"Hurrah!" shouted the unconscious Barnstable, from the edge of the quarter-deck, where, attended by a few men, he was driving all before him. "Revenge!-long Tom and victory!"

"We have them!" exclaimed the Englishman; "handle your pikes! we have them between two fires."

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The battle would probably have terminated very differently from what previous circumstances had indicated, had not a wild looking figure appeared in the cutter's channels 275 at that moment, issuing from the sea, and gaining the deck at the same instant. It was long Tom, with his iron visage rendered fierce by his previous discomfiture, and his grizzled locks drenched with the briny element from which he had risen, looking like Neptune with his trident. Without 280 speaking, he poised his harpoon, and, with a powerful effort, pinned the unfortunate Englishman to the mast of his own vessel.

"Starn all!" cried Tom by a sort of instinct, when the blow was struck; and catching up the musket of the fallen 285 marine, he dealt out terrible and fatal blows with its butt, on all who approached him, utterly disregarding the use of the bayonet on its muzzle. The unfortunate commander of the Alacrity brandished his sword with frantic gestures, while his eyes rolled in horrid wildness, when he writhed 290 for an instant in his passing agonies, and then, as his head dropped lifeless upon his gored breast, he hung against the spar, a spectacle of dismay to his crew. A few of the Englishmen stood chained to the spot in silent horror at the sight, but most of them fled to their lower deck, or hastened 295 to conceal themselves in the secret parts of the vessel, leaving to the Americans the undisputed possession of the Alacrity.

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK

On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake

Green be the turf above thee,

Friend of my better days!
None knew thee but to love thee,
Nor named thee but to praise.

Tears fell when thou wert dying,
From eyes unused to weep,
And long, where thou art lying,
Will tears the cold turf steep.

When hearts, whose truth was proven,
Like thine, are laid in earth,
There should a wreath be woven

To tell the world their worth;

And I who woke each morrow
To clasp thy hand in mine,
Who shared thy joy and sorrow,
Whose weal and woe were thine;

It should be mine to braid it
Around thy faded brow,
But I've in vain essayed it,

And feel I cannot now.

While memory bids me weep thee,
Nor thoughts nor words are free,-

The grief is fixed too deeply

That mourns a man like thee.

Marco Bozzaris

At midnight, in his guarded tent,

The Turk was dreaming of the hour When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, Should tremble at his power.

There had the glad earth drunk their blood,
On old Platæa's day :

And now there breathed that haunted air,
The sons of sires who conquered there,

With arms to strike, and soul to dare,
As quick, as far as they.

"To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!
He woke to die midst flame and smoke,
And shout and groan, and sabre-stroke,

And death-shots falling thick and fast
As lightnings from the mountain-cloud;
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud,
Bozzaris cheer his band:

"Strike! till the last armed foe expires;

"Strike! - for your altars and your fires;
"Strike! - for the green graves of your sires;
God-and your

native land!"

They fought like brave men, long and well;

They piled the ground with Moslem slain; They conquered — but Bozzaris fell,

Bleeding at every vein.

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His few surviving comrades saw

His smile, when rang their proud - "hurrah,”.
And the red field was won:

Then saw in death his eyelids close,
Calmly, as to a night's repose,

Like flowers at set of sun.

Come to the bridal-chamber, Death;
Come to the mother's, when she feels,
For the first time, her first-born's breath;
Come when the blessed seals
That close the pestilence are broke,
And crowded cities wail its stroke;
Come in consumption's ghastly form,

The earthquake shock, the ocean storm;
Come when the heart beats high and warm
With banquet-song, and dance, and wine;
And thou art terrible. the tear,

Her marble wrought, her music breathed;
For thee she rings the birthday bells.

Of thee her babe's first lisping tells;
For thine her evening prayer is said
At palace-couch and cottage-bed;
Her soldier, closing with the foe,
Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow;
His plighted maiden, when she fears
For him the joy of her young years,
Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears;
And she, the mother of thy boys,
Though in her eye and faded cheek
Is read the grief she will not speak,

The memory of her buried joys;
And even she who gave thee birth,
Will, by her pilgrim-circled hearth,

Talk of thy doom without a sigh;

For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's:
One of the few, the immortal names,

That were not born to die.

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