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MARCO BOZZARIS.

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A tyrant; but our masters then
Were still at least our countrymen.

The tyrant of the Chersonese

Was freedom's best and bravest friend;
That tyrant was Miltiades !

Oh that the present hour would lend
Another despot of the kind !
Such chains as his were sure to bind.

At midnight, in the forest shades,

Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band-
True as the steel of their tried blades,

Heroes in heart and hand.
There had the Persian's thousands stood,
There had the glad earth drunk their blood,

On old Platæa's day;
And now there breathed that haunted air
The sons of sires who conquered there,
With arms to strike, and soul to dare,

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;
In native swords, and native ranks,

The only hope of courage dwells;
But Turkish force, and Latin fraud,
Would break your shield, however broad.

An hour passed on- -the Turk awoke:

That bright dream was his last;
He woke—to hear his sentries shriek,
To arms! they come! the Greek! tbe

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 bis 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 I"

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Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!

Our virgins dance beneath the shade-
I see their glorious black eyes shine;

But gazing on each glowing maid,
My own the burning tear-drop laves,
To think such breasts must suckle slaves.

LORD BYRON.

Place me on Sunium's marbled steep,
Where nothing, save the waves and I,

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.
Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!

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
MARCO BOZZARIS.

Calmly, as to a night's repose.

Like flowers at set of sun.
Ar midnight, in his guarded tent,

The Turk was dreaming of the hour
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, Come to the bridal chainber, death,
Should tremble at his power.

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
In dreams his song of triumph heard; That close the pestilence are broke,
Then wore his monarchi's signet-ring-

And crowded cities wail its stroke;
Then pressed that monarch's throne—a king; Come in consumption's ghastly form,
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, The earthquake-shock, the ocean-storm:
As Eden's garden bird.

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.

FITZ-GEEENE HALLEOK

THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD.

But to the hero, wher his sword

Has won the battle for the free,
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word;
And in its hollow tones are beard

The thanks of millions yet to be.
Come, when his task of fame is wrought-
Come, with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought-

Come in her crowning hour—and then
Thy sunken eye's unearthly light
To him is welcome as the sight

Of sky and stars to prisoned men;
Thy grasp is welcome as the hand
Of brother in a foreign land;
Thy summons welcome as the cry
That told the Indian isles were nigh

To the world-seeking Genoese,
When the land-wind, from woods of palm,
And orange-groves, and fields of balm,

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,
Rest thee—there is no prouder grave,

Even in her own proud clime.
She wore no funeral weeds for thee,

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,

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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,
To cheer our strife for liberty,

SONNETS.
And teach us to unite.
Through good and ill, be Ireland's still,

LONDON, 1802.
Though sad as theirs your fate;

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,
JOIN KELLS INGRAM.

Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
Have forfeited their ancient English dower

Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;
AN ODE.

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.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

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
Whom Arno shall remember long,
How stern of lineament, how grim,
The father was of Tuscan song!
There but the burning sense of wrong,
Perpetual care, and scorn, abide-
Small friendship for the lordly throng,
Distrust of all the world beside.

O time! whose verdicts mock our own
The only righteous judge art thou;
That poor, old exile, sad and lone,
Is Latium's other Virgil now.
Before his name the nations bow;
His words are parcel of mankind,
Deep in whose bearts, as on his brow,
The marks have sunk of Dante's mind.

Thomas WILLIAM PARSONS

Faithful if this wan image be,
No dream his life was—but a fight;
Could any Beatrice see
A lover in that anchorite?
To that cold Ghibeline's gloomy sight
Who could have guessed the visions came
Of beauty, veiled with heavenly light,
In circles of eternal flame?

The lips as Cuma's cavern close,
The cheeks with fast and sorrow thin,
The rigid front, almost morose,
But for the patient hope within,
Declare a life whose course hath been
Unsullied still, though still severe,
Which, through the wavering days of sin,
Kept itself icy-chaste and clear.

ON A SERMON AGAINST GLORY
COME then, tell me, sage divine,

Is it an offence to own
That our bosoms e'er incline

Toward immortal glory's throne?
For with me nor pomp, nor pleasure,
Bourbon's might, Braganza's treasure,
So can fancy's dream rejoice,

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,
Follow thou those gloomy ways

No such law to me was given;
Nor, I trust, shall I deplore me,
Faring like my friends before me;
Nor an holier place desire

Than Timoleon's arms acquire,
And Tully's curule chair, and Milton's golden

lyre.

Not wholly such his haggard look
When wandering once, forlorn, he strayed,
With no companion save his book,
To Corvo's hushed monastic shade;
Where, as the Benedictine laid
His palm upon the pilgrim guest,
The single boon for which he prayed
The convent's charity was rest.

MARK AKENSIDE

EXCELSIOR.

Peace dwells not here—this rugged face
Betrays no spirit of repose;
The sullen warrior sole we trace,
The marble man of many woes.
Such was his mien when first arose
The thought of that strange tale divine-
When hell he peopled with his foes,
The scourge of many a guilty line.

The shades of night were falling fast,
As through an Alpine village passed
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice,
A banner with the strange device. .

Excelsior!

War to the last he waged with all
The tyrant canker-worms of earth;
Baron and duke, in hold and hall,
Oursed the dark hour that gave him birth;

His brow was sad; his eye beneath
Flashed like a faulchion from its sheath;
And like a silver clarion rung
The accents of that unknown tongue-

Excelsior!

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