece, have hymn'd thy fame,
In deathless numbers for eternal time,
Yet may my lowly muse descant the same,
For I too love thy fair and glorious clime,
And keep the memory of thy former name
Linked with approval of thy deeds sublime,

And, loving thee so much, thus too may I
Wake from my lyre this untaught melody.

Arise, arise, arise!

Sons of the brave and good,

And dash the tear drop from your eyes,
And breast the battle's flood.
Remember that your fathers bled
Upon those fields of fame,

That where they trod, ye too will tread,
Your battle is the same.

Once more unfurl the flag of war
At Salamis that shone,

And spread your deathless fame afar
'Neath gallant CODRINGTON:
And fling your fetters to the waves,
And tell the world once more
That Greece has lost her craven slaves,
Their hour of pain is o'er.

Then shout ye for the mighty men

Whom Greece can still supply,

From mountain, isle, and glen
They quickly gather nigh;

And draw your falchions once again,
Your banners all unfurl'd,—

Or on the land, or on the main,

The meteors of the world!

R. S. M'K.

WIT.

Wit is a star that shines to cheer;
'Tis bright but short in its career
And dawns and sets in humor's sphere:

"Tis like the rains down glass which slide,
Lucid and sweet and rarified,-
Wit is-" Good nature, well applied.”

P.

THE RETURN OF COUR-DE-LION FROM

PALESTINE.

A ROMANCE OF THE OLD ENGLISH CHRONICLES.

Joy, joy in London now I-Southey.

It was deep still midnight; and the moon, as she traced out her path in the blue plain of heaven, lighted up the helmet of a solitary warrior, who bowed his lordly plume o'er the white mane of his charger, as he requested hospitality from a monk of St. Michael's monastery. Although the latter exerted his utmost eloquence to dissuade him from his determination, and pictured the coarse fare and improper shelter to which he would be subject, the knight swerved not from his demand, and frequently replied in a vein of sarcasm. "Do not belie thyself, grave father," said the hero of the plume, "I smell good wine in thy barrels, and rich venison on thy platters;-thy brethren are, perchance, regaling some proud warrior. Doth he possess a spear, dark monk, that can clash with mine? But," he continued, after a short pause, "I war not now; neither do I lack aught of gold or silver of thee; hospitality I am compelled to request."

"Alas! gallant sir," returned the monk, "thou requirest hard boons of us! This day have wine and viand passed untasted before the penitents of St. Michael!-The iron hand of oppression is heavy upon us; our shrines, that through England were celebrated for their splendor, have been plundered by a vile tyrant, and the ashes of our saints have not been allowed to repose in their old dormitories! The infamous Lackland has deprived us of our treasures, to squander them away in vain pageants. Knights with silken pennons,-barons with white casques,-and ladies with fair lutes throng around Prince John. Perchance thou art hastening to the festival, which he giveth on the morrow, at Southwark?"

"I!" replied the knight, rearing himself on his gallant charger, and grasping his tough broadsword, "if I go thither, dark monk, this kingdom shall not regret my spear-the oneeyed Lackland must, and yea, shall bow before it!" The knight accompanied these words with a dreadful scowl, and in his countenance might be traced the intensity of his indig

nation.

Thy eloquence hath won thee a place of rest," said the monk; 66 I enter, and receive a welcome in our desolate habitation."

Then were the fractured portals of the monastery unclosed, and the warrior followed his grim conductor through a kind of court-yard strewn over with several images of the saints. From the august desolation with which this scene abounded, the monk turned into a roofless chapel, that freely admitted the moonshine on its dilapidated walls. The monk was proceeding forward, but the voice of the knight commanded him to slacken his pace. Tarry, good father," he cried, "methinks my introduction should be in the banquet-room."

"Alas! sir of the pennon and plume, in our plundered chapel thou wilt behold the miseries that grind this unhappy realm. But it will be deemed courtesy of thee to reveal thy name to us."

"I am Richard," returned the knight, "Richard Plantagenet of the Lion!"

"God and our Lady!" exclaimed the monk, "do I address my true sovereign, and do I see him in the order of cravens and sycophants?"

"Proceed!" replied Richard, laying his finger on his lips. The ecclesiastic obeyed, and the chapel of St. Michael soon presented its devastation to the eyes of the king.

Never were the emotions of Coeur-de-Lion so suddenly and vehemently lighted up as when he surveyed the interior of the chapel. For a few minutes he appeared totally absorbed in thought! His round black eyes wandered o'er the huge masses of broken freestone, as though they endeavoured to avoid some dreadful encounter; and his hand was raised, as if mechanically, o'er the dark lash that fringed his burning lids. The shadowy profusion of black feathers, which nodded on his proud helmet, and frequently obscured his noble countenance, in vain attempted to intercept the continual ray of indignation which dwelt in his fiery orbs! At length his hand fell inadvertently on the hilt of his sword, and his soul seemed to forsake him in a loud hysteric laugh. Then resuming his natural asperity, he turned to the awe-struck father, and thus gave an utterance to his troubled feelings."Monk!" said he, "the shrines and saints that have been taken from thy holy habitation by the effeminate Lackland,

can be restored; but for this country-for the land of courtly and magnanimous warriors-there is no hope! Father, it is blotted with an irremediable blot, and the glory of a thousand crusades is not sufficient to redeem it from ignominy. But yet," he continued, "methinks the name that has stilled the cries of the Arabian child, and the sword that has subdued the impetuosity of the Austrian madman, will at least collect the rebellious English beneath the banner of their king. Saddle but my steed on the morrow, and, ere I descend from it, there shall be dukes and barons to assist me."

As the lion-hearted Richard thus anticipated the success of his future undertakings, his hand fell inadvertently on the spring of a secret panel, which receded at his touch, and disclosed a melancholy scene to his harassed imagination. With the assistance of the father's torch, he discovered a group of old monks kneeling round a fractured altar, and pressing their rosaries with the most enthusiastic adoration. No censer burned before them, and to no hallowed crucifix did their prayers ascend; yet theirs were the lips that appealed to heaven for retribution, and theirs were the hearts in which the secret blossoms of hope bloomed out afresh. The pale-beaming moonlight, that occasionally lay its robe of silver on the chapel walls, only contributed to augment the desolate grandeur of the scene, and, as it revealed more clearly the bowed heads and clasped hands of the old ecclesiastics, the aspect of Coeur-de-Lion became darkened with the tinge of sorrow. "And are these wrecks of magnificence but a type of my suffering country?" he exclaimed ;-" oh, England-land of my soul, thou hast waxed poor indeed! thou art a void in the nations of Europe!-Why was I redeemed from a German prison? rather would I have died in bondage than witnessed the sad scenes to which my kingdom is subject!"

Soon as Richard had delivered this touching portion of eloquence, a man in glittering attire, came sliding down a vista that conveyed the echo of his footsteps into the chapel; and, ere the king could shift his position, the stranger took him by the baldric. As the king lacked no spur to irritate him at this crisis, he grasped his tough broadsword, and threatened the intruder with instant death. 66 No, thou spirit of darkness!" he exclaimed," thou imp of Saladin! never shall the wine-cup reach my lips, till I have slain thee!”