FEATS OF DEATH. I HAVE passed o'er the earth in the darkness of night, My pinion was spread, and the cold dew of night, I paused o'er the valley, the glad sounds of joy 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. FITZGREEN HALLECK. MARCO BOZZARIS. [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."] Ar 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 In dreams, his song of triumph heard; As Eden's garden bird. An hour passed on-the Turk awoke ; "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; BOZZARIS cheer his band ; "Strike-till the last armed foe expires, They fought, like brave men, long and well, Bleeding at every vein. His few surviving comrades saw His smile, when rang their proud hurrah, Then saw in death his eyelids close Like flowers at set of sun. Come to the bridal chamber, Death! Which close the pestilence are broke, 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, The thanks of millions yet to be. 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- That were not born to die. WEEHAWKEN. WEEHAWKEN! in thy mountain scenery yet, And never has a summer's morning smiled 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 ear, Like the death-music of his coming doom, And clings to the green turf with desperate force, As the heart clings to life; and when resume The currents in his veins their wonted course, There lingers a deep feeling, like the moan Of wearied ocean, when the storm is gone. In such an hour, he turns, and on his view, Ocean, and earth, and heaven, burst before him— Clouds slumbering at his feet, and the clear blue Of summer's sky, in beauty bending o'er him The city bright below; and far away, Sparkling in golden light, his own romantic bay. Tall spire, and glittering roof, and battlement, And white sails o'er the calm blue waters bent, Green isle, and circling shore, are blended there, In wild reality. When life is old, And many a scene forgot, the heart will hold Its memory of this; nor lives there one, Whose infant breath was drawn, or boyhood days Of happiness were passed beneath that sun, That in his manhood prime can calmly gaze Upon that bay, or on that mountain stand, Nor feel the prouder of his native land. |