accuracy and humility, that it will be apt to influence me strongly. However, when the public shall distinctly inform me that there is not enough of a redeeming quality in my writings to render my errors tolerable, I shall hope to be willing quietly to terminate my literary labors. For, if I may be permitted to quote a sentiment from the Greek,

'Twas morn: scarce visible, the gray
Of early dawn announced the day:
But yet no herald flush proclaimed

The light that would his gleam have shamed;

The stars shone out, nor seem more bright,

When lighting up the depths of night;

And, save the soft melodious flow,
Where San Antonio's waters go,
Prevailed the silence of the dead,
Like Sleep and Night together wed;
So soft, so still, tired Nature's breath,
In slumber hushed, seemed still in death;
While, spent with toil, and sunk in sleep,
No more the guards their vigils keep,
But, dreamless of the menaced blow,
Unguarded left the Alamo.

'Twas then a cloud of awful volume

Was gathering blackness o'er the passes,

The foe, dark column after column,
Was pouring in his vengeful masses.

Tried veterans they, in part-in part
A herd, without or hand or heart:
Such beings they, for whom -

nor few

To emptied prisons thanks were due;
A squallid crowd, in couples chained,
Felons with crimes unnumbered stained.
From Yucatan to Santa Fé,

Each province swelled the grim array:
Puebla's olive lineage here,

The Zacatecas mountaineer,
Brown herdsmen drawn from Potosi,
Talisco's thralls to slavery-

Saltillo's brood, blown into flame,
By hatred of the Texian name—
Campeachy's lowlanders, and ranks
From Rio Grandé's farther banks-
In mingled mass are marshalled now,
To make the stiff-necked rebels bow.'
From pure Castile to black Japan,
All shades of skin the eye might scan:
The sable Ethiop and the brown,
The copper-colored Indian's frown,
Mulatto and Mestizoe's hue,

With olive, marked the mottled crew.

A summons to surrender, scoffed
By taunting banner flung aloft,
And death-defying peal,

Long ere the fatal fray, had taught
The tyrant that the foe he sought
Could scorn a despot's steel.
Nine days in vain the furious foe
Had thundered on the Alamo,
From his beleaguering train;
In vain carbines their fire outpour,
The iron-throated cannons' roar
Assails the walls in vain.

The gallant band within, oppressed
By toil and watching, still confessed
A lingering hope of wearing out
The often baffled rabble rout:

Nor false this hope, perchance e'en then,
Had not a wretch, for paltry gain,
(Thank heaven! upon a Mexican,
Y'BARBO, rests the hated stain,)
Divulged their weakness to the foe,
New-nerving thus another blow:
For Santa Anna - his array
By such a handful held at bay-
Ashamed, enraged, that in his face
So long were flung such foul disgrace,
And desperate grown, resolved again
To urge upon the walls his men,

All reckless how their blood might flow,

If blood would buy the Alamo.

Then force assumed another form:
Protracted siege was turned to storm,
Upon this fatal day.

Yet, as a loathing, trembling craven,
The herd-like mass was onward driven,
To dare the fearful fray.

In front, three columns dense and dark
Of shuddering escaladers, mark

The force apart for storming set;

While, rearward, ranks of horsemen stand,

Nor of the heroes of that day,
Forget the dauntless D'ESPALIER;
Nor MITCHESON, the soul of truth,
Cropped in the bright flower of his youth;
Nor BROWN, nor BLAIR, of honest heart,
Who knew no guile, and scorned all art.

But if none else - remember him,
(The soul of feeling as of whim,)
Whose heart and hand were free as air,
For all who wished that heart to share-
Whose spirit, independence-fraught,
Despised pretence, and left unsought
All cunning arts, and mean disguise,
All refuges of lackered lies.

Stranger! should in some distant day,
By chance your wandering footsteps stray
To where those heroes fought and fell,
And some old garrulous crone should tell
The story of a nation's birth,

Of human ashes mixed with earth-
The bodies of the bold and free,
Who bled and died for liberty-
Remember, that the name which first
Warms on her lips, the fondest nurst,
The kindliest cherished in her breast-
Of all the martyrs loved the best-
Will be a name which few now hear,
Without a saddened thought, or tear;
Of one whose crowning acts, through time,
Have made simplicity sublime;
Whose single mind and honest arts
'CROCKETT endears to all true hearts!

SUCH was the strife, and such were they

Who perished in this fatal fray.
If, in that strife, 't were given to see
The glory of Thermopylæ,

That glory seemed like sun-set's light,
Athwart a troubled ocean's night,
While hollow murmurs o'er the deep,

And clouds of growing blackness sweep;
Feeling his fondest hopes expire

On San Antonio's funeral fire,

Young Texian Freedom, wrapt in gloom, Seemed hastening to a bloody tomb.

False fears! the gloom was that of morn,
The darkest just before the dawn.
For from the ashes of the dead
Arose an armed dragon's head,

With glance of fate, and sting of death,
To all who felt his blasting breath.
Like the old guardian of the fleece,
Save that no gold could buy his peace,
It stood as watchful, stern, and true,
Where'er the flag of freedom flew ;
But, when it saw that banner wave
In triumph o'er Oppression's grave,
It closed its eyes, exulting cried,
'The martyrs are avenged!'- and died.

THE PORTICO.

IN commencing that series of essays, which we propose to comprise within a work denominated The Portico,' it may gratify the curiosity of our readers to be informed of the circumstances which gave rise to this appellation, as well as of the character and pretensions of the writers from whose productions they are to anticipate the entertainment-of whatever nature it may prove - which shall be furnished to them. Having spent nearly half a century in the pursuits of study, as far as an attendance upon occasional duties of my profession would allow, while on a tour through Europe, I fell into a casual conversation with an English gentleman, in London, by the name of Bacon, who, I found, was inspired with an enthusiasm for science and literature similar to my own, and who, having been left by his father in the possession of a large estate, had been enabled from his earliest youth to devote himself exclusively to the acquisition of knowledge. This gentleman, as Dr. Johnson remarked of Mr. Burke, was a man in whose presence it was impossible to remain, even for a moment, without being impressed with a favorable opinion of his character and pretensions, from the exquisite finish and just proportions of his figure, the intellectual expression of his countenance, and the elegance of his address. Having discovered, from a more intimate acquaintance with him, that his intellectual and moral qualities fully realized all the expectations which had been exci. ted by his personal appearance, and that his mind was enriched with all the treasures of learning, his taste improved by a familiarity with the finest models of writing, as well as his heart formed for the residence of every virtue, I could not fail to imbibe an ardent attachment to his person, and desire a continuance of that intercourse which had thus happily commenced between us. With this last view, I proposed that he should become the companion of my intended journey through the Continent, which proposal being readily accepted, we travelled together through France, Germany, Switzerland, and Italy, making ourselves acquainted with all their monuments of art, their sciences, their political institutions and laws, and their prevalent habits and manners. During this review, I was struck and delighted, with the profoundness of his reflections, his nice perceptions of excellence in painting, statuary and fine writing, the extent to which he had pushed his inquiries into the different branches of knowledge, and his familiarity with all the greatest productions of genius, both in ancient and modern times. Before our return to Paris, on my way to America, our prepossessions had ripened into so confirmed a friendship, that the idea of a separation from him was one of the most painful which could be presented to my imagination, and my ingenuity was excited into most strenuous exertion to prevent, if possible, so disagreeable a result. While my mind was occupied with the projection of schemes for this purpose that kind of schemes which assume, at first, the appearance of day-dreams that flit through a fervid fancy, and immediately disappear—a fortunate contingency brought us into the society of a French gentleman by the name of Rochefoucault, a collateral descendant of the celebrated author, who, like ourselves, although a politician by profession, and deeply interested in the triumph of the liberal party in Paris, had seized every opportunity of imbuing his understanding with elegant letters. now formed a trio of students, whose supreme object of pursuit was the