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Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men:
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage-bell;
(o)But hush! hark! .. a deep sound strikes like a ris-
2 Did ye not hear it ?-No; 'twas but the wind, Or the car rattling o'er the stonny street: (°)On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; No sleep till morn, when youth and pleaure meet To chase the glowing hours with flying feet-()But, hark!-that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat. And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! (°o) `Arm! àrm! it is--it is--the cannon's opening roar!
3 Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago
Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness:
And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
Which ne'er might be repeated-who could guess
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise?
4 And there was mounting in hot haste; the steed,
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war,
And the deep thunder, peal on peal afar;
And near, the beat of the alarming drum
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;
While thronged the citizens with terror dumb.
Or whispering with white lips-" The foe! The y
come! they come !"
5 *And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass,
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves,
Over the unreturning brave,--alas!
Ere evening to be, trodden like the grass,
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow
In its next verdue, when this fiery mass
Of living valour, rolling on the foe,
And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and
6 Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,
Last eve in beauty's circle proudly gay,
The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife,
The morn, the marshalling in arms,--the day,
Battle's magnificently-stern array!
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent,
The earth is covered thick with other clay,
Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent,
Rider and horse,-friend, foe,--in one red burial
1 FORCED from home and all its pleasures,
Afric's coast I left forlorn;
To increase a stranger's treasures,
O'er the raging billows borne.
Men from England bought and sold me,
Paid my price in paltry gold;
But though slave they have enrolled me,
Minds are never to be sold.
2 Still in thought as free as ever,
What are England's rights, I ask,
Me from my delights to sever,
Me to torture, me to task?
Fleecy locks and black complexion
Cannot forfeit Nature's claim;
Skins may differ, but affection
Dwells in white and black the same.
3 Why did all-creating nature
Make the plant for which we toil?
Sighs must fan it, tears must water,
Sweat of ours must dress the soil.
Think, ye masters iron-hearted,
Lolling at your jovial boards;
Think how many backs have smarted
For the sweets your cane affords.
4 (9)Is there, as ye sometimes tell us,
Is there one who reigns on high?
Has he bid you buy and sell us,
Speaking from his throne the sky?
Ask him, if your knotted scourges,
Matches, blood-extorting screws,
Are the means that duty urges
Agents of his will to use?
5 (..)Hark! he answers,-wild tornadoes, Strewing yonder sea with wrecks; Wasting towns, plantations, meadows,
Are the voice with which he speaks.
He, forseeing what vexations
Afric's sons should undergo,
Fixed their tyrants' habitation
Where his WHIRLWINDS answer--NO.
6 By our blood in Afric wasted,
Ere our necks received the chain;
By the miseries that we tasted,
Crossing in your barks the main ;
By our sufferings since ye brought us
To the man-degrading mart;
All, sustained by patience, taught us
Only by a broken heart.
7 Deem our nation brutes no longer,
Till some reason ye shall find
Worthier of regard, and stronger
Than the colour of our kind.
Slaves of gold, whose sordid dealings
Tarnish all your boasted powers,
Prove that you have human feelings,
Ere you proudly question ours!
6. Marco Bozzaris, The Epaminondas of Modern Greece.
[He fell in an 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, and not a pain."]
1 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.
2 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;
(0°) "Strike-till the last armed foe expires,
Strike-for your altars and your fires,
Strike-for the green graves of
God-and your native land!"
3 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.
4 *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
agony, are thine.
5 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