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THE GREEK PARTISAN.
OUR free flag is dancing
In the free mountain air,
Whose gallant bosoms shield it; The blood that warms their hearts shall s
That banner, ere they yield it. -Each dark eye is fixed on earth,
And brief each solemn greeting; There is no look nor sound of mirth, Where those stern men are meeting.
They go to the slaughter,
To strike the sudden blow,
And pour on earth, like water,
To rush on them from rock and height,
Or fire their camp at dead of night,
And cowards have betrayed her,
Not till from her fetters
We raise up Greece again,
And write, in bloody letters,
That tyranny is slain,—
Oh, not till then the smile shall steal
His children's dear embraces.
Till yonder hosts are flying, And all their bravest, at our feet, Like autumn sheaves are lying
THE TWO GRAVES.
'Tis a bleak wild hill,-but green and bright In the summer warmth and the mid-day light; There's the hum of the bee and the chirp of the wren, And the dash of the brook from the alder glen;
There's the sound of a bell from the scattered flock, And the shade of the beech lies cool on the rock, And fresh from the west is the free wind's breath,There is nothing here that speaks of death.
Far yonder, where orchards and gardens lie,
Yea, stricter and closer than those of life,—
Without a frown or a smile they meet,
Yet there are graves in this lonely spot,
An aged man in his locks of snow,
Their kindred were far, and their children dead, When the funeral prayer was coldly said.
Two low green hillocks, two small gray stones, Rose over the place that held their bones; But the grassy hillocks are levelled again, And the keenest eye might search in vain, 'Mong briers, and ferns, and paths of sheep, For the spot where the aged couple sleep.
Yet well might they lay, beneath the soil Of this lonely spot, that man of toil,
And trench the strong hard mould with the spade,
And the gourd and the bean, beside his door,
'Tis said that when life is ended here, The spirit is borne to a distant sphere; That it visits its earthly home no more, Nor looks on the haunts it loved before. But why should the bodiless soul be sent Far off, to a long, long banishment?
Talk not of the light and the living green!
It will pine for the dear familiar scene;
It will yearn, in that strange bright world, to behold
The rock and the stream it knew of old.
'Tis a cruel creed, believe it not!
Death to the good is a milder lot.
They are here, they are here,—that harmless pair,
In the yellow sunshine and flowing air,
In the light cloud-shadows that slowly pass,
In the sounds that rise from the murmuring grass.