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A tyrant; but our masters then
The tyrant of the Chersonese
Was freedom's best and bravest friend;
Oh that the present hour would lend
At midnight, in the forest shades,
Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band-
Heroes in heart and hand.
On old Platæa's day;
As quick, as far, as they.
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore, Exists the remnant of a line
Such as the Doric mothers bore; And there perhaps soine seed is sown The Heracleidan blood might own.
Trust not for freedom to the Franks
They have a king who buys and sells;
The only hope of courage dwells;
An hour passed on- -the Turk awoke:
That bright dream was his last;
And death-shots falling thick and fast
Bozzaris cheer bis band :
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
Our virgins dance beneath the shade-
But gazing on each glowing maid,
Place me on Sunium's marbled steep,
They fought-like brave men, long and well; May hear our mutual murmurs sweep;
They piled that ground with Moslem slain; There, swan-like, let me sing and die.
They conquered—but Bozzaris fell, A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine
Bleeding at every vein.
His few surviving comrades saw
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.
The Turk was dreaming of the hour
Come to the mother's, when she feels In dreams, through camp and court, he bore For the first time, her first-born's breath; The trophies of a conqueror;
Come when the blessed seals
And crowded cities wail its stroke;
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.
And she, the mother of thy boys Though in her eye and faded cheek Is read the griet she will not speak,
The memory of her buried joysAnd even she who gave thee birth, Will, by her pilgrim-circled hearth,
Talk of thy doom without a sigh; For thou art freedom's now, and fame'sOne of the few, the immortal names That were not born to die.
THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD.
But to the hero, wher his sword
Has won the battle for the free,
The thanks of millions yet to be.
Come in her crowning hour—and then
Of sky and stars to prisoned men;
To the world-seeking Genoese,
Blew o'er the Haytian seas.
Who fears to speak of Ninety-eight?
Who blusbes at the name? When cowards mock the patriot's fate,
Who bangs his head for sbame? He 's all a knave, or half a slave,
Who slights his country thus; But a true man, like you, man,
Will fill your glass with us.
We drink the memory of the brave,
The faithful and the few Some lie far off beyond the wave
Some sleep in Ireland, too; All, all are gone—but still lives on
The fame of those who diedAll true men, like you, men,
Remember them with pride.
Bozzaris! with the storied brave
Greece nurtured in her glory's time,
Even in her own proud clime.
Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume, Like torn branch from death's leafless tree, In sorrow's pomp and pageantry,
The heartless luxury of the tomb. But she remembers thee as one Long loved, and for a season gone. For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed, Her marble wrought, her music breathed; For thee she rings the birth-day bells; Of thee her babes' first lisping tells; For thine her evening prayer is said At palace couch, and cottage bed; Her soldier, closing with the foe, Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow; His plighted maiden, when she fears For him, the joy of her young years, Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears.
Some on the shores of distant lands
Their weary hearts have laid, And by the stranger's heedless hands
Their lonely graves were made; But, though their clay be far away
Beyond the Atlantic foamIn true men, like you, men,
Their spirit's still at home.
The dust of some is Irish earth;
Among their own they rest; And the same land that gave them birth
Has caught them to her breast; And we will pray that from their clay
Full many a race may start Of true men, like you, men.
To act as brave a part,
They rose in dark and evil days
Such was this heaven-loved isle, To right their native land;
Than Lesbos fairer and the Cretan shore ! They kindled here a living blaze
No more shall freedom smile? That nothing shall withstand.
Shall Britons languish, and be men no more? Alas! that might can vanquish right Since all must life resign, They fell and passed away ;
Those sweet rewards which decorate the brave But true men, like you, men,
'T is folly to decline, Are plenty here to-day.
And steal inglorious to the silent grave.
SIR WILLIAX JONEB. Then here's their memory-may it be
For us a guiding light,
Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour; And true men, be you, men,
England hath need of thee. She is a fen Like those of Ninety-eight!
Of stagnant waters. Altar, sword, and pen,
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;
Oh, raise us up, return to us again,
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power! What constitutes a state?
Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart; Not high raised battlement or labored mound, Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the Thick wall or moated gate;
sea; Not cities proud with spires and turrets Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, crowned;
So didst thou travel on life's common way Not bays and broad-armed ports,
In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies The lowliest duties on herself did lay.
ride; Not starred and spangled courts, Where low-browed baseness wafts perfume to
TO TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE. pride. No:-men, high-minded men,
Toussaint, the most unhappy man of men! With powers as far above dull brutes endued whether the whistling rustic tend his plough In forest, brake, or den,
Within thy hearing, or thy head be now As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude- Pillowed in some deep dungeon's earless denMen who their duties know,
O miserable chieftain! where and when But know their rights, and, knowing, dare | Wilt thou find patience? Yet die not; do maintain,
thou Preveut the long-aimed blow,
Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow. And crush the tyrant while they rend the Though fallen thyself, never to rise again, chain;
Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left be These constitute a state;
hind And sovereign law, that state's collected will, Powers that will work for thee-air, earth. O'er thrones and globes elate,
and skies. Sits empress, crowning good, repressing ill.
There's not a breathing of the common wind Smit by her sacred frown,
That will forget thee. Thou hast great allies · The fiend, dissension, like a vapor sinks ; Thy friends are exultations, agonies,
And e'en the all-dazzling crown And love, and man's unconquerable mind. Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks.
ON A BUST OF DANTE.
He used Rome's harlot for his mirth; Plucked bare hypocrisy and crime; But valiant souls of knightly worth Transmitted to the rolls of time,
See, from this counterfeit of him
O time! whose verdicts mock our own
Thomas WILLIAM PARSONS
Faithful if this wan image be,
The lips as Cuma's cavern close,
ON A SERMON AGAINST GLORY
Is it an offence to own
Toward immortal glory's throne?
So conciliate reason's choice, As one approving word of her impartial voice
If to spurn at noble praise
Be the passport to thy heaven,
No such law to me was given;
Than Timoleon's arms acquire,
Not wholly such his haggard look
Peace dwells not here—this rugged face
The shades of night were falling fast,
War to the last he waged with all
His brow was sad; his eye beneath