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MARCO BOZZARIS. [He fell in an attack upon the Turkish Camp, at Laspi, the site of the ancient Platæa, August 20, 1823, and expired in the moment of victory. His last words were--" To die for liberty is a pleasure, and not a pain.”]
At midnight, in his guarded tent,
The Turk was dreaming of the hour,
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,
Should tremble at his power;
In dreams, through camp and court, he bore
The trophies of a conqueror ;
In dreams his song of triumph heard:
Then wore his monarch's signet ring,
Then pressed that monarch's throne,-a king;
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,
As Eden's garden bird.
An hour passed on-the Turk awoke;
That bright dream was his last;
He woke-to hear his sentry's shriek,
“ To arms! they come: the Greek! the Greek!”
He woke-to die midst flame and smoke,
And shout, and groan, and sabre stroke,
And death shots falling thick and fast
As lightnings from the mountain cloud;
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud,
Bozzaris cheer his band ;
* Strike-till the last armed foe expires,
Strike-for your altars and your fires,
Strike-for the green graves of your sires,
God-and your native land !”
They fought-like brave men, long and well,
They piled that ground with Moslem slain,
They conquered—but Bozzaris fell,
Bleeding at every vein.
His few surviving comrades saw
His smile, when rang their proud hurrah,
And the red field was won ;
Then saw in death his eyelids close
Calmly, as to a night's repose,
Like flowers at set of sun.
Come to the bridal chamber, Death!
Come to the mother, when she feels,
For the first time, her first-b orn's breath ;-
Come when the blessed se als
Which 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 beir,
And all we know, or dream, or fear
Of agony, are thine.
But to the hero, when his sword
Has won the battle for the free,
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word,
And in its hollow tones are heard
The thanks of millions yet to be.
Bozzaris! with the storied brave
Greece nurtured in her glory's time,
Rest thee—there is no proudér grave,
Even in her own proud clime.
We tell thy doom without a sigh;
For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's-
One of the few, the immortal names,
That were not born to die.
Deep in the wave is a coral grove, Where the purple mullet, and gold-fish rove, Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blue, That never are wet with falling dew, But in bright and changeful beauty shine, Far down in the green and glassy brine. The floor is of sand, like the mountain drift, And the pearl shells spangle the flinty snow ; From coral rocks the sea plants lift Their boughs, where the tides and billows flow ;, The water is calm and still below, For the winds and waves are absent there, And the sands are bright as the stars that glow In the motionless fields of upper air; There with its waving blade of green, The sea-flag streams through the silent water, And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen To blush, like a banner bathed in slaughter : There with a light and easy motior, The fan-coral sweeps through the clear deep sea ; And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean Are bending like corn on the upland lea:
And life, in rare and beautiful forms,
Is sporting amid those bowers of stone,
And is safe, when the wrathful spirit of storms,
Has made the top of the waves his own :
And when the ship from his fury flies,
Where the myriad voices of ocean roar,
When the wind-god frowns in the murky skies,
And demons are waiting the wreck on shore ;
Then far below in the peaceful sea,
The purple mullet, and gold-fish rove,
Where the waters murmur tranquilly,
Through the bending twigs of the coral grove. +
Os thy fair bosom, silver lake!
The wild swan spreads his snowy sail,
And round his breast the ripples break,
As down he bears before the gale.
On thy fair bosom, waveless stream!
The dipping paddle echoes far,
And flashes in the moonlight gleam,
And bright reflects the polar star.
The waves along thy pebbly shore,
As blows the north wind, heave their foam,
And curl around the dashing oar,
As late the boatman hies him home.
How sweet, at set of sun, to view
Thy golden mirror spreading wide,
And see the mist of mantling blue
Float round the distant mountain's side.
At midnight hour, as shines the moon,
A sheet of silver spreads below,
And swift she cuts, at highest noon,
Light clouds, like wreaths of purest snow.
On thy fair bosom, silver lake!
O! I could ever sweep the oar,
When early birds at morning wake,
And evening tells us toil is o'er,
I had found out a sweet green spot, Where a lily was blooming fair ;
The din of the city disturb'd it not, But the spirit, that shades the quiet cot With its wings of love, was there.
I found that lily's bloom
When the day was dark and chill;
It smiled, like a star in the misty gloom,
And it sent abroad a soft perfume Which is floating around me still.
I sat by the lily's bell, And watch'd it many a day:
The leaves, that rose in a flowing swell,
Grew faint and dim, then droop'd and fell And the flower had flown away.
I look'd where the leaves were laid,
In withering paleness, by;
And, as gloomy thoughts stole on me, said,
There is rnany a sweet and blooming maid,
Who will soon as dimly die.
TIE GRAVES OF TIIE PATRIOTS.
Here rest the great and good-here they repose
After their generous toil. A sacred band,
They take their sleep together, while the year
Comes with its early flowers to deck their graves,
And gathers them again, as winter frowns.
Theirs is no vulgar sepulchre-green sods
Are all their monument, and yet it tells
A nobler history, than pillar'd piles,
Or the eternal pyramids. They need
No statue nor inscription to reveal
Their greatness. It is round them, and the joy
With which their children tread the hallowed ground
That holds their venerated bones, the peace
That smiles on all they fought for, and the wealth
That clothes the land they rescued,—these, though mute
As feeling ever is when deepest,-these
Are monuments more lasting, than the fanes
Reard to the kings and demigods of old.
Touch not the ancient elms, that bend their shade Over their lowly graves; beneath their boughs
There is a solemn darkness, even at noon,
Suited to such as visit at the shrine
Of serious liberty. No factious voice
Call'd them unto the field of generous fame,
But the pure consecrated love of home.
No deeper feeling sways us, when it wakes
In all its greatness. It has told itself
To the astonish'd gaze of awe-struck kings,
At Marathon, at Bannockburn, and here,
Where first our patriots sent the invader back
Broken and cowed. Let these greens elms be all
To tell us where they fought, and where they lie.
Their feelings were all nature, and they need
No art to make them known. They live in us,
While we are like them, simple, hardy, bold,
Worshipping nothing but our own purc hearts,
And the one universal Lord. They need
No column pointing to the heaven they sought,
To tell us of their home. The heart itself,
Left to its own free purpose, hastens there,
And there alone reposes. Let these elms
Bend their protecting shadow o'er their graves,
And build with their green roof the only fane,
Where we may gather on the hallow'd day,
That rose to them in blood, and set in glory.
Here let us meet, and while our motionless lips
Give not a sound, and all around is mute
In the deep sabbath of a heart too full
For words or tears-here let us strew the sod
With the first flowers of spring, and make to them
An offering of the plenty, Nature gives,
And they have render'd ours- s--perpetually.
Day of glory! welcome day!
Freedom's banners greet thy ray;
See! how cheerfully they play
With thy morning breeze,
On the rocks where pilgrims kneeld,
On the height's where squadron's wheel'd,
When a tyrant's thunder peal'd,
O'er the trembling seas.
God of armies! did thy “stars
In their courses" smite his cars,