Come to the bridal chamber, Death! Which close the pestilence are broke, The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier, But to the hero, when his sword Has won the battle for the free, The thanks of millions yet to be. Of sky and stars to prisoned men ; 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! with the storied brave Greece nurtured in her glory's time, 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 her 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, Tell by thy pilgrim-circled hearth, Tales of thy doom without a sigh; For thou art freedom's now, and fame's- THE BATTLE OF KOSSOVO. FROM THE SERVIAN. TRANSLATED BY OWEN Meredith. EXTRACTS. THERE resteth to Servia a glory, A glory that shall not grow old; There remaineth to Servia a story, A tale to be chanted and told! They are gone to their graves grim and gory, The beautiful, brave, and bold; But out of the darkness and desolation Of the mourning heart of a widowed nation, Their memory waketh an exultation! Yea, so long as a babe shall be born, Or there resteth a man in the land So long as a blade of corn Shall be reapt by a human hand — "And as for what ye inquire Of Vouk, — when the worm and mole Curst be the race and the name of him! CORONACH. WALTER SCOTT. HE is gone on the mountain, When our need was the sorest. The fount, reappearing, From the raindrops shall borrow; But to us comes no cheering, To Duncan no morrow! The hand of the reaper Takes the ears that are hoary; But the voice of the weeper Waft the leaves that are searest; When blighting was nearest. Fleet foot on the correi, Sage counsel in cumber, How sound is thy slumber! BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. THOMAS CAmpbell. OF Nelson and the North Sing the glorious day's renown, All the might of Denmark's crown, And her arms along the deep proudly shone; By each gun the lighted brand, In a bold, determined hand, |