صور الصفحة
النشر الإلكتروني

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.

An hour passed on; the Turk awoke ;
That bright dream was his last;

He woke

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to hear his sentry's 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
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 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, 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 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's,-
One of the few immortal names,

That were not born to die.



SPARE, spare the gentle bird,
Nor do the warbler wrong!
In the green wood is heard
Its sweet and gentle song;
Its song so clear and glad

Each listener's heart has stirred;

And none, however sad,

But blessed that happy bird.

And when, at early day,

The farmer trod the dew,

It met him on the way

With welcome blithe and true;
So, when, at early eve,

He homeward wends his way;

For sorely would he grieve
To miss the well-loved lay.

The sick man on his bed
Forgets his weariness,
And turns his feeble head
To list its songs, that bless
His spirit, like a stream
Of mercy from on high.
Of music in the dream

That seals the prophet's eye.

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Oh! laugh not at my words,
To warn your childhood's hours;
Cherish the gentle birds,

Cherish the fragile flowers;
For since man was bereft
Of paradise, in tears,

God the sweet things hath left,
To cheer our eyes and ears.



THERE lived an honest fisherman-
I knew him passing well-
Who dwelt hard by a little pond,
Within a little dell.

A grave and quiet man was he,
Who loved his hook and rod;
So even ran his line of life,

His neighbors thought it odd.

For science and for books, he said,
He never had a wish;

No school to him was worth a fig,
Except a "school" of fish.

This single-minded fisherman

A double calling had,

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To tend his flocks, in winter-time;
In summer, fish for shad.

In short, this honest fisherman
All other toils forsook;

And though no vagrant man was he,
He lived by "hook and crook."

All day that fisherman would sit
Upon an ancient log,

And gaze into the water, like
Some sedentary frog.

A cunning fisherman was he;
His angles all were right;

To charm the fish he never spoke,
Although his voice was fine;
He found the most convenient way
Was just to "drop a line.”

And many a "gudgeon" of the pond,
If made to speak to-day,

Would own, with grief, this angler had
A mighty "taking way."

One day, while fishing on the log,
He mourned his want of luck;
When, suddenly, he felt a bite,
And, jerking, caught a duck!

Alas! that day the fisherman
Had taken too much grog;
And being but a landsman, too,
He couldn't "keep the log."

In vain he strove with all his might,
And tried to gain the shore;
Down, down he went, to feed the fish
He'd baited oft before!

The moral of this mournful tale
To all is plain and clear:
A single "drop too much" of rum
May make a watery bier.

And he who will not "sign the pledge,"
And keep his promise fast,

May be, in spite of fate, a stiff

Cold-water man at last.



SEE, in yon chamber's dim recesses,
A lady kneels with loosened tresses;
A lovely creature, lowly kneeling,
With mournful eyes, and brow of feeling;
One hand before her meekly spreading,
The other, back her ringlets shedding,

That aye come gushing down betwixt
Her eyes and that on which they're fixed.
She shudders! See! Hear how she's sighing!
Can one so young, so fair, be dying?
Is she some favorite saint imploring?
Confessing shame, or God adoring?
Her lustrous, dark eyes, wild are straying;
She bows her head ;- -lo! she is praying.
See, see! before her, slumbering mild,
A fair-haired and a faded child.

He is her son ;- could



Look with those rapt looks, save a mother?
That bosom, which seems nigh the bursting,
Yon child was suckled, nestled, nurst in;
That heart, to God outpoured, and offered, –
Death, for her son, hath three times suffered.
O! of all mortal pangs, there's nought
So dreadful as the death of thought!

He wakes he smiles - looks up-and there
He rises God hath heard her prayer!

Whilst she, 'twixt sobbing, tears, and shrieking,
Clasps him with heart too big for speaking.
She holds him up to God. And now,

Proud priest of Rome! what canst thou do?
In all thy miracles, there's nought
Like that a mother's prayers have wrought.



To him who, in the love of Nature, holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks for his gayer hours

A various language;

She has a voice of gladness, and a smile

And eloquence of beauty; and she glides
Into his darker musings, with a mild

And gentle sympathy, that steals away

Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a blight

Over thy spirit, and sad images

Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,

And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart,-

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