Literary cadet and Rhode-Island statesman. [volume] (Providence, R.I.) 1827-1829, 1827-06-09


zaris, few days since, the poem below, was
recalled to our recollection, and in copying it,
it may no. be improper TO state, that it is found
ed on the following circumstance. Marco
Bozzaris, tho Epaininondas of modern Greece,
" fell in night attack upon the Turkish Camp
at Lasp, the site of the ancient Platea, Au-
gust 20, 1928, and expired in the moment of
victory. His last words were, to die for lib
erty is pleasure, and not pain.'
MARCO BOZZARIs.
At midnight, in his guarded tent
The Turk was dreaming Of the hour
When Greece her knee in supplance bent,
Should tremble at his power;
In dreams, through camp ard 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,- 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.
There had the Pcrsian'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 ear his sentries shrek,
"To arms! they come! the Greek the GreekI'
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-til 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 conquercd-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 nights repoec,
Like flowers at set Of sun.
Come to the bridal chamber, Death!
Come to the mothers, when she feels
For the first time her first-born's breath;-
Come when the blessed seals
Which close the pestilence are broke
Aud crowded cities wall its stroke;
Come in consumption's ghastly form,
The earthquakes shock, the oceans 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 knel, the pail, the bier,
And all we know, or dream, or fear
o, agony, are thine.
But to the hero, when his sword
Has won the battle for the free,
Thy voice sounds like prophets word,
Asa IN it's hollow toups arc heard
The thanks Of millions yet to be.
Conc, when his task Of Fame is wrought
Come, with her laurel-lcaf, blood bought
Come in her crowning hour; and their
Thy sunken eyes unearthly light
To him is welcome as the sight
OF sky and stars 10 prisoned men;
Thy grasp is welcome as the hand
Of brother in foreign land;
Thv summons welcome as the cry
Which told the Indian isles were nigh
To the world-seeking Genoese,
When the land wind, from woods of naIm.
And orange groves, and field of balm,
Blew DER tho Haytien seas,
Bozzarisl with the storicd brave
Greece nurtmcd in her glory's time,
Rest thce--therc is no prouder grave,
Even in her own proud CLINE.
Bhs wore no funeral weeds for thee,
Nor bads the dark hearsc wave lis plume.
Ike torn branch from deaths leaflcss free
n sorrows pemp. and pageantry,
The hearfless luxury Of the tomb;
pnf she remembers thcc as one
Lonk loved. and for a season gone.
Fof thee her poets Tyre is wrcatled,