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A chambermaid, whose lip and eye,
And cheek, and brown hair, bright and curling,
Spoke nature's aristocracy;

And one, half groom, half seneschal,
Who bow'd ine through court, bewer, and hall,
From donjon-keep to turret wall,
For ten-and-sixpence sterling.

MAGDALEN.

A SWORD, whose blade has ne'er been wet
With blood, except of freedom's foes;
That hope which, though its sun be set,
Still with a starlight beauty glows;
A heart that worshipp'd in Romance
The Spirit of the buried Time,

And dreams of knight, and steed, and lance,
And ladye-love, and minstrel-rhyme;
These had been, and I deemed would be
My joy, whate'er my destiny.

Born in a camp, its watch-fires bright

Alone illumed my cradle-bed;
And I had borne with wild delight

My banner where Bolivar led,
Ere manhood's hue was on my cheek,

Or manhood's pride was on my brow.
Its folds are furl'd-the war-bird's beak
Is thirsty on the Andes now;
I long'd, like her, for other skies
Clouded by Glory's sacrifice.

In Greece, the brave heart's Holy Land,
Its soldier-song the bugle sings;
And I had buckled on my brand,

And waited but the sea wind's wings,
To bear me where, or lost or won

Her battle, in its frown or smile,
Men live with those of Marathon,

Or die with those of Scio's isle;
And find in Valour's tent or tomb,
In life or death, a glorious home.
I could have left but yesterday

The scene of my boy-years behind,
And floated on my careless way

Wherever will'd the breathing wind.
I could have bade adieu to aught
I've sought, or met, or welcomed here,
Without an hour of shaded thought,
A sigh, a murmur, or a tear.
Such was I yesterday—but then
I had not known thee, Magdalen.

To-day there is a change within me,

There is a weight upon my brow,

And Fame, whose whispers once could win me
From all I loved, is powerless now.
There ever is a form, a face

Of maiden beauty in my dreams,
Speeding before me, like the race

To ocean of the mot tain streams-
With dancing hair, and laughing eyes,
That seem to mock me as it flies.
My sword-it slumbers in its sheath;
My hopes their starry light is gone;

My heart-the fabled clock of death,
Beats with the same low, lingering tone:
And this, the land of Magdalen,

Seems now the only spot on earth Where skies are blue and flowers are green

And here I'd build my household hearth, And breathe my song of joy, and twine A lovely being's name with mine. In vain! in vain! the sail is spread;

To sea! to sea! my task is there;
But when among the unmourned dead
They lay me, and the ocean air
Brings tidings of my day of doom,
Mayst thou be then, as now thou art,
The load-star of a happy home;

In smile and voice, in eye and heart
The same as thou hast ever been,
The loved, the lovely Magdalen.

TWILIGHT.

THERE is an evening twilight of the heart,
When its wild passion-waves are lull'd to rest,
And the eye sees life's fairy scenes depart,
As fades the day-beam in the rosy west.
"Tis with a nameless feeling of regret

We gaze upon them as they melt away,
And fondly would we bid them linger yet,

But hope is round us with her angel lay, Hailing afar some happier moonlight hour; Dear are her whispers still, though lost their early power.

In youth the cheek was crimson'd with her glow; Her smile was loveliest then; her matin song Was heaven's own music, and the note of wo Was all unheard her sunny bowers among. Life's little world of bliss was newly born;

We knew not, cared not, it was born to die, Flush'd with the cool breeze and the dews of morn, With dancing heart we gazed on the pure sky, And mock'd the passing clouds that dimm'd its blue, Like our own sorrows then-as fleeting and as few. And manhood felt her sway too-on the eye,

Half realized, her early dreams burst bright, Her promised bower of happiness seem'd nigh, Its days of joy, its vigils of delight; And though at times might lower the thunder-storm, And the red lightnings threaten, still the air Was balmy with her breath, and her loved form, The rainbow of the heart, was hovering there. "Tis in life's noontide she is nearest seen, [green. Her wreath the summer flower, her robe of sunimer

But though less dazzling in her twilight dress,

There's more of heaven's pure beam about her That angel-smile of tranquil loveliness, [now; Which the heart worships, glowing on her brow, That smile shall brighten the dim evening star That points our destined tomb, nor e'er depart Till the faint light of life is fled afar,

And hush'd the last deep beating of the heart The meteor bearer of our parting breath, A moonbeam in the midnight cloud of death.

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MARCO BOZZARIS.*

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 press'd that monarch's throne-a king. As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, As Eden's garden-bird.

At midnight, in the forest shades,

BOZZARIS ranged his Suliote band,
True as the steel of their tried blades,
Heroes in heart and hand.

There had the Persian's thousands stood,
There had the glad earth drunk their bloo
On old Platea's day;

And now there breathed that haunted air
The sons of sires who conquer'd there,
With arm to strike, and soul to dare,
As quick, as far as they.

An hour pass'd on-the Turk awokė;
That bright dream was his last;
He awoke to hear his sentries shriek,
"To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greck
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 arm'd 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 conquer'd-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 firstborn's breath;
Come when the blessed seals
That close the pestilence are broke,
And crowded cities wail its stroke;

He fell in an attack upon the Turkish camp at Laspi, the site of the ancient Platea, August 20, 1823, and expired in the moment of victory. His last words were: "To die for liberty is a pleasure, not a pain."

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. Come, when his task of fame is wroughtCome, with her laurel-leaf, blood-boughtCome in her crowning hour-and then Thy sunken eye's unearthly light To him is welcome as the sight

Of sky and stars to prison'd men: Thy grasp is welcome as the hand Of brother in a foreign land; Thy summons welcome as the cry That told the Indian isles were nigh To the world-seeking Genoese, When the land-wind, from woods of palm, And orange-groves, and fields of balm, Blew o'er the Haytian seas.

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.

She wore no funeral weeds for thee,

Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume, Like torn branch from death's leafless tree, in sorrow's pomp and pageantry,

The heartless luxury of the tomb: But she remembers thee as one Long loved, and for a season gone; For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed, Her marble wrought, her music breathed; For thee she rings the birthday bells; Of thee her babes' first lisping tells: For thine her evening prayer is said At palace couch, and cottage bed; Her soldier, closing with the foe, Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow; His plighted maiden, when she fears For him, the joy of her young years, Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears:

And she, the mother of thy boys, Though in her eye and faded check Is read the grief she will not speak. The memory of her buried joys, And even she who gave thee birth. Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth,

Talk of thy doom without a sigh: For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's, One of the few, the immortal names, That were not In to die.

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