"Of all that is most beauteous, imaged there
In happier beauty; more pellucid streams
An ampler ether, a diviner air,

And fields invested with purpureal gleams.
Climes, which the sun, who sheds the brightest day
Earth knows, is all unworthy to survey.'

We feel how utterly untranslatable of this. The two following are, we is the Spartan brevity and strength think, equally worthy of admiration :

"Dost thou inquire the fate of those below?

The morn beheld them ranged in firm array,
Noon brought the strife, the war-cry, and the foe,
The night dews fell around their lifeless clay.
Yet mourn not for their doom-each glorious name
Shall live for ever in the rolls of fame."

:

• Wordsworth's Laodamia. A poem which breathes all the tranquillity, majesty, and purity of thought, which characterise the loftiest strains of the Grecian muse.

ON THE 300 SPARTANS WHO FELL IN THE CONTEST FOR THYREA.

"Sparta, each valiant son of thine lies low
Where first in fight he met the Argive foe;
The self-same ground the living trod that day
Is now the guardian of their mouldering clay.
Othryades just lived to mark his shield

With these proud words, in blood, 'we've won the field.'
Yes, tho' one Argive 'scaped, 'twas yours-he fled;
The flying are the vanquished, not the dead."

Much of beauty and appropriateness the ancient epitaphs must have derived from the localities of their tombs; in the garden, the field, by the wayside, or along the margin of the murmuring river, slept the dead, reminding man of his frail and perishing nature, amid every scene, and in every mood. Often must nature thus have spoken to the heart with a thousand gentle tones of consolation. Often must the great lesson she is so incessantly presenting to our eyes of birth and death, decay and reproduction, have sensibly and visibly impressed itself on the feelings, and awakened the conviction which,

however stifled, we cannot but believe lives in all, of our glorious destiny and immortality. Beautiful and not wholly unprofitable types and shadows would be suggested, tender thoughts and reflections cherished, and death itself associated with these pure and soothing influences, lose half its terrors.

We feel that the epitaphs which survive, have lost half their charm deprived of these accompaniments; yet, with all these disadvantages, and even through our feeble version, we hope our readers will perceive the beauty of the following.

INSCRIBED BY A MOTHER ON HER SON'S TOMB.

BY LEONIDAS.

Ah, hapless son-more hapless I who mourn
With grief that knows no pause above thine urn.
Doomed still to drag existence day-by-day
A weary load, along a wearier way,
To feel no joy, yet mingle as I go

In the cold world, that cannot share my woe.
Spirit, dear spirit, gazing on yon sky

I feel such love as ours can never die-
I feel thy presence thrilling through the air
Hush to repose the anguish of despair.

It bids me hope from this dull earth to soar
To some blest clime, where parting is no more.
Come, then, and guide my footsteps on the road
That leads me onward to that bright abode.

BY LEONIDAS.

This is the tomb of Crethon-wealth and power,
All that men covet or desire, were his :
But mortal pleasure is a shortlived flower
And vainly hopes man for enduring bliss.
The narrow compass of this little stone
Is all the rich man now can call his own.

BY LEONIDAS.

Kind shepherd, should this cool retreat
Receive thee from the noontide heat.
Know, that a brother swain reposes
Beneath this bower of clustering roses :
Pluck then a few, and gently shed
Their sweet leaves on his grassy bed.
One tender tear, let pity claim
Above the stone that tells his name.

INCERTI AUCTORIS.

Take old Amynticus unto thy breast

Kind earth-for he with many an herb and flower
And fragrance-breathing shrub thy surface drest.
Light be the turf upon his ashes prest,

And round it wreathed an ever-verdant bower.

BY ANTIPATER.

Vainly-ye tyrants-vainly would ye doom
The chain of slavery for a Grecian maid :
The gods have given a refuge in the tomb,
A kind deliverer in the friendly blade.
"Twas by a mother's hand I fell-no way
Remained save this to 'scape the victor's sway.

BY ERINNA.

Ye figures weeping o'er the senseless urn!
Ye sculptured signs of monumental woe!
Should some kind spirit pause awhile to mourn,
And ask the fate of her who sleeps below.

Oh bid him shed a few sad tears, above
The hapless maiden on her bridal day,
From home, and happiness, and constant love
To death's cold realms for ever snatched away.

The self-same choir that hymned the nuptial strain
Mourned with sad wailings for her early doom:
The self-same torch, that lit the bridal train

Poured its pale light at eve, above her tomb.

INCERTI AUCTORIS.

Though round thee beam the brightest eyes,
Though o'er thee spread the sunniest skies,
Though every pulse and every vein,
Throb with a flood of joy,

No thought of care, no sense of pain,
One moment to annoy.

Pass but a few short years-thou must
Become like me dull lifeless dust.

ON A NAMELESS TOMB.

No word declares who rests beneath this tomb,
No record guards his history and his fame :
Oblivion shrouds them in impervious gloom,
And night's thick shadow gathers o'er his name.
Vainly we ask, did none lament his fate?
Did no kind eye bestow a pitying tear?

He sleeps as sound, as though in pompous state
Myriads of weeping followers laid him here.
He sleeps as sound, as though his name and story
Had been engraven by the hand of glory.

I stood beside thy grave, dear friend, and thought
On all our happy intercourse of yore:

When we together strayed by ocean's shore,
Or climbed at morn the hill-top-hours now fraught
With innocent gladness, such as springs from youth
Ere the cold world and the world's ways had taught
Its selfish wisdom, in the place of truth
Of warm devotedness, and love unbought.
And standing there I felt how sweet 'twould be
Were we to meet, and in some happier clime
From mutability and sorrow free,

Renew the friendship, which despite of time
Of cares and distance, still preserved its faith
Unchanging and unchangeable till death.

THE DESTROYER AND THE DELIVERER.

A TALE OF THE EARLY AGES.

IN one of those fruitful valleys which are still to be met by the traveller in the remote districts of Upper Syria, dwelt a tribe of the descendants of the patriarchs who exercised the primitive occupation of shepherds. Rarely wandering beyond the confines of the valley which supplied their flocks and herds with abundant pastures, these simple people were content with the blessings they enjoyed in the undisturbed solitude of their peaceful retreat. The fruits of the earth yielded their repasts, a delicious variety without care or culture, and their flocks supplied them with nutriment and clothing, which, if not of the most luxurious description, was sufficient for Nature's

wants. Wars, contentions and jea lousies were unknown in the valley of Ephron, for every person there pos sessed a competency of the necessaries of life, and the acquisition of more would have been troublesome and useless. Poverty there had never chilled with her cold hand, the kindly sympathies of the heart, nor had riches entered to corrupt the pure stream of benevolence.

Amongst the dwellers in Ephron none was more revered than the aged Naram, for his superior wisdom. Full of years and houors-the honors conferred on exalted virtue by the respect of the virtuous, Naram lived to see his sons and daughters grow up around