Stately brow of anguish high,
Deathlike cheek, but dauntless eye;-
Silently, o'er that red plain,
Moved the Lady, 'midst the slain.
She searched into many an unclosed eye,
That looked without soul to the starry sky;
She bowed down o'er many a shattered breast,
She lifted up helmet and cloven crest-
Not there, not there he lay!
"Lead where the most has been dared and done; Where the heart of the battle hath bled;-Lead on!" And the vassal took the way.
He turned to a dark and lonely tree
That waved o'er a fountain-red!
Oh, swiftest there had the current free
From noble veins been shed!
Thickest there the spear-heads gleamed,
And the scattered plumage streamed,
And the broken shields were tossed,
And the shivered lances crossed-
HE WAS THERE! the leader amidst his band,
Where the faithful had made their last vain stand;
With the falchion yet in his cold hand grasped,
And his country's flag to his bosom clasped!
-She quelled in her soul the deep floods of woe,-
The time was not yet for their waves to flow;
And a proud smile shone o'er her pale despair,
As she turned to her followers-" Your lord is there!
Look on him! know him by scarf and crest!
Bear him away with his sires to rest!"
There is no plumed head o'er the bier to bend-
No brother of battle-no princely friend :-
By the red fountain the valiant lie-
The flower of Provençal chivalry.
But one free step, and one lofty heart,
Bear through that scene, to the last, their part:
"I have won thy fame from the breath of wrong!
My soul hath risen for thy glory strong!
Now call me hence by thy side to be:
The world thou leav'st has no place for me.
Give me my home on thy noble heart!
Well have we loved-let us both depart!"
And pale on the breast of the dead she lay,
The living cheek to the cheek of clay.
The living cheek! oh, it was not in vain
That strife of the spirit, to rend its chain!-
She is there, at rest, in her place of pride!
In death, how queen-like!—a glorious bride
From the long heart-withering early gone:
She hath lived-she hath loved-her task is done!
LXVI. MARCO BOZZARIS.-Halleck.
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 that 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 of their tried blades,-
Heroes in heart and hand.
There had the Persians' thousands stood,
There had the glad earth drunk their blood
On old Platea's day;
And now these 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 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 armed foe expires,
Strike for your altars and your fires,
Strike-for the green graves of your sires,
Heaven- 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'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-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 the laurel-leaf, blood-bought;
Come, in the crowning hour; and then,
Thy sunken eyes' 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
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 Haytian seas.
Bozzaris! 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.
LXVII.-HYMN ON MODERN GREECE.-Lord Byron
THE isles of Greece! the isles of Greece!
Where burning Sappho loved and sung;
Where grew the arts of war and peace
Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung;
Eternal summer gilds them yet
But all, except their sun, is set!
The Scian and the Teian muse,
The hero's harp, the lover's lute,
Have found the fame your shores refuse!-
Their place of birth alone is mute
To sounds, which echo farther west
Than your sires' "Islands of the bless'd."
The mountains look on Marathon,
And Marathon looks on the sea:
And musing there an hour, alone,
I dreamed-that Greece might still be free!
For, standing on the Persian's grave,
I could not deem myself a slave.-
A king sat on the rocky brow
Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis;
And ships, by thousands, lay below,
And men, in nations-all were his!
He counted them at break of day-
And when the sun set, where were they?
And where are they? and where art thou,
My country?-Ŏn thy voiceless shore
The heroic lay is tuneless now-
The heroic bosom beats no more!
And must thy lyre, so long divine,
Degenerate into hands like mine?
'Tis something, in the dearth of fame,
Though linked among a fettered race,
To feel at least a patriot's shame,
Even as I sing, suffuse my face;
For, what is left the poet here?—
For Greeks, a blush!-for Greece, a tear!
Must we but weep o'er days more bless'd?
Must we but blush ?—our fathers BLED
Earth! render back from out thy breast
A remnant of our Spartan dead!
Of the Three Hundred, grant but three,
To make a new Thermopyla!
What, silent still? and silent all?
Ah! no;-the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent's fall,
And answer, "Let one living head, But one arise,-we come, we come!"'Tis but the living who are dumb.
In vain! in vain!-Strike other chords.
-Fill high the cup with Samian wine!
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes,
And shed the blood of Scio's vine!
Hark! rising to the ignoble call,
How answers each bold bacchanal!
You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet;
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone?
Of two such lessons, why forget
The nobler and the manlier one?
You have the letters Cadmus gave-
Think ye he meant them for a slave?
"Fill high the bowl of Samian wine
We will not think of themes like these,
It made Anacreon's song divine:
He served"-but served Polycrates-
"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 bird.
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, some 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.
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!-
Place me on Sunium's marble steep,
Where nothing, save the waves and I,
May hear our mutual murmurs sweep;
There, swan-like, let me sing and die;
A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine-
Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!
LXVIII.-DEATH OF RODERICK DHU.-Sir Walter Scott.
THE Chief in silence strode before,
And reached that torrent's sounding shore;
And here his course the Chieftain stayed,
Threw down his target and his plaid,
And to the Lowland warrior said :-
"Bold Saxon! to his promise just,
Vich-Alpine has discharged his trust.
This murderous chief, this ruthless man,
This head of a rebellious clan,
Hath led thee safe, through watch and ward,
Far past Clan-Alpine's outmost guard.
Now, man to man, and steel to steel,
A Chieftain's vengeance thou shalt feel!
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