MARCO BOZZARIS

HALLECK

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK (1790-1867) was an American poet. His beautiful lines to the memory of Burns won high praise from William Cullen Bryant.

NOTE. The heroic Greek chief, Marco Bozzaris, fell in an attack upon the Turkish camp at Laspi in 1823. He died at the moment of victory, 5 and his last words were, "To die for liberty is a pleasure and not a pain." This poem has been called the finest martial lyric in the English language.

At midnight, in his guarded tent,

The Turk was dreaming of the hour
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,
Should tremble at his power;

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.

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There had the Persian thousands stood,
There had the glad earth drunk their blood
On old Platæa'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.

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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 midst flame, and smoke,

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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's, 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.

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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.

Su'liote band: men from Suli in Albania.

Bozzar'is was born at Suli.

- Platæa's day: Laspi was on the site of the ancient Platæ'a, where the Persians were defeated, 479 B.C. Mos'lem: followers of Mohammed; Mussulmans. storied brave: heroes celebrated in story.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW (1807-1882) was born at Portland, Maine. He was graduated from Bowdoin (bo'd'n) College, and at the age of twenty-one became professor of modern languages in the same college. Afterwards he held a similar position at Harvard. He is the most widely known of American poets.

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This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling,
Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms;
But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing
Startles the villages with strange alarms.

Ah! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary,
When the death-angel touches those swift keys!
What loud lament and dismal Miserere

Will mingle with their awful symphonies!

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