Puslapio vaizdai



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 dash 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.

n 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 himThe city bright below; and far away

Sparkling in golden light, his own romantic bay.

Tall spire, and glittering roof, and battlement,
And banners floating in the sunny air;
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 pass'd 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.



[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
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.

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-b orn's breath ;-
Come when the blessed seals

Which close the pestilence are broke,
And crowded cities wail its stroke;

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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 beir,
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, the immortal names,
That were not born to die.



DEEP in the wave is a coral grove,
Where the purple mullet, and gold-fish rove,
Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blue,
That never are wet with falling dew,

But in bright and changeful beauty shine,
Far down in the green and glassy brine.
The floor is of sand, like the mountain drift,
And the pearl shells spangle the flinty snow;
From coral rocks the sea plants lift

Their boughs, where the tides and billows flow;
The water is calm and still below,

For the winds and waves are absent there,
And the sands are bright as the stars that glow
In the motionless fields of upper air;
There with its waving blade of green,
The sea-flag streams through the silent water,
And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen
To blush, like a banner bathed in slaughter:
There with a light and easy motior,

The fan-coral sweeps through the clear deep sea;
And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean
Are bending like corn on the upland lea:



And life, in rare and beautiful forms,
Is sporting amid those bowers of stone,
And is safe, when the wrathful spirit of storms,
Has made the top of the waves his own :
And when the ship from his fury flies,
Where the myriad voices of ocean roar,
When the wind-god frowns in the murky skies,
And demons are waiting the wreck on shore ;
Then far below in the peaceful sea,

The purple mullet, and gold-fish rove,
Where the waters murmur tranquilly,
Through the bending twigs of the coral grove.


Os thy fair bosom, silver lake!
The wild swan spreads his snowy sail,
And round his breast the ripples break,
As down he bears before the gale.

On thy fair bosom, waveless stream!
The dipping paddle echoes far,
And flashes in the moonlight gleam,
And bright reflects the polar star.

The waves along thy pebbly shore,
As blows the north wind, heave their foam,
And curl around the dashing oar,
As late the boatman hies him home.

How sweet, at set of sun, to view
Thy golden mirror spreading wide,
And see the mist of mantling blue
Float round the distant mountain's side.

At midnight hour, as shines the moon,
A sheet of silver spreads below,
And swift she cuts, at highest noon,
Light clouds, like wreaths of purest snow.

On thy fair bosom, silver lake!
O! I could ever sweep the oar,
When early birds at morning wake,
And evening tells us toil is o'er.


I HAD found out a sweet green spot, Where a lily was blooming fair;

The din of the city disturb'd it not, But the spirit, that shades the quiet cot With its wings of love, was there.

I found that lily's bloom
When the day was dark and chill;

It smiled, like a star in the misty gloom,
And it sent abroad a soft perfume
Which is floating around me still.

I sat by the lily's bell,
And watch'd it many a day :-

The leaves, that rose in a flowing swell,
Grew faint and dim, then droop'd and fell
And the flower had flown away.

I look'd where the leaves were laid,
In withering paleness, by;

And, as gloomy thoughts stole on me, said,
There is many a sweet and blooming maid,
Who will soon as dimly die.


HERE rest the great and good-here they repose
After their generous toil. A sacred band,
They take their sleep together, while the year
Comes with its early flowers to deck their graves,
And gathers them again, as winter frowns.
Theirs is no vulgar sepulchre-green sods
Are all their monument, and yet it tells
A nobler history, than pillar'd piles,
Or the eternal pyramids. They need
No statue nor inscription to reveal

Their greatness. It is round them, and the joy

With which their children tread the hallowed ground

That holds their venerated bones, the peace

That smiles on all they fought for, and the wealth

That clothes the land they rescued, these, though mute

As feeling ever is when deepest,-these

Are monuments more lasting, than the fanes

Rear'd to the kings and demigods of old.

Touch not the ancient elms, that bend their shade Over their lowly graves; beneath their boughs

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