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The armaments which thunder-strike the walls
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake,
And monarchs tremble in their capitals,

The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make
Their clay creator the vain title take
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war,

These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save theeAssyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they? Thy waters wasted them while they were free,

And many a tyrant since; their shores obey The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay Has dried up realms to deserts: - not so thou! Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play — Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure browSuch as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.

And I have loved thee, ocean! and my joy

Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be Borne, like thy bubbles, onward from a boy I wantoned with thy breakers-they to me Were a delight; and if the freshening sea

Thou glorious mirror, where th' Almighty's form
Glasses itself in tempests; in all time,

Calm or convulsed-in breeze, or gale, or storm,
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime
Dark-heaving;-boundless, endless, and sublime—
The image of eternity—the throne

Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime
The monsters of the deep are made; each zone
Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.

Made them a terror, 'twas a pleasing fear,
For I was as it were a child of thee,
And trusted to thy billows far and near,
And laid my hand upon thy mane- as I do here.



d:-bed, dead, did, made, grazed, hedged, judged, saved, writhed, charmed, paved, heard, ebbed, rigged, would, could, should, damaged, modest, deadly.

Marco Bozzaris.* F. G. 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 his 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

* Marco Bozzaris, the Epaminondas of modern Greece. He fell in

a night attack upon the Turkish camp at Laspi, the site of the ancient Platea, August 20, 1823, and expired in the moment of victory. His last words were, "To die for liberty is a pleasure, and not a pain."

True as the steel of their tried blades,

Heroes in heart and hand.

There had the Persian's thousands stood,
There had the glad earth drunk their blood,
On old Platæa's day;

And now there 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,

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"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 As 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
God, 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.

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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-
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,

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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 its task of fame is wrought-
Come with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought-
Come in her crowning hour and then
Thy sunken eye's 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
That 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! 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
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 the birthday bells;
Of thee her babes' 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,
Will by their 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.

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