A chambermaid, whose lip and eye, And one, half groom, half seneschal, MAGDALEN. A SWORD, whose blade has ne'er been wet And dreams of knight, and steed, and lance, Born in a camp, its watch-fires bright Alone illumed my cradle-bed; My banner where Bolivar led, Or manhood's pride was on my brow. In Greece, the brave heart's Holy Land, And waited but the sea wind's wings, Her battle, in its frown or smile, Or die with those of Scio's isle; The scene of my boy-years behind, Wherever will'd the breathing wind. To-day there is a change within me, There is a weight upon my brow, And Fame, whose whispers once could win me Of maiden beauty in my dreams, To ocean of the mot tain streams- My heart-the fabled clock of death, 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; In smile and voice, in eye and heart TWILIGHT. THERE is an evening twilight of the heart, We gaze upon them as they melt away, 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. 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, There had the Persian's thousands stood, And now there breathed that haunted air An hour pass'd on-the Turk awokė; And death-shots falling thick and fast 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! 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, With banquet-song, and dance, and wine: And thou art terrible-the tear, The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier; 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. |