Let deserts wrap the glorious dead, When their bright land sits weeping o'er her chains : Here, where the Persian clarion rung, And where the Spartan sword flashed high, And where the Pæan strains were sung, From year to year swelled on by liberty! Here should no voice, no sound, be heard, Save of the leader's charging word, Or the shrill trumpet, pealing up through heaven! Rest in your silent homes, ye brave! Felicia Hemans. MARCO BOZZARIS. MARCO BOZZARIS, the Epaminondas of modern Greece, fell in a nightattack 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, and not a pain." A T midnight, in his guarded tent, The Turk was dreaming of the hour When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, In dreams, through camp and court, he bore In dreams his song of triumph heard; As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, At midnight, in the forest shades, a king; There had the Persian's thousands stood, And now there breathed that haunted air An hour passed on, the Turk awoke: He woke to hear his sentries 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 "Strike-till the last armed foe expires; 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 hurra, And the red field was won; Then saw in death his eyelids close 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 blessed 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, But to the hero, when his sword Has won the battle for the free, The thanks of millions yet to be. Come when his task of fame is wrought; Of sky and stars to prisoned men; 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. Talk of thy doom without a sigh; That were not born to die. Fitz-Greene Halleck. Salamis (Kolouri), the Island. THE BATTLE OF SALAMIS. NOME evil god, or an avenging spirit, SOME Began the fray. From the Athenian fleet There came a Greek, and thus thy son bespoke : |