“I must reiterate my request for specie, and that speedily, otherwise public affairs will be at a standstill here.  I have undertaken to pay the Suliotes for a year, to advance in March 3000 dollars, besides, to the Government for a balance due to the troops, and some other smaller matters for the Germans, and the press, &c. &c. &c.; so what with these, and the expenses of my suite, which, though not extravagant, is expensive, with Gamba’s d—­d nonsense, I shall have occasion for all the monies I can muster; and I have credits wherewithal to face the undertakings, if realised, and expect to have more soon.

“Believe me ever and truly yours,” &c.

On the morning of the 22d of January, his birthday,—­the last my poor friend was ever fated to see,—­he came from his bedroom into the apartment where Colonel Stanhope and some others were assembled, and said with a smile, “You were complaining the other day that I never write any poetry now.  This is my birthday, and I have just finished something which, I think, is better than what I usually write.”  He then produced to them those beautiful stanzas, which, though already known to most readers, are far too affectingly associated with this closing scene of his life to be omitted among its details.  Taking into consideration, indeed, every thing connected with these verses,—­the last tender aspirations of a loving spirit which they breathe, the self-devotion to a noble cause which they so nobly express, and that consciousness of a near grave glimmering sadly through the whole,—­there is perhaps no production within the range of mere human composition round which the circumstances and feelings under which it was written cast so touching an interest.

“JANUARY 22D.

“ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY-SIXTH YEAR.

1. 
  “’Tis time this heart should be unmoved,
    Since others it hath ceased to move;
  Yet though I cannot be beloved,
      Still let me love!

2. 
  “My days are in the yellow leaf;
    The flowers and fruits of love are gone;
  The worm, the canker, and the grief
      Are mine alone!

3. 
  “The fire that on my bosom preys
    Is lone as some volcanic isle;
  No torch is kindled at its blaze—­
      A funeral pile!

4. 
  “The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
    The exalted portion of the pain
  And power of love, I cannot share,
      But wear the chain.

5. 
  “But ’tis not thus—­and ’tis not here—­
    Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now,
  Where glory decks the hero’s bier,
      Or binds his brow.

6. 
  “The sword, the banner, and the field,
    Glory and Greece, around roe see! 
  The Spartan, borne upon his shield,
      Was not more free.

7. 
  “Awake! (not Greece—­she is awake!)
    Awake, my spirit!  Think through whom
  Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake,
      And then strike home!