Fill high the bowl with Samian wine

On Suli's rock and Parga's shore
Exists the remnant of a line

Such as the Doric mothers bore;
And there, perhaps, some seed is sown
The Heracleidan blood might own.

Trust not for freedom to the Franks,

They have a king who buys and sells ;-
In native swords and native ranks,

The only hope of courage dwells:
But Turkish force and Latin fraud
: Would break your shield, however broad. ,

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!

Our virgins dance beneath the shade,
I see their glorious black eyes shine:

But, gazing on each glowing maid,
Mine own the burning tear-drop laves,
To think such breasts must suckle slaves.
Place me on Sunium's marbled steep-

Where nothing, but the waves and I,
May hear our mutual murmurs sweep:

There, swan-like, let me sing and die:
A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine-
Dash down yon cup of Samian wine.



[The following piece of poetical prose is at once a glorious picture a solemn sermon-and of itself, an admirable lesson in genuine olo. quonce. The Blind Preacher's manner is worthy of study.]

It was one Sunday, as I was traveling through the county of Orange, that my eye was caught by a cluster of horses tied near a ruinous old wooden house, in the forest, not far from the road-side. Having frequently seen such objects before in traveling through these states, I had no difficulty in understanding that'this was a place of religious worship.

Devotion alone should have stopped me to join in the duties of the congregation; but I must confess that curiosity to hear the preacher of such a wilderness was not the least of my motives. On entering, I was struck with his preternatural appearance. He was a tall and very spare old man; his head, which was covered with a white linen cap, his shriveled hands, and his voice, were all shaking under the influence of a palsy; and a few moments ascertained to me that he was perfectly blind.

The first emotions which touched my breast were those of mingled pity and veneration. But how soon were all my feelings changed! It was a day of administration of the sacrament; and his subject, of course, was the passion of our Saviour. I had heard the subject handled a thousand times. I had thought it exhausted long ago.

Little did I suppose that in the wild woods of America I was to meet with a man whose eloquence would give to this topic a new and more sublime pathos than I had ever before witnessed. As he descended from the pulpit to distribute the mystic symbols, there was a peculiar-a more than human solemnity in his air and manner, which made my blood run cold, and my whole frame shiver.

He then drew a picture of the sufferings of our Saviourhis trial before Pilate—his ascent up Calvary-his crucifixion-and his death. I knew the whole history; but never, until then, had I heard the circumstances so selected, so arranged, so colored! It was all new; and I seemed to have heard it for the first time in my life.

His enunciation was so deliberate that his voice trembled in unison. His peculiar phrases had that force of description, that the original scene appeared to be, at that moment, acting before our eyes. We saw the very faces of the Jews

—the staring, frightful distortions of malice and rage. We saw the buffet; my soul kindled with a flame of indignation; and my hands were involuntarily and convulsively clinched.

But when he came to touch on the patience. the forgiving meekness of our Saviour; when he drew, to the life, his blessed eyes streaming in tears to heaven; his breathing to God a soft and gentle prayer of pardon on his enemies, “ Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do," the voice of the preacher, which had all along faltered, grew fainter and fainter, until, his utterance being entirely obstructed by the force of his feelings, he raised his hand: kerchief to his eyes, and burst into a loud and irrepressible flood of grief. The effect was inconceivable. The whole house resounded with the mingled groans, and sobs, and shrieks of the congregation.

It was some time before the tumult had subsided so far as to permit him to proceed. Indeed, judging by the usual but fallacious standard of my own weakness, I began to be very uneasy for the situation of the preacher; for I could not conceive how he would be able to let his audience down from the height to which he had wound them, without impairing the solemnity and dignity of his subject, or perhaps shocking them by the abruptness of the fall. But the descent was as beautiful and sublime as the elevation had been rapid and enthusiastic.

The first sentence with which he broke the awful silence was a quotation from Rousseau. “ Socrates died like a philosopher, but Jesus Christ like a God.” I despair of giving you any idea of the effect produced by this short sentence, unless you could perfectly conceive the whole manner of the man, as well as the peculiar crisis in the discourse. Never before did I completely understand what Demosthenes meant by laying such stress on delivery.

You are to call to mind the pitch of passion and enthusiasm to which the congregation were raised; and then, the few minutes of portentous, death-like silence which reigned throughout the house; the preacher removing his white handkerchief from his aged face (even yet wet from the recent torrent of his tears). and slowly stretching forth the palsied hand which holds it, as he begins the sentence, “ Socrates died like a philosopher,” then pausing, raising his other hand, pressing them both, clasped together, with warmth and energy to his breast, lifting his “sightless balls” to heaven, and pouring his whole soul into his tremulous voice as he continues, “but Jesus Christ-like a God!” If he had been in deed and in truth an angel of light, the effect could scarcely have been more divine.


From SHAKSPEARE's Tragedy of ROMEO and JULIET.


ROMEO, a Montague,
JULIET, a Capulet.

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[This beautiful play is founded on an old Italian story, and as its plot is "familiar to most ears as household words," we need not be prolix in describing it. There was a long existing fend—a sort of Corsican vendetta-between the houses of Capulet and Montagne,

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which prevented their associating, much less, intermarrying. Romeo, however, seeing Juliet at a Ball, falls desperately in love with her. His affection is returned by the beautiful maid. The action of the play is a succession of incidents in which “ the course of true love ” is perpetually crossed. At length, Romeo is banished ; Juliet, in a trance, counterfeiting death, is borne to "the tomb of the Capulets." There Romeo finds her, and, supposing her really dead, kills himself, Juliet, awakening, finds her lover dead, and snatching his dagger, buries it in her own innocent bosom.

The scene here given is the famous garden scene. Romeo should deliver his speeches with all the impassioned ardor of glowing youth, Juliet, more subdued, but no less ferrid.

COSTUMES.-- Romeo should wear the graceful Italian attire of the middle ages-a close fitting shape of fine cloth or velvet, with a short cloak depending from his shoulders,--any handsome colors. A black velvet cap, with a long white feather. Juliet, a handsome white satin dress.

SCENE-Capulet's Garden.

Enter ROMEO.

ROMEO. He jests at scars that never felt a wound. (JULIET appears above, at a window.) But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks ! It is the east, and Juliet is the sun! Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief, That thou her maid art far more fair than she : Be not her maid, since she is envious; Her vestal livery is but sick and green, And none but fools do wear it; cast it off. It is my lady ; 0, it is my love. 0, that she knew she were !She speaks, yet she says nothing: What of that? Her eye discourses, I will answer it. I am too bold, 'tis not to me she speaks: Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, Having some business, do entreat her eyes To twinkle in their spheres till they return. What if her eyes were there, they in her head ? The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars, As daylight doth a lamp: her eyes in heaven Would through the airy region stream so bright, That birds would sing, and think it were not night. See how she leans her cheek upon her hand!

0, that I were a glove upon that hand, That I might touch that cheek!

JUL. Ah, me!

Rom. She speaks :
O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art
As glorious to this night, being o'er my head,
As is a winged messenger of heaven
Unto the white-upturned wond'ring eyes
Of mortals, that fall back to gaze on him,
When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds,
And sails upon the bosom of the air.

JUL. O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo ?
Deny thy father, and refuse thy name:
Or, it thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,
And I'll no longer be a Capulet.

Rom. Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this ? (aside.)

JUL. "Tis but thy name, that is my enemy ;-
Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.
What’s Montague ? it is nor hand, nor foot,
Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part
Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!
What's in a name ? that, which we call a rose,
By any other name would smell as sweet;
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd,
Retain that dear perfection which he owes,
Without that title :-Romeo, doff thy name;
And for that name, which is no part of thee,
Take all myself.

ROM, I take thee at thy word :
Call me but love, and I'll be new baptized ;
Hencetorth I never will be Romeo.

JUL. What man art thou, that, thus bescreen'd in night, So stumbles on my counsel ?

Rom. By a name
I know not how to tell thee who I am :
My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself,
Because it is an enemy to thee;
Had I it written, I would tear the word.

JUL. My ears have not yet drunk a hundred words
Of that tongue's utterance, yet I know the sound :
Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague ?

Rom. Neither, fair saint, if either thee dislike.

JUL. How camest thou hither, tell me ? and wherefore ? The orchard walls are high, and hard to climb; And the place death, considering who thou art, If any of my kinsmen find thee here. Rom. With love's light wings did I o'er erch these


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