They fought-like brave men, long and well; They piled that ground with Moslem slain; They conquer'd-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.
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,
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 his task of fame is wrought-
Come, with the 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 prison'd 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,
E'en 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.
What can alone ennoble Fight?
Is'r death to fall for Freedom's right?
He's dead alone that lacks her light,
And murder sullies in Heaven's sight
The sword he draws:-
What can alone ennoble fight?
A noble cause!
Give that! and welcome War to brace
Her drums! and rend Heaven's reeking space!
The colours planted face to face,
Though Death's pale horse lead on the chase,
Shall still be dear.
And place our trophies where men kneel
To Heaven!--but Heaven rebukes my zeal!
The cause of Truth and human weal,
Transfer it from the sword's appeal
Rienzi's Address to the Men of Rome.
I COME not here to talk, ye know too well
The story of your thraldom-we are slaves!
The bright sun rises to its course, and lights
A race of slaves: he sets, and his last beam
Falls on a slave; not such as swept
Along by the full tide of power, the conqueror leads
To crimson glory, and undying fame ;
But base, ignoble slaves; slaves to a horde
Of petty tyrants, feudal despots; lords
Rich in some dozen paltry villages;
Strong in some hundred spearmen; only great
In that strange spell, a name : each hour dark fraud,
Or open rapine, or protected murder,
Cry out against them; but this very day,
An honest man, my neighbour,
Was struck, struck like a dog by one who wore
The badge of Ursini; because, forsooth!
He toss'd not high his ready cap in air,
Nor lifted up his voice in servile shouts
At sight of that great ruffian.
Such shames are common. I have known deeper wrongs. I that speak to ye, I had a brother once, a gracious boy,
Full of all gentleness, of calmest hope,
Of sweet and quiet joy-there was the look
Of Heaven upon his face, which limners give
To the beloved disciple. How I loved
That gracious boy! younger by fifteen years;
Brother at once and son! He left my side,
A summer's bloom on his fair cheeks, a smile
Parting his innocent lips. In one short hour,
The pretty, harmless boy was slain.
Rouse, ye Romans! Rouse, ye slaves!
Have ye brave sons? Look in the next fierce brawl
To see them die! Have ye fair daughters? Look
To see them live, torn from your arms, distain'd!
Dishonour'd! and if ye dare call for justice,
Be answer'd by the lash! Yet this is Rome,
That sat on her seven hills, and from her throne
Of beauty ruled the world. Yet we are Romans.
Why, in that elder day, to be a Roman
Was greater than a king; and once again,
Hear me ye walls, that echo'd to the tread
Of either Brutus! once again, I swear
The Eternal City shall be free, her sons
Shall walk with princes!
SOUND the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!
JEHOVAH has triumph'd-his people are free;
Sing-for the pride of the tyrant is broken;
His chariots, his horsemen, all splendid and brave—
How vain was their boast, for the LORD hath but
spoken,
And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the wave.
Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea,
JEHOVAH has triumph'd-his people are free!
Praise to the Conqueror, praise to the LORD,
His word was our arrow, his breath was our sword:-
Who shall return to tell Egypt the story
Of those she sent forth in the hour of her pride?
For the LORD hath look'd out from his pillar of glory,
And all her brave thousands are dash'd in the tide.
Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea,
JEHOVAH has triumph'd-his people are free!
MOORE.
*"And Miriam the prophetess, the sister of Aaron, took a timbrel in her hand; and all the women went out after her with timbrels and with dances."-ExOD. XV. 20.
THE Minstrel Boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death you'll find him ;
His father's sword he has girded on,
And his wild harp slung behind him.—
"Land of song!" said the warrior bard,
"Though all the world betrays thee,
One sword at least thy rights shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee!"
The Minstrel fell!—but the foeman's chain
Could not bring his proud soul under;
The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,
For he tore its chords asunder;
And said, "No chains shall sully thee,
Thou soul of love and bravery !
Thy songs were made for the pure and free,
They shall never sound in slavery."
BREATHES there the man, with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
"This is my own, my native land!"
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd,
As home his footsteps he hath turn'd,
From wand'ring on a foreign strand!
If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him no Minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim ;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung.
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