The evening telegraph. [volume] (Philadelphia [Pa.]) 1864-1918, 1867-12-03
MARCO BOzzARIS.
BY FIT1 aRHFNn HArLpCT,

BY FITz GREENE HALLRCK
At midnight, in bis guarded tent.
The Turk was dreaming of the hour
When Greece, her knee In suppliance bent
Should tremble at his power;
IN IN dreams, through camp and court, he bore
The trophies OF conqueror;
In creams MS song Of triumph hear;
Then wore his monarch's si0pet ring.
Then pressed that monarch's throne-a kingi
AS wild his thoughts, aud gay of wing
AS Edens 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 bad the Persiaps Thousands stood,
There had the glad earth drank their blood
On old Platma's day.
And now there breathed that baunted 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 sentrys shrek:
''To ARMS they come the GREEK the GREEK y
He woke 10 die midst fame and smoke,
And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke.
And death.shots falling thick and fast
AS lighinirgs from the mountain cloud;
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud,
Bozzaris cheers his band:-
"Strike-tin 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 the 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 eyelds close
Calmly, as 10 nights 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 pestileDce are broke,
And crowded cities wall its strokes;
Come In consumption's ghastlY form,
The earthquake shock, the ocean storm;
Come, when the heart beats high and warm,
With bsDquet-song aud dance and wine
And thou art terrible: the tear,
The gToan, the knell, the pail, the bier,
And all we know, or dream, or fear
Ot agony, are thine.
But the Hero, when his sword
Has won the battle for the free,
Thy voice sounds like prophets word,
And 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 browning hour-apd then
Thy sunken eyes 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 foreign land;
Thy summons welcome as the cry
That told the Indian isles were nigh
To the world-seekiLg Genoese,
When the land wind, from woods of palm,
And orange groves, and fields of balm,
Blew DER the Haytian seas.
Bozzaris, with the storied brave
Greece nurtured in her glory's time,
Rest thee !-sthere is no prouder grave,
Even in her own proud cline.
She wore no funeral weeds for thee,
Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume,
Like torn branch from deaths leaiess tree
In sorrows pomp and pageantry.
The heartless luxury OF the tomb
But she remembers thee as one
Long-loved, and for q season gone;
For thee her poets Tyre is wreathed,
Her marble wrought, her music breathed;
For thee she rings the birthday 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 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
Is read the grief sue will not speak,
The memory of her buried joys,
And even she who gave thee birth
viii, BY their pilgrim-circled hearth,
Talk of thy doom without sigh;
For thou art freedoms now, and flames
One of the few, the immortal names,
That we're not born to die