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At midnight, in his guarded tent,
The Turk was dreaming of the hour
Should tremble at his power:
In dreams his song of triumph heard ;
As Eden's garden-bird.
At midnight, in the forest-shades,
Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band
Heroes in heart and hand.
On old Platæa's day –
An hour passed on - the Turk awoke
That bright dream was his last;
“ 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
Bozzaris cheer his band :
sires God, and your native land !"
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 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 That close the pestilence are broke, And crowded cities wail its stroke
Come in consumption's ghastly form,
With banquet-song, and dance, and wine
Of agony, are thine.
But to the hero, when his sword
Has won the battle for the free,
The thanks of millions yet to be.
Come in her crowning hour -- and then
Of sky and stars to prisoned men:
To the world-seeking Genoese,
Blew o'er the Haytian 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
And she, the mother of thy boys,
The memory of her buried joys,
Talk of thy doom without a sigh:
That were not born to die.
N. P. WILLIS.
The Spring is here, the delicate-footed May,
With its slight fingers full of leaves and flowers, And with it comes a thirst to be away,
Wasting in wood-paths its voluptuous hours A feeling that is like a sense of wings, Restless to soar above these perishing things.
We pass out from the city's feverish hum,
To find refreshment in the silent woods; And Nature, that is beautiful and dumb,
Like a cool sleep upon the pulses broods : Yet even there a restless thought will steal, To teach the indolent heart it still must feel.
Strange, that the audible stillness of the noon,
The waters tripping with their silver feet, The turning to the light of leaves in June,
And the light whisper as their edges meet : Strange, that they fill not, with their tranquil tone, The spirit, walking in their midst alone.
There's no contentment in a world like this,
Save in forgetting the immortal dream; We inay
not gaze upon the stars of bliss, That through the cloud-rifts radiantly stream ; Bird-like, the prisoned soul will lift its eye, And pine till it is hooded from the sky.