and romantic glen, the rocky valley, and the wide, the rich, the fascinating vale, associating ideas of rural comfort and of peaceful enjoyment, cheerful industry, robust health, and tranquil happiness, draw us from subjects too high for human thought, chain us to the earth, and enchant us with magic spells. No country abounds more in those characters in which Nature delights to speak to the imagination, than Greece. Her mountains were not more the theme of her poets than her vales and her valleys. In that fine country, no vale was more celebrated than that of Tempe: a vale in which the peasants frequently assembled, in order to give entertainments to each other, and to offer sacrifices. A Greek writer calls it "a festival for the eyes," and the gods were believed frequently to wander in it. Of this enchanting spot, Pliny has given a description in the fourth book of his Natural History; but Ælien has left the most copious and accurate account of it. "Tempe," says he, "is situated between the mountains of Ossa and Pelion, which are the highest mountains in Thessaly; and are divided in this place with a singular kind of attention. They enclose a valley of five miles in length, but which in breadth often does not exceed a hundred feet. In the middle flows the river Peneus, which, at first, is little more than a cataract; but, by the addition of many smaller streams, it at length assumes considerable magnitude. Among the rich shrubs upon its banks, are various beautiful windings and recesses; not the works of human hands, but of spontaneous nature, which seem to have formed every thing in this spot with the solicitude of a mother. A profusion of ivy is seen in all parts of the woods, which, with the vine, ascend the tops of the highest trees, cling round their branches, and fall luxuriantly between them. The different species of convolvulus, which grow upon the sides of the hills, throw their white flowers and creeping foilage over the rocks; while in the vale, or wherever they can find a level surface, groves of all kinds, in venerable arches or capricious forms, afford a cool and refreshing retreat. Nor are there wanting frequent falls of water, with the most pure and crystal springs, sweet to drink, and wholesome to the bather. The thrush, the wood lark, and the nightingale, procreate in the thickets, and with their songs shorten the way, and soothe the ears of the traveller; who finds, in every path, arbors and grottos, and seats of repose. The Peneus still continues through the vale, idly, as it were, and with a glassy smoothness; while the depending boughs which crowd over its surface, yield an almost constant shade to those who navigate the river." In the vale of Tempe, Ford has laid the scene of a contest between a nightingale and a lutanist; finely imitated from a passage in Strada's Prolusions. "Passing from Italy to Greece, the tales, To Thessaly I came; and living private, This contest was began by a nightingale, who, chancing to hear a lutanist play several airs upon his lute, endeavored to surpass them. In this attempt, however, the unfortunate bird failed: on which Down dropt she on the lute, And broke her heart!" POETIC PIECES. ON TIME. MOV'D by a strange mysterious power, That hastes along the rapid hour, I touch the deep ton'd string. E'en now I see his wither'd face, Beneath yon tower's mouldering base, Where mossy vestments cling. Dark roll'd his cheerless eye around, Malignant triumph fill'd his eyes, "See hapless mortals, see," he cries, "How vain your idle schemes. Beneath my grasp, the fairest form, Dissolves and mingles with the worm, The works of God! and man I spoil, I crush the noble and the brave, Hold! ruthless phantom-hold! I cried, If thou canst mock the dreams of pride, And meaner hopes devour. Virtue! beyond thy reach shall bloom, When other charms sink to the tomb, She scorns thy envious power. On frosty wings the demon fled, The ruin'd spire,-the crumbling tow'r, Since beauty then to time must bow, Let brighter charms be yours. While time himself endures. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. NOT a drum was heard nor a funeral note, As his corse o'er the rampart we hurried, Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot, O'er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly at dead of night, No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Nor in sheet nor in shroud we bound him,. But like a warrior taking his rest, His martial cloak wrapt around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, Lightly they'll speak of the spirit that's gone, Not the half of our heavy task was done, Slowly and sadly we laid him down, THE SAILOR-BOY'S DREAM. IN slumbers of midnight the sailor boy lay, He dreamt of his home, of his dear native bow'rs, While Mem'ry stood sideways, half cover'd with flow'rs, And displayed ev'ry rose, but secreted its thorn. Then fancy her magical pinions spread wide, And bade the young dreamer in extacy rise. Now far, far behind him the green waters glide, The jessamine clambers, in flow'r, o'er the thatch, A Father bends o'er him with looks of delight- Wild winds and waves drive the vessel a wreck, Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell, |