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Page 154 - Suliote band, 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...
Page 153 - AT 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.
Page 155 - 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.
Page 154 - 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...
Page 155 - 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.
Page 153 - 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, True as the steel of their tried blades, Heroes in heart and hand.
Page 156 - 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.
Page 155 - 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.
Page 155 - 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. 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...
Page 155 - 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. We tell 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.