It flooded the crimson twilight,
Like the close of an angel's psalm,
And it lay on my fevered spirit
With a touch of infinite calm.

It quieted pain and sorrow,
Like love overcoming strife;
It seemed the harmonious echo
From our discordant life.

It linked all perplexed meanings
Into one perfect peace,
And trembled away into silence
As if it were loath to cease.

I have sought, but I seek it vainly,
That one lost chord divine,

That came from the soul of the organ
And entered into mine.

It may be that Death's bright angel
Will speak in that chord again;
It may be that only in heaven

I shall hear that grand Amen.

SUGGESTIVE EXERCISES

1. Why did the author consider the keys noisy in the first stanza?

2. In what sense is "dreaming" used in line 6?

3. Describe as nearly as you can a chord like a great “Amen."

4. Define "Amen."

5. What experience would be necessary before one could recognize an angel's psalm?

6. Why not like the first of the angel's psalm?

7. Explain a "touch of infinite calm."

8. How does love overcome strife?

9. Under what circumstances would the echo of a discordant life become harmonious?

10. Why was the chord lost?

THE LOST CHORD

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11. How was it "divine"?

12. How does the author think of death?

13. Why is such a chord worthy a place in heaven?

14. According to this poem, what is the way to overcome weariness and nervousness?

REFERENCES

He Giveth His Beloved Sleep.

POE: Ulalume. The Haunted Palace.

A Dream within a Dream.

The Happiest Day. The Raven. Israfel.

LANIER: Marshes of Glynn.

LONGFELLOW: Robert Burns. The Old Clock on the Stairs. My Lost Youth.

REALF: Indirection.

EMERSON: On Music.

BROWNING: Abt Volger. Andrea del Sarto.

MOORE: As Slow Our Ship. The Light of Other Days.

RILEY: The Used to Be. The Master's Touch. The Voices.

TOM MOORE: The Harp That Once Through Tara's Hall. Love's Young Dream.

JONES VERY: The Old Road.

DORA SIGERSON: Unknown Ideal.

PRATT: The Lost Genius.

BONAR: The Master's Touch.

STODDARD: It Never Comes Again.

F

MARCO BOZZARIS

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK

OR nearly four hundred years, Greece had endured the hateful Turkish bondage. Every uprising for freedom was crushed with rigorous cruelty. Finally, in 1821, the spirit of liberty flamed into inextinguishable revolt. Lord Byron, with many other lovers of liberty, took an active part in the heroic struggle. The Turks plundered, pillaged, and murdered. In the desperate contest, one-half of the population of Greece is said to have perished, and large tracts of land were devastated. In 1823, in the very heat of this relentless struggle, Marco Bozzaris, patriot of Suli and leader of his Suliote band, during a fierce night attack on the enemy's camp, at Laspi, the site of Old Platæa, fell in the moment of victory with these words on his dying lips, “To die for liberty is a pleasure, and not a pain." His unconquerable spirit fired the hearts of all Europe. FitzGreene Halleck, an American by birth and a patriot at heart, on his visit to Europe caught the spirit of heroic sacrifice of this Greek leader, and heralded it forth to the world in "one of the finest martial lyrics in the language."

MARCO BOZZARIS*

At midnight, in his guarded tent,

The Turk lay dreaming of the hour
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,

Should tremble at his power:

* Used by the courteous permission of the publishers, D. Appleton & Company.

MARCO BOZZARIS

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.

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 blood
In old Platæa's day;

And now, there breathed that haunted air
The sons of sires who conquered there,
With arms to strike, and souls to dare,
As quick, as far, as they.

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 'mid flame and smoke,
And shout, and groan, and saber-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 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,

147

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 blessèd 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;
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 are Freedom's now, and Fame'sOne of the few, the immortal names,

That were not born to die.