O say, amid this wilderness of life,
What bosom would have throbbed like thine for me? Who would have smiled responsive? who in grief, Would e'er have felt, and, feeling, grieve like thee?
Who would have guarded, with a falcon eye,
Each trembling footstep, or each sport of fear?
Who would have marked my bosom bounding high,
And clasped me to her heart, with love's bright tear?
Who would have hung around my sleepless couch,
And fanned, with anxious hand, my burning brow?
Who would have fondly pressed my fevered lip,
In all the agony of love and woe?
None but a mother-none but one like thee,
Whose bloom has faded in the midnight watch,
Whose eye, for me, has lost its witchery,
Whose form has felt disease's mildew touch.
Yes, thou hast lighted me to health and life,
By the bright lustre of thy youthful bloom,
Yes, thou hast wept so oft o'er every grief,
That woe hath traced thy brow with marks of gloom.
O then, to thee, this rude and simple song,
Which breathes of thankfulness and love for thee,
To thee, my mother, shall this lay belong,
Whose life is spent in toil and care for me.
I HAVE passed o'er the earth ir the darkness of night,
I have walked the wild winds in the morning's broad light;
I have paused o'er the bower where the infant lay sleeping,
And I've left the fond mother in sorrow and weeping.
My pinion was spread, and the cold dew of night,
Which withers and moulders the flowers in its light,
Fell silently o'er the warm check in its glow,
And I left it there blighted, and wasted, and low;
I culled the fair bud, as it danced in its mirth,
And I left it to moulder and fade on the earth.
I paused o'er the valley, the glad sounds of joy
Rose soft through the mist, and ascended on high;
The fairest were there, and I paused in my flight,
And the deep cry of wailing broke wildly that night.
I stay not to gather the lone one to earth,
I spare not the young in their gay dance of mirth,
But I sweep them all on to their home in the grave,
I stop not to pity-I stay not to save.
[He fell in an attack upon the Turkish camp at Laspi, the site of the ancient Platæa, August 20, 1823, and expired in the moment of victory. His last words were-"To die for liberty is a pleasure, and not a pain."]
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,
An hour passed on-the Turk awoke ;
That bright dream was his last;
He woke 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 ali 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, the immortal names,
That were not born to die.
WEEHAWKEN! in thy mountain scenery yet,
All we adore of Nature, in her wild
And frolic hour of infancy, is met;
And never has a summer's morning smiled
Upon a lovelier scene, than the full eye
Of the enthusiast revels on-when high,
Amid thy forest solitudes, he climbs
O'er crags that proudly tower above the deep, And knows that sense of danger, which sublimes The breathless moment-when his daring step Is on the verge of the cliff, and he can hear The low ash of the wave with startled car,
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