Roll on! no clouds shall on thy waters lie
Darkling: no gloomy thunder-tempest break
Over thy face let the black night-dews fly
Thy smiles, and sweetly let thy murmurs speak
In distance and in nearness: be it thine
To bless with usefulness, with beauty shine,

Thou parent of the waterfall! proud river!
Thou northern thunderer, Suna! hurrying on
In mighty torrent from the heights, and ever
Sparkling with glory in the gladdened sun,
Now dashing from the mountain to the plain,
And scattering purple fire and sapphire rain.
'Tis momentary vehemence; thy course
Is calm and soft and silent: clear and deep
Thy stately waters roll; in the proud force
Of unpretending majesty, they sweep
The sideless marge, and brightly, tranquilly
Bear their rich tributes to the grateful sea.

Thy stream, by baser waters unalloyed,
Washes the golden banks that o'er thee smile;
Until the clear Onega drinks its tide,
And swells while welcoming the glorious spoil:
O what a sweet and soul-composing scene,
Clear as the cloudless heavens, and as serene!

LESSON CLXVIII.

Marco Bozzaris.*-F. G. HALLECK.

AT midnight, in his guarded tent,

The Turk was dreaming of the hour,

* He fell in an attack upon the Turkish camp at Laspi, the site of the ancient Platæa, August 20, 1823, and expired in the moment of

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.
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.

a king;

There had the Persian's thousands stood,
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 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
As lightnings from the mountain-cloud;
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud,
BOZZARIS cheer his band:

victory. His last words were, "To die for liberty is a pleasure, not a pain."

The modern Greeks, like the Italians, pronounce a as in father, and zz like tz. This hero's name, therefore, is pronounced Bot-zah'-ris.

"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 hurra,

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

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,

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.

1

Come, when his task of fame is wrought-
Come, with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought-
Come, in her crowning hour - and then
Thy sunken eye's unearthly light
To him is welcome as the sight

Of sky and stars to prisoned men:
Thy grasp is welcome as the hand
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 Haytien seas.

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 poets' lyre is wreathed, Her marble wrought, her music breathed; For thee she rings the birth-day bells; Of thee her babes' first lisping tells : For thine her evening prayer is said At palace couch, and cottage bed; Her soldier closing with the foe, Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow;

たて

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
Is read the grief she will not speak,
The memory of her buried joys,
And even she who gave thee birth,
Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth,
Talk of 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.

LESSON CLXIX.

Song of the Greeks, 1822.-CAMPBELL.
AGAIN to the battle, Achaians!

Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance:

Our land, the first garden of Liberty's tree

It has been, and shall yet be, the land of the free!
For the cross of our faith is replanted;

The pale dying crescent is daunted;

And we march that the foot-prints of Mah'omet's slaves May be washed out in blood from our forefathers' graves. Their spirits are hovering o'er us,

And the sword shall to glory restore us.

Ah! what though no succor advances,

Nor Christendom's chivalrous * lănces

Are stretched in our aid?-Be the combat t our own!
And we'll perish or conquer more proudly alone:
For we've sworn by our country's assaulters,
By the virgins they 've dragged from our altars,

Pron. ch as in church.

† Pron. o as й.