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His few surviving comrades saw
And the red field was won;
Like flowers at set of sun.
Come to the bridal chamber, Death!
Come to the mother, when she feels,
Come when the blessed seals
With banquet-song, and dance, and wine;
Of agony, are thine.
But to the hero, when his sword
Has won the battle for the free,
The thanks of millions yet to be.
Come in her crowning hour-and then
Of sky and stars to prisoned meni
To the world-seeking Genoese,
Flew o'er the Haytian 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,
The heartless luxury of the tomb.
And she, the mother of thy boys,
The memory of her buried joys-
ODE ON A GRECIAN URN.
Ode on a Grecian Urn.
Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time !
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme ! What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these ? what maidens loath ? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape ?
What pipes and timbrels ? What wild ecstasy?
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on-
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone!
Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss; Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair !
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves nor ever bid the Spring adieu ;
Forever piping songs forever new;
Forever panting and forever young;
A burning forehead and a parching tongue.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice ?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn ?
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Mother and Poet.
(Turin, after news from Gaeta, 1861.)
And one of them shot in the west by the sea !
Let none look at me!
Yet I was a poetess only last year,
And good at my art, for a woman, men said; But this woman, this, who is agonized here, - The east sea and west sea rhyme on in her head
MOTHER AND POET.
What art can a woman be good at? Oh, vain !
What art is she good at, but hurting her breast With the milk-teeth of babes, and a smile at the pain ? Ah boys, how you hurt! you were strong as you pressed,
And I proud, by that test.
What art's for a woman? to hold on her knees
Both darlings ! to feel all their arms round her throat
To dream and to doat !
To teach them . . It stings there! I made them, indeed,
Speak plain the word country. I taught them, no doubt, That a country's a thing men should die for at need. I prated of liberty, rights, and about
The tyrant cast out.
And when their eyes flashed . . O my beautiful eyes ! ..
I exulted ! nay, let them go forth at the wheels Of the guns, and denied not.—But then the surprise When one sits quite alone !—Then one weeps, then one kneels!
God, how the house feels!
At first, happy news came, in gay letters moiled
With my kisses,of camp-life and glory, and how They both loved me, and, soon coming home to be spoiled, In return would fan off every fly from my brow
With their green laurel-bough.
Then was triumph at Turin: “ Ancona was free !"
And some one came out of the cheers in the street, . With a face pale as stone, to say something to me.My Guido was dead! I fell down at his feet,
While they cheered in the street.