FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. MARCO BOZZARIS. Ar midnight, in his guarded tent, The Turk was dreaming of the hour When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, In dreams, through camp and court he bore In dreams his song of triumph heard; Then pressed that monarch's throne, —a king; 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 Persian's thousands stood; On old Platea's day And now there breathed that haunted air, The sons of sires who conquered there, As quick, as far as they. "To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!" "Strike-till the last armed foe expires; They fought like brave men-long, and well; 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 Come in consumption's ghastly form, 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 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, 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 Talk of thy doom without a sigh: That were not born to die. N. P. WILLIS. SPRING. THE Spring is here, the delicate-footed May, Wasting in wood-paths its voluptuous hours. A feeling that is like a sense of wings, 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, 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, We may 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 skv. |