And who shall tell to listening Glory,
Bending in grief her plumed head,
While war-drops from her brow are shed,
And her beating heart and pulses numb,
Throb like the tuck of a muffled drum,
Her favourite ALLEN's story?

Oh! other harps shall sing of him,
And other eyes with tears be dim;
And gallant hopes that banish fears,
And hands and hearts, as well as tears,
Shall yet, before all eyes are dry,
Do justice to his memory,

And hew or light, with sword or flame,
A pile of vengeance to his name.

Oh! for those circumscribing seas,
That hemm'd thy foes, Themistocles!
When Xerxes saw his vanquish'd fleet,
And routed army at his feet-

And scowl'd o'er Salamis, to see

His foes' triumphant victory!

Oh! for that more than mortal stand,
Where, marshalling his gallant band,
Leonidas, at freedom's post,

Gave battle to a tyrant's host:

Then Greece might struggle, not in vain,
And breathe in liberty again.

THE NEWPORT TOWER.

WHEN and for what purpose this was built, seems to be matter of dispute. The New-York Statesman associates it with great antiquity—the Commercial Advertiser gives it a military character; and the Rhode-Island American, with a view, perhaps, to save it from doggerel rhymes and sickish paragraphs, says it is nothing but an old windmill-if such was the plan, however, it has not succeeded.

THERE is a rude old monument,
Half masonry, half ruin, bent
With sagging weight, as if it meant

To warn one of mischance;

And an old Indian may be seen,
Musing in sadness on the scene,
And casting on it many a keen,

And many a thoughtful glance.

When lightly sweeps the evening tide
Old Narraganset's shore beside,

And the canoes in safety ride

Upon the lovely bay—

I've seen him gaze on

that old tower,

At evening's calm and pensive hour,
And when the night began to lour,
Scarce tear himself away.

Oft at its foot I've seen him sit,
His willows trim, his walnut spit,
And there his seine he lov'd to knit,
And there its rope to haul;

'Tis there he loves to be alone,
Gazing at every crumbling stone,

And making many an anxious moan,
When one is like to fall.

But once he turn'd with furious look,
While high his clenched hand he shook,
And from his brow his dark eye took
A red'ning glow of madness;
Yet when I told him why I came,
His wild and bloodshot eye grew tame,
And bitter thoughts pass'd o'er its flame,

That chang'd its rage to sadness.

"You watch my step, and ask me why
This ruin fills my straining eye?
Stranger, there is a prophecy

Which you may lightly heed :
Stay its fulfilment, if you can ;
I heard it of a gray-hair'd man,
And thus the threat'ning story ran,—
A boding tale indeed.

"He said, that when this massy wall
Down to its very base should fall,
And not one stone among it all
Be left upon another,

Then should the Indian race and kind
Disperse like the returnless wind,

And no red man be left to find

One he could call a brother.

"Now yon old tower is falling fast, Kindred and friends away are pass'd;

Oh! that my father's soul

may cast

Upon my grave its shade,

When some good Christian man shall place

O'er me, the last of all my race,

The last old stone that falls, to grace

The spot where I am laid."

Two persons, an old lady and a girl, were killed by lightning, in the Presbyterian Meeting-House in Montville, on Sunday the 1st of June, 1825, while the congregation were singing. The following is not an exaggerated account of the particulars.

THE Sabbath morn came sweetly on,
The sunbeams mildly shone upon

Each rock, and tree, and flower;
And floating on the southern gale,
The clouds seem'd gloriously to sail
Along the Heavens, as if to hail
That calm and holy hour.

By winding path and alley green,
The lightsome and the young were seen
To join the gathering throng;

While with slow step and solemn look,

The elders of the village took

Their way, and as with age they shook,

Went reverently along.