Then wore his monarch's siguet ring,

Then press'd 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 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 Platea's day;

And now there breathed that haunted air
The sons of sires who conquer'd there,
With arm to strike, and soul to dare,

As quick, as far as they.

An hour pass'd on-the Turk awoke;
That bright dream was his last;
He woke to hear his sentries 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
Like forest pines before the blast,
Or lightnings from the mountain cloud ;
And heard with voice as trumpet loud,

Bozzaris cheer his band;

"Strike-till the last arm'd 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 conquer'd-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's, 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's 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.
Come, when his task of Fame is wrought;
Come, with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought;

Come in her crowning hour; and then
Thy sunken eyes' unearthly light
To him is welcome as the sight

Of sky and stars to prison'd men ;
Thy grasp is welcome as the hand
Of brother in a foreign land;
Thy summons welcome as the cry
Which 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 Haytien seas.

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 birthday bells;
Of thee her babe's 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;
And she, the mother of thy boys,
Though in her eye and faded cheek
Is read the grief she will not speak,

The memory of her buried joys,—
And even she who gave thee birth,
Will, by the pilgrim-circled hearth,

Talk of 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.

"Marco Bozzaris was the Epaminondas of Modern Greece. He fell in a night attack upon the Turkish camp at Laspi, the site of the ancient Platea, August 20, 1823 and expired in the moment of victory. His last words were, 'To die for liberty is a pleasure, not a pain.""

Literary Rambler.

SPEAK GENTLY.

DAVID BATES. FROM AN OLD NEWSPAPER,

SPEAK gently-it is better far

To rule by love than fear;
Speak gently-let no harsh word mar
The good we might do here!

Speak gently-love doth whisper low
The vows that true hearts bind!
And gently friendship's accents flow;
Affection's voice is kind.

Speak gently to the little child,

Its love be sure to gain;
Teach it in accents soft and mild;
It may not long remain.

Speak gently to the young, for they
Will have enough to bear-

Pass through this life as best they may, 'Tis full of anxious care.