It will be seen that these arrangements of the subject are skilfully contrived--perhaps they are a little too evident, and we are enabled too readily by the perusal of one passage, to anticipate the succeeding. The rhythm is highly artificial. The stanzas are well adapted for vigorous expression--the fifth will afford a just specimen of the versification of the whole poem. Come to the bridal Chamber, Death! Come to the mother's, when she feels For the first time her first born's breath; Come when the blessed seals That close the pestilence are broke, And crowded 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. Granting, however, to _Marco Bozzaris_, the minor excellences we have pointed out, we should be doing our conscience great wrong in calling it, upon the whole, any thing more than a very ordinary matter. It is surpassed, even as a lyric, by a multitude of foreign and by many American compositions of a similar character. To Ideality it has few pretensions, and the finest portion of the poem is probably to be found in the verses we have quoted elsewhere-- Thy grasp is welcome as the hand Of brother in a foreign land; Thy summons welcome as the cry That told the Indian isles were nigh To the world-seeking Genoese, When the land-wind from woods of palm And orange groves, and fields of balm Blew o'er the Haytian seas. The verses entitled _Burns_ consist of thirty eight quatrains--the three first lines of each quatrain being of four feet, the fourth of three. This poem has many of the traits of _Alnwick Castle_, and bears also a strong resemblance to some of the writings of Wordsworth. Its chief merit, and indeed the chief merit, so we think, of all the poems of Halleck is the merit of _expression_. In the brief extracts from _Burns_ which follow, our readers will recognize the peculiar character of which we speak. Wild Rose of Alloway! my thanks: Thou mind'st me of _that autumn noon When first we met upon "the banks And braes o' bonny Doon"_-- * * * * * Like thine, beneath the thorn-tree's bough, My sunny hour was glad and brief-- We've crossed the winter sea, _and thou Art withered--flower and leaf_. * * * * * _There have been loftier themes than his, And longer scrolls and louder lyres And lays lit up with Poesy's Purer and holier fires._ * * * * * _And when he breathes his master-lay Of Alloway's witch-haunted wall_ All passions in our frames of clay Come thronging at his call. * * * * *