Puslapio vaizdai
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"You run about my little maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the churchyard laid,
Then ye are only five."

"Their graves are green, they may be seen," The little maid replied,

"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door And they are side by side.

"My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem,
And there upon the ground I sit-
I sit and sing to them.

"And often after sunset, sir,

When it is light and fair, I take my little porringer,

And eat my supper there.

"The first that died was little Jane :
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain,
And then she went away.

"So in the churchyard she was laid;
And all the summer dry,
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.

"And when the ground was white with snow, And I could run and slide,

My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side."

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"But they are dead; those two are dead! Their spirits are in heaven!"

'Twas throwing words away; for still The little maid would have her will,

And said, "Nay, we are seven!"-WORDSWORTH.

CVII.-ANDRE'S REQUEST TO WASHINGTON.

IT is not the fear of death
That damps my brow,

It is not for another breath
I ask thee now;

I can die with a lip unstirr'd,
And a quiet heart-
Let but this prayer
Ere I depart.

be heard

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I can give up my mother's look-
My sister's kiss;

I can think of love-yet brook
A death like this!

I can give up the young fame

I burn'd to win-
All-but the spotless name
I glory in.

Thine is the power to give,
Thine to deny,

Joy for the hour I live-
Calmness to die.

By all the brave should cherish,
By my dying breath,

I ask that I may perish
By a soldier's death!

N. P. WILLIS.

CVIII.-MARCO BOZZARIS.

Marco Bozzaris, the Epaminondas of modern Greece, fell in a night 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, 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,

As Eden's garden bird.

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 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
God, and your native land!"

sires!

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's when she feels
For the first time her first born's breath!
Come when the blessed seals
That 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,

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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!

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.

CIX.-A PSALM OF LIFE.

TELL me not, in mournful numbers
"Life is but an empty dream,"
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest !

And the grave is not its goal; "Dust thou art, to dust returnest," Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,

Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow

Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act, act in the living Present!

Heart within, and God o'erhead!

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