SONG.

No life is like the mountaineer's, His home is near the sky, Where throned above this world he hears Its strife at distance die,

Or should the sound of hostile drum Proclaim below, “We come — we come,” Each crag that towers in air Gives answer, “Come who dare!”

While like bees from dell and dingle, Swift the swarming warriors mingle, And their cry “Hurra!” will be, “Hurra, to victory!”

Then when battle's hour is over See the happy mountain lover With the nymph who'll soon be bride Seated blushing by his side,—

Every shadow of his lot In her sunny smile forgot. Oh, no life is like the mountaineer's. His home is near the sky,

Where throned above this world he hears Its strife at distance die. Nor only thus thro’ summer suns His blithe existence cheerly runs —

Even winter bleak and dim Brings joyous hours to him; When his rifle behind him flinging He watches the roe-buck springing,

And away, o'er the hills away Re-echoes his glad “hurra.” Then how blest when night is closing, By the kindled hearth reposing,

To his rebeck's drowsy song, He beguiles the hour along; Or provoked by merry glances To a brisker movement dances,

Till, weary at last, in slumber's chain, He dreams o'er chase and dance again, Dreams, dreams them o'er again. As slow that minstrel at the close

Sunk while he sung to feigned repose, Aptly did they whose mimic art Followed the changes of his lay Portray the lull, the nod, the start,

Thro’ which as faintly died away His lute and voice, the minstrel past, Till voice and lute lay husht at last. But now far other song came o'er

Their startled ears — song that at first As solemnly the night-wind bore Across the wave its mournful burst, Seemed to the fancy like a dirge

Of some lone Spirit of the Sea, Singing o'er Helle's ancient surge The requiem of her Brave and Free. Sudden amid their pastime pause

The wondering nymphs; and as the sound Of that strange music nearer draws, With mute inquiring eye look round, Asking each other what can be

The source of this sad minstrelsy? Nor longer can they doubt, the song Comes from some island-bark which now Courses the bright waves swift along

And soon perhaps beneath the brow Of the Saint's Bock will shoot its prow. Instantly all with hearts that sighed ‘ Twixt fear's and fancy's influence,

Flew to the rock and saw from thence A red-sailed pinnace towards them glide, Whose shadow as it swept the spray Scattered the moonlight's smiles away.

Soon as the mariners saw that throng From the cliff gazing, young and old, Sudden they slacked their sail and song, And while their pinnace idly rolled

On the light surge, these tidings told:— ‘ Twas from an isle of mournful name, From Missolonghi, last they came — Sad Missolonghi sorrowing yet

O'er him, the noblest Star of Fame That e'er in life's young glory set!— And now were on their mournful way, Wafting the news thro’ Helle's isles;—

News that would cloud even Freedom's ray And sadden Victory mid her smiles. Their tale thus told and heard with pain, Out spread the galliot's wings again;

And as she sped her swift career Again that Hymn rose on the ear — “Thou art not dead — thou art not dead!” As oft‘ twas sung in ages flown

Of him, the Athenian, who to shed A tyrant's blood poured out his own.