« PoprzedniaDalej »
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 thee
Assyria, 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' playTime writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.
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.
And I have loved thee, ocean! and my joy
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
I wantoned with thy breakers — they to me
Made them a terror, 'twas a pleasing fear,
For I was as it were a child of thee,
EXERCISES IN ARTICULATION.
d:- bed, dead, did, made, grazed, hedged, judged, saved,
writhed, charmed, paved, heard, ebbed, rigged, would, could, should, damaged, modest, deadly.
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 –
* Marco Bozzaris, the Epaminondas of modern Greece. He fell in a night attack upon the Turkish camp at Laspi, the site of the ancient Platæa, 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.
On old Platæa's day;
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, “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 :
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.
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 The earthquake shock - the ocean storm Come when the heart beats high and warm,
With banquet-song, and dance, and wineAnd thou art terrible — the tear, 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,
The thanks of millions yet to be.
Come in her crowning hour and then
Of sky and stars to prisoned men!
Thy grasp is welcome as the hand
To the world-seeking Genoese,
Blew o'er the Haytian seas.
Bozzaris ! with the storied brave,
Greece nurtured in her glory's time,
Even in her own proud clime.
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, 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.