I saw along the winter snow a spectral column pour; And high above their broken ranks a tattered flag they bore.

Their Leader rode before them, of bearing calm and high, The light of Heaven's own kindling throned in his awful

eye:

These were a Nation's champions Her dread appeal to

try

"God for the right!" I faltered, And lo! the train passed

by.

Once more; the strife was ended, the solemn issue tried; The Lord of Hosts, His mighty arm had helped our Israel's side:

Gray stone and grassy hillock, told where her martyrs died;

And peace was in the borders of victory's chosen bride.

A crash-as when some swollen cloud cracks o'er the tangled trees!

With side to side, and spar to spar, whose smoking decks are these?

I know Saint George's blood-red cross, thou Mistress of

the Seas;

But what is she, whose streaming bars roll out before the breeze.

Ah! well her iron ribs are knit, whose thunders strive to

quell

The bellowing throats, the blazing lips that pealed the Armada's knell!

*

The mist was cleared, a wreath of stars rose o'er the

crimsoned swell,

And wavering from its haughty peak, the cross of England fell!

O, trembling Faith! though dark the morn, a heavenly torch is thine;

While feebler races melt away, and paler orbs decline, Still shall the fiery pillar's ray along thy pathway shine, To light the chosen tribe that sought this Western Palestine!

I see the living tide roll on, it crowns with flaming towers The icy capes of Labrador, the Spaniard's "land of flowers;"

It streams beyond the splintered ridge that parts the Northern showers

From eastern rock to sunset wave the Continent is ours!

*The Spanish Armada was a famous naval armament sent by Philip II. of Spain against England, in 1588. It was dispersed and in great part destroyed by the English fleet and by storms.

MARCO BOZZARIS

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK

Just ninety years ago, 1823, Greece was engaged in a desperate, but what proved to be a fruitless struggle for liberty. The popular hero of that war was Bozzaris (Bot sar' es) whose heroic death is the theme of Halleck's fine poem. And now ninety years later when the Balkan Allies, after a brief but brilliant war, have won their freedom from the Turk, and while Greece is still mourning and at the same time vaunting her fallen sons, it is worth while to think of that other Greek patriot-the one who died in that wild night attack at Carpenisi, August 20, 1823.

At midnight, in his guarded tent,

The Turk lay 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,

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 Plataea's day;

And now, there breathed that haunted air
The sons of sires who conquered there,
With arms 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,

"To arms! They come the Greek! the Greek!"
He woke to die 'mid flame and smoke,
And shout, and groan, and saber-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 the 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 when she feels
For the first time her first-born's breath;
Come when the blessed seals

Which close the pestilence are broke,
And crowded cities wail its stroke;
Come in consumption's ghastly form,
The earthquake's 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.

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'sOne of the few, the immortal names,

That were not born to die.