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In dreams, through camp and court, he bore
The trophies of a conqueror;

In dreams his song of triumph heard;
Then wore his monarch's signet ring,—
Then pressed that monarch's throne,—a king;
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,

As Eden's garden bird.

An hour passed on—the Turk awoke;

That bright dream was his last;
He woke—to hear his sentry's shriek,

'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 that ground with Moslem slain,
They conquered—but Bozzaris fell,

Bleeding at every vein.
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, when she feels
For the first time her first-born's breath ;—

Come when the blessed seals
Which close the pestilence are broke,
And crouded 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,
The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier,
And all we know, or dream, or fear
Of agony, are thine.

But to the hero, when his sword

Has won the battle for the free,
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word,
And in its hollow tones are heard

The thanks of millions yet to be.
Bozzaris! with the storied brave

Greece nurtured in her glory's time,
Rest thee—there is no prouder grave,

Even in her own proud clime.
We tell 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.

BONAPARTE TO THE ARMY OF ITALY.

Soldiers,—You are precipitated like a torrent from the heights of the Appennines; you have overthrown and dispersed all that dared to oppose your march. Piedmont, rescued from Austrian tyranny, is left to its natural sentiments of regard and friendship to the French. Milan is yours; and the republican standard is displayed throughout all Lombardy. The dukes of Parma and Modena are indebted for their political existence only to your generosity.

The army, which so proudly menaced you, has had no other barrier than its dissolution to oppose your invincible courage. The Po, the Tessen, the Adda, could not retard you a single day. The vaunted bulwarks of Italy were insufficient. You swept them with the same rapidity that you did the Appennines. Those successes have carried joy into the bosom of your country. Your representatives decreed a festival dedicated to your victories, and to be celebrated throughout all the communes of the republic. Now your fathers, your mothers, your wives, and your sisters, will rejoice in your success, and take pride in their relation to you.'

Yes, soldiers, you have done much; but more still remains for you to do. Shall it be said of us, that we know how to conquer, but not to profit by our victories 1 Shall posterity reproach us with having found a Capua in Lombardy? But already I see you fly to arms. You are fatigued with an inactive repose. You lament the days that are lost to your glory! Well, then, let us proceed; we have other forced marches to make, other enemies to subdue; more laurels to acquire, and more injuries to avenge.

Let those who have unsheathed the daggers of civil war in France; who have basely assassinated our ministers who have burnt our ships at Toulon; let them tremble the knell of vengeance has already tolled!

But to*miet the apprehensions of the people, we declare ourselves the friends of all, and particularly of those who are the descendants of Brutus, of Scipio, and those other great men whom we have taken for our models.

To re-establish the capital; to replace the statues of those heroes who have rendered it immortal; to rouse the Roman people entranced in so many ages of slavery; this shall be the fruit of your victories. It will be an epoch for the admiration of posterity; you" will enjoy .the immortal glory of changing the aspect of affairs in the finest part of Europe. The free people of France, not regardless of moderation, shall accord to Europe a glorious peace; but it will indemnify itself for the sacrifices of every kind which it has been making for six years past. You will again be restored to your fire-sides and homes; and your fellow-citizens, pointing you out, shall say, 'There goes one who belonged to the army of Italy !J

CHARACTER OF MICHAEL ANGELO.

Fuscli.

Sublimity of conception, grandeur of form and breadth of manner are the elements of Michael Angelo's style. By these principles he selected or rejected the objects of imitation. As painter, as sculptor, as architect, he attempted, and above any other man succeeded in uniting magnificence of plan and endless variety of subordinate parts with the utmost simplicity and breadth.

His line is uniformly grand. Character and beauty were admitted only as far as they could be made subservient to grandeur. The child, the female, meanness, deformity, were by him indiscriminately stamped with grandeur. A beggar rose from his hand the patriarch of poverty; the hump of his dwarf is impressed with dignity; his infants teem with the man; his men are a race of giants.

To give the appearance of perfect ease to the most perplexing difficulty, was the exclusive power of Michael Angelo. He is the inventor of epic painting, in that sublime circle of the Sistine Chapel, which exhibits the origin, the progress, and the final dispensations of theocracy. He has personified motion in the groups of the cartoon of Pisa; embodied sentiment on the monuments of St. Lorenzo, unravelled the features of meditation in the prophets and sibyls of the chapel of Sixtus; and, in the last judgment, with every attitude that varies the human body, traced the master trait of every passion that sways the human heart.

Though as sculptor, he expressed the character of flesh more perfectly than all who went before or came after him, yet he never submitted to copy an individual, Julio the second only excepted; and in him he represented the reigning passion rather than the man.

In painting he contented himself with a negative colour, and, as the painter of mankind, rejected all meretricious ornament. The fabric of St Peter, scattered into infinity of jarring parts by Bramante and his successors, he concentrated; suspended the cupola, and, to the most complex, gave the air of the most simple of edifices.

Such was Michael Angelo, the salt of art: sometimes he, no doubt, had his moments of dereliction, deviated into manner, or perplexed the grandeur of his forms with futile and ostentatious anatomy. These faults met with armies of copyists, whilst his grandeur had no rival.

DIALOGUE.

Sheridan.

FDFF, DANGLE AND SNEER.

(Enter Puff.)

Puff. My dear Dangle, how is it with you! Dang. Mr Sneer, give me leave to introduce Mr Puff to you.

Puff. Mr Sneer is this? Sir, he is a gentleman whom I have long panted for the honor of knowing—a gentleman whose critical talents and transcendent judgment—

Sneer. Dear sir—

Dang. Nay, do n't be modest, Sneer; my friend Puff only talks to you in the style of his profession. Sneer. His profession!

Puff. Yes, sir; I make no secret of the trade I follow— among friends and brother authors, Dangle knows I love to be frank on the subject, and to advertise myself viva voce.—I am, sir, a practitioner in panegyric, or, to speak more plainly—a professor of the art of puffing, at your service—or any body else's.

Sneer. Sir, you are very obliging!—I believe, Mr Puff, I have often admired your talents in the daily prints.

Puff. Yes, sir, I flatter myself I do as much business in that way as any six of the fraternity in town—hard work all the summer—Friend Dangle! never worked harder !— But, hark ye,—the winter managers were a little sore, I believe.

Dang. No—I believe they took it all in good part.

Puff. Ay!—Then that must have been affectation in them; for, 'egad, there were some of the attacks which there was no laughing at!

Sneer. Ay, the humorous ones.—But I should think, Mr Puff, that authors would in general be able to do this sort of work for themselves.

Puff. Why, yes—but in a clumsy way.—Besides, we look on that as an encroachment, and so take the opposite side.—I dare say now you conceive half the very civil paragraphs and advertisements you see, to be written by the parties concerned, or their friends.—No such thing—nine out often, manufactured by me in the way of business.

Sneer. Indeed!

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