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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.

An hour pass'd 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 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, when she feels,
For the first time, her first-born's breath;-
Come when the blessed seals

Which 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,
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

That were not born to die.

names,

HALLECK.

LOVE OF THE COUNTRY.

WELCOME, silence! welcome, peace!
O most welcome, holy shade?
Thus I prove, as years increase,
My heart and soul for quiet made.
Thus I fix my firm belief,

While rapture's gushing tears descend,
That every flower and every leaf
Is moral Truth's unerring friend.

I would not, for a world of gold,
That Nature's lovely face should tire;
Fountain of blessings yet untold;
Pure source of intellectual fire!

Fancy's fair buds, the germs of song,
Unquicken'd 'midst the world's rude strife,
Shall sweet retirement render strong,
And morning silence bring to life.

Then tell me not that I shall grow
Forlorn, that fields and woods will cloy;
From nature and her changes flow
An everlasting tide of joy.

I grant that Summer heats will burn,
That keen will come the frosty night;
But both shall please; and each in turn
Yield Reason's most supreme delight.

Bring me a shrine, and I could kneel
To rural gods, or prostrate fall;
Did I not see, did I not feel,

That one GREAT SPIRIT governs all.
O Heaven, permit that I
may lie

Where o'er my corpse green branches wave; And those who from life's tumults fly,

With kindred feelings press my grave.

BLOOMFIELD

FROM "THE TRAVELLER."

REMOTE, unfriended, melancholy, slow,
Or, by the lazy Scheld, or wandering Po;
Or onward, where the rude Corinthian boor
Against the houseless stranger shuts the door;
Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies,
A weary waste expanding to the skies:
Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see,
My heart, untravell'd, fondly turns to thee;
Still to my brother turns with ceaseless pain,
And drags at each remove a lengthening chain
Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend,
And round his dwelling guardian saints attend;

Bless'd be that spot, where cheerful guests retire
To pause from toil, and trim their evening fire;
Blest that abode, where want and pain repair,
And every stranger finds a ready chair;

Blest be those feasts, with simple plenty crown'd,
Where all the ruddy family around

Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail,
Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale;
Or press the bashful stranger to his food,
And learn the luxury of doing good.

But me, not destined such delights to share,
My prime of life in wandering spent and care;
Impell'd with steps unceasing to pursue

Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view;
That, like the circle bounding earth and skies,
Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies;
My fortune leads to traverse realms alone,
And find no spot of all the world my own.
E'en now, where Alpine solitudes ascend,
I sit me down a pensive hour to spend;
And, placed on high above the storm's career,
Look downward where a hundred realms appear;
Lakes, forests, cities, plains, extending wide,
The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride.
When thus creation's charms around combine,
Amidst the store, should thankless pride repine?
Say, should the philosophic mind disdain

That good which makes each humbler bosom vain?
Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can,
These little things are great to little man ;
And wiser he, whose sympathetic mind
Exults in all the good of all mankind.

Ye glittering towns, with wealth and splendour crown'd,

Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round;
Ye lakes, where vessels catch the busy gale;
Ye bending swains, that dress the flowery vale;
For me your tributary stores combine;
Creation's heir the world, the world is mine.

As some lone miser, visiting his store,
Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er;
Hoards after hoards, his rising raptures fill,
Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still;
Thus to my breast alternate passions rise,
Pleased with each good that Heaven to man supplies;
Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall.
To see the hoard of human bliss so small:
And oft I wish, amid the scene, to find
Some spot to real happiness consign'd,

Where my worn soul, each wandering hope at rest,
May gather bliss, to see my fellows blest.

But where to find that happiest spot below,
Who can direct, when all pretend to know?
The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone
Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own,
Extols the treasures of his stormy seas,
And his long nights of revelry and ease:
The naked negro, panting at the line,
Boasts of his golden sands, and palmy wine,
Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave,
And thanks his gods for all the good they gave;
Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam,
His first, best country, ever is at home.
And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare,
And estimate the blessings which they share,
Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find
An equal portion dealt to all mankind:
As different good, by art or nature given

To different nations, makes their blessings even.
GOLDSMITH.

AN ODE.

WHAT constitutes a State?

Not high-raised battlement or labour'd mound,
Thick wall or moated gate;

Not cities proud with spires and turrets crown'd,

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