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There had the glad earth drunk their blood
On old Platea's day :
And now there breathed that haunted air
The sons of sires who conquered there,
With arm to strike, and soul 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 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 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 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'sOne of the few, the immortal names, That were not born to die.
On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.
By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,
Each horseman drew his battle blade,
And furious every charger neighed,
To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
Then rushed the steed to battle driven,
And louder than the bolts of heaven,
Far flashed the red artillery.
And redder yet those fires shall glow,
On Linden's hills of blood-stained snow,
And darker yet shall be the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
'Tis morn; but scarce yon lurid sun
Can pierce the war-clouds rolling dun,
Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun,
Shout in their sulphurous canopy.
The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory, or the grave!
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave
And charge with all thy chivalry!
Few, few shall part where many meet!
The snows shall be their winding sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet,
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.*
SATAN CALLING THE FALLEN ANGELS.-Milton. P. L. B. 1.
He scarce had ceased, when the superior fiend
Was moving tow'rd the shore; his pondrous shield
(Ethereal temper, massy, large, and round)
Behind him cast! the broad circunference
Hung on his shoulders, like the moon, whose orb,
Thro' optic glass, the Tuscan artist views,
At evening, from the top of Fiesole,
Or in Valdarno, to descry new lands,
Rivers, or mountains, in her spotty globe.
*The above poem has been variously printed in different editions: the Editor has chosen the reading he considers most spirited and elegant.
His spear (to equal which the tallest pine
Hewn on the Norwegian hills, to be the mast
Of some great ammiral, were but a wand)
He walked with, to support uneasy steps
Over the burning marl-(not like those steps
On heaven's azure!)—and the torrid clime
Smote on him sore besides, vaulted with fire.
Naithless he so endured, till on the beach
Of that inflamed sea he stood, and called
His legions; angel forms, who lay, entranced,
Thick as autumnal leaves that strow the brooks
In Vallombrosa, where the Etrurian shades,
High over-arched, imbower; or scattered sedge.
Afloat, when, with fierce winds, Orion, armed,
Hath vexed the Red Sea coast-whose waves o'erthrew
Busiris and his Memphian chivalry,
While with perfidious hatred they pursued
The sojourners of Goshen-who beheld,
From the safe shore, their floating carcasses
And broken chariot wheels: so, thick bestrown,
Abject, and lost, lay these, covering the flood,
Under amazement of their hideous change.
He called so loud, that all the hollow deep
Of hell resounded.
Warriors! the flower of heaven, once yours, now lost, If such astonishment as this can seize
Eternal spirits; or have ye chosen this place,
After the toil of battle, to repose
Your wearied virtue,-for the ease you find
To slumber here, as in the vales of heaven?
Or in this abject posture have ye sworn
To adore the conqueror? who now beholds
Cherub and Seraph rolling in the flood,
With scattered arms and ensigns; till, anon,
His swift pursuers, from heaven-gates, discern
The advantage, and, descending, tread us down,
Thus drooping; or, with linked thunderbolts,
Transfix us to the bottom of this gulf.
-Awake! arise !-or be forever fallen!"
OTHELLO'S ADDRESS TO THE VENETIAN SENATE.
Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors,
My very noble and approved good masters;
That I have taken away this old man's daughter,
It is most true; true, I have married her ;-
The very head and front of my offending
Hath this extent-no more. Rude am I in speech,
And little blessed with the set phrase of peace;
For since these arms of mine had seven years pith,
'Till now, some nine moons wasted, they have used
Their dearest action in the tented field;
And little of this great world can I speak
More than pertains to feats of broil and battle;
And, therefore, little shall I grace my cause,
In speaking for myself; yet, by your patience,
I will a round unvarnished tale deliver
Of my whole course of love: what drugs, what charms, What conjuration, and what mighty magic,
(For such proceeding I am charged withal)
I won his daughter with.
Her father loved me; oft invited me;
Still questioned me the story of my life,
From year to year; the battles, sieges, fortunes,
That I have past.
I run it thro', even from my boyish days,
To the very moment that he bade me tell it :
Wherein I spoke of most disastrous chances;
Of moving accidents, by flood and field;
Of hair-breadth 'scapes in the imminent deadly breach;
Of being taken by the insolent foe,