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To thee the palm of scoffing we ascribe,
For such thou art by day—but all night long
Thou pour'st a soft, sweet, pensive, solemn strain,
As if thou didst, in this thy moonlight song,
Musing on falsehood, folly, vice, and wrong,
Fitz-GREENE HALLECK is the well-known author of that effective and artistic poem, Marco Bozzaris,—the hero who fell in an attack upon the Turkish camp, on the site of the ancient Platæa, and
expired in the moment of victory, exclaiming, “To die for Liberty is a pleasure, not a pain!” Here are some of the lines :
At midnight, in his guarded tent,
The Turk was dreaming of the hour
Should tremble at his power.
They fought-like brave men, long and well :
They piled that ground with Moslem slain ;
Bleeding at every vein.
And the red field was won ;
Like Aowers at set of sun.
Bozzaris! with the storied brave
Greece nurtured in her glory's time,
Even in her own proud clime.
For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's;
That were not born to die!
Halleck's fine Elegy on Burns abounds with impassioned and glowing beauties. We extract a few stanzas :
His is that language of the heart,
In which the answering heart would speak,
And his that music, to whose tone
The common pulse of man keeps time, In cot or castle's mirth or moan,
In cold or sunny clime.
What sweet tears dim the eyes unshed,
What wild vows falter on the tongue, When “Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled,”
Or “Auld Lang Syne,” is sung?
Pure hopes, that lift the soul above,
Come with his Cotter's Hymn of praise ; And dreams of youth, and truth, and love,
With Logan's banks and braes.
And when he breathes his master-lay
Of Alloway's witch-haunted wall, All passions in our frames of clay
Come thronging at his call.
And consecrated ground it is,
The last, the hallowed home of one Who lives upon all memories,
Though with the buried gone.
Such graves as his are pilgrim-shrines,
Shrines to no code or creed confined, The Delphian vales, the Palestines, The Meccas of the mind !