In dreams, through camp, and court, he bore | The trophies of a con'queror; |
In dreams his song of triumph, heard ; | Then wore his monarch's sig.net-ring; | Then press'd 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, | 'Bozza'ris rang'd his Suliote band True as the steel of their tried blades', | Heroes in heart, and hand. |
There had the Persian's thou'sands stood; | There had the glad earth, drunk their blood, | On old Platæ'a's day― |
And now there breath'd that haunted air, The sons of sires who con'quer'd there, | With arm to strike, and soul to dare, As quick, as far as they. |
'An hour pass'd on the Turk awoke That bright dream was his last; |
He woke to hear his sentries shriek
ff To arms! they come ![the Greek! the ƒfƒGreek`!”| He woke to die, midst flame, and smoke', | And shout, and groan, and sa'bre-stroke, |
And death-shots falling thick, and fast, | As lightnings from the moun'tain-cloud; | And heard, with voice as trumpet-loud, | Bozzaris cheer his band: |
fff" Strike, till the last arm'd foe, expires; | Strike, for your al'tars, and your fires; | Strike for the green graves of your sires. God, and your native land!” |
ancient Platæa, 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."
Triumph heard; not tri-um'furd. b Mon'nårks.
d Pass'd on; not pass-ton'.
They fought like brave men- long, and well; } They pil'd that ground with Moslem slain ; | They con'quer'd 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 That close the pes'tilence, are broke, | And crowded cities, wail its stroke, Come in consumption's ghastly form, | The earthquake shock, the ocean-storm 2Come 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. I
'But to the hero, | when his sword, I Has won the battle for the free, | "Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word; 2And in its hollow tones, are heard,
The thanks of millions yet to be. | Come, when his task of fame' is wrought- Come with her laurel-leaf, | blood-bought Come in her crown'ing hour- and then, "Thy sunken eye's unearthly light, I
To him is welcome as the sight, |
Of sky, and stars to prison'd men: |
Kům rådź, saw; not cum'rades-saw. b Bri'dal; not bri'dle.
"Thy grasp is welcome as the hand, I Of brother in a foreign land; | Thy summons, welcome as the cry | That told the Indian Isles' were nigh, | To the world-seeking Genoese,
When the land-wind, from woods of palm, | And orange-groves, and fields of balm, | Blew o'er the Haytian seas. I
"Bozzaris! with the stori'd brave, | Greece nurtur'd in her glo'ry'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 lov'd, and for a season gone; | For thee her poet's lyre is wreath'd; | Her marble wrought, her music breath'd; | 1 For thee she rings the birth-day bells; | Of thee her babes' first lisping tells; | For thine her evening prayer is said, I At palace-couch, and cottage-bed; | Her soldier, closing with the foe, | Gives, for thy sake, a deadlier blow; | His plighted maiden, when she fears, For him, the joy of her young years, | Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears. And she, the mother of thy boys, | Though in her eye, and faded cheek, I Is read the grief she will not speak', | The mem'ry of her buried joys, | And even she who gave thee birth, | Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth, |
Talk of thy doom without a sigh: |
mf For thou art Free'dom's now', [ and Fame's'; | One of the few, the immortal names, | That were not born to die,. |
LOCHIEL'S WARNING.
(CAMPBELL.)
Wizard and Lochiel.
Lochiel, Lochiel, beware of the day' |
When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array! | For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight', | And the clans of Culloden are scatter'd in fight.:| They rally, they bleed, | for their kingdom and crown'; | Wo, wo to the riders that trample them down! | Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain', | And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain. | But hark! through the fast-flashing lightning of war', | What steed to the desert flies frantic and far? | "T is thine, Oh Glenullin! | whose bride shall await', | Like a love-lighted watch'-fire, all night at the gate. I A steed comes at morning- | no ri'der is there; | But its bridle is red with the sign of despair. | Weep, Albin! | to death, and captiv'ity led!| O weep! but thy tears cannot number the dead: | For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave', | Culloden that reeks with the blood of the brave. I
Go, preach to the cow'ard, thou death-telling seer! | Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear, |
Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight, | This man'tle, to cover the phantoms of fright. |
Ha! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn'? | Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn!!
Say, rush'd the bold eagle, exultingly forth', | From his home in the dark-rolling clouds of the north? | Lo! the death-shot of foemen out-speeding, he rode, I Companionless, | bearing destruction abroad; But down let him stoop from his havoc on high! | Ah! home let him speed, | for the spoiler is nigh. | Why flames the far sum mit? Why shoot to the blast, | Those em bers, | like stars from the firmament, cast? | "T is the fire-shower of ru'in, | all dreadfully driven ̧ | 1 From his eyry, that beacons the darkness of heavn. | O crested Lochiel! | the peerless in might, |
Whose banners arise on the battlements' height, | Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to burn ; | Return to thy dwelling: all lonely return! | For the blackness of ashes, shall mark where it stood, And a wild mother, scream o'er her famishing brood!|
False Wizard, avaunt'! I have marshall'd my clan: | Their swords are a thou'sand; | their bosoms are one: They are true to the last of their blood, and their breath', | And like reap'ers, descend to the harvest of death. | Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock! | Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock! But wo to his kindred, and wo to his cause', | When Albin her claymore indignantly draws; | When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, | Clanronald the dauntless, and Moray the proud ; | All plaided, and plum'd in their tartan array
Lochiel, Lochiel, beware of the day! | For, dark, and despairing, my sight I may seal, Į Yet man cannot cover what God would reveal: | 'Tis the sunset of life, gives me mystical lore, | And coming events, cast their shadows before. I tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring | With the bloodhounds that bark for thy fugitive king'.
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