When rages the hot battle before the gates of Xeres,
By trace of gore ye may explore the dauntless path of Perez.
No knight like Don Diego,-no sword like his is found
In all the host, to hew the boast of paynims to the ground.
It fell one day when furiously they battled on the plain,
Diego shivered both his lance and trusty blade in twain ;
The Moors that saw it shouted, for esquire none was near,
To serve Diego at his need with falchion, mace, or spear.
Loud, loud he blew his bugle, sore troubled was his eye,
But by God's grace before his face there stood a tree full
An olive-tree with branches strong, close by the wall of
"Yon goodly bough will serve, I trow," quoth Don Diego Perez.
A gnarled branch he soon did wrench down from that olive
Which o'er his head-piece brandishing, he spurs among the
God wot! full many a pagan must in his saddle reel !— What leech may cure, what beadsman shrive, if once that weight ye feel?
But when Don Alvar saw him thus bruising down the foe, Quoth he, "I've seen some flail-armed man belabor barley so, Sure mortal mold did ne'er enfold such mastery of power; Let's call Diego Perez THE POUNDER, from this hour."
MARCO BOZZARIS.
Ar 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.
At midnight, in the forest shades,
Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band;
True as the steel to their tried blades,
Heroes in heart and hand.
There had the Persian thousands stood,-
There had the glad earth drank their blood,
On old Platea's day;
And now there breathed that haunted air,
The sons of sires who conquered there,
With arm to strike, and soul to dare,
As quick, as far as they.
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 saber 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-born's breath;—
Come when the blessed seals
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 bier,
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 prouder 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.
THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. Nor a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero was buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin inclosed his breast,
Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow!
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,-
But little he'll reck, if they'll let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task was done,
When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,But we left him alone with his glory!
THE SPIDER AND THE BEE.
WITH viscous thread, and finger fine,
The spider spun his filmy line;
The extremes with stronger cordage tied,
And wrought the web from side to side.
Beneath the casement's pendant roof,
He hung aloft the shadowy woof:-
There in the midst compressed he lies,
And patient waits the expected prize.
When, lo! on sounding pinion strong,
A bee, incautious, rushed along;
Nor of the gauzy net aware,
Till all entangled in the snare.
Enraged, he plies his buzzing wings,
His far-resounding war-song sings;
Tears all that would his course control,
And threatens ruin to the whole.
With dread, with gladness, with surprise,
The spider saw the dangerous prize;
Then rushed relentless on his foe,
Intent to give the deadly blow.
But as the spider came in view,
The bee his poisoned dagger drew;-
Back at the sight the spider ran,
And now his crafty work began.
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