They fought, like brave men, long and well, They piled that 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, 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 names,
That were not born to die.
Weehawken.-F. G. HALLECK.
WEEHAWKEN! in thy mountain scenery yet,
All we adore of Nature, in her wild
And frolic hour of infancy, is met;
And never has a summer's morning smiled
Upon a lovelier scene, than the full eye
Of the enthusiast revels on-when high,
Amid thy forest solitudes, he climbs
O'er crags that proudly tower above the deep,
And knows that sense of danger, which sublimes
The breathless moment-when his daring step
Is on the verge of the cliff, and he can hear
The low dash of the wave with startled ear,
Like the death-music of his coming doom,
And clings to the green turf with desperate force, As the heart clings to life; and when resume
The currents in his veins their wonted course,
There lingers a deep feeling, like the moan
Of wearied ocean, when the storm is gone.
In such an hour, he turns, and on his view,
Ocean, and earth, and heaven, burst before himClouds slumbering at his feet, and the clear blue
Of summer's sky, in beauty bending o'er him
The city bright below; and far away,
Sparkling in golden light, his own romantic bay.
Tall spire, and glittering roof, and battlement,
And banners floating in the sunny air,
And white sails o'er the calm blue waters bent,
Green isle, and circling shore, are blended there,
In wild reality. When life is old,
And many a scene forgot, the heart will hold
Its memory of this; nor lives there one,
Whose infant breath was drawn, or boyhood days
Of happiness were passed beneath that sun,
That in his manhood prime can calmly gaze
Upon that bay, or on that mountain stand,
Nor feel the prouder of his native land.
|