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MARCO BOZZAR/S. 55

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, 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's 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.
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 me...:
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 nigl

To the world-seeking Genoese,
When the land-wind from woods of palm,
And orange groves, and fields of balm,

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,
Norbade 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 poet's lyre is wreathed,
Her marble wrought, her music breathed;
For thee she rings the birthday bells;
Of thee her babe's first lisping tells;
For thee her evening prayer is said
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
Is read the grief she will not speak,
The memory of her buried joys—
And even she who gave thee birth,
Will by her 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.
FITZ. GREENE HALLECK.

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HOU still unravished bride of quietness Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time ! Sylvan historian, who canst thus express 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 2 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—
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone !
Fair youth beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare ;
Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal; yet do not grieve—
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss;
Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair

Ah, happy, happy boughs 1 that cannot shed
Your leaves nor ever bid the Spring adieu ;
And happy melodist, unwearied,
Forever piping songs forever new ;
More happy lovel more happy, happy lovel
Forever warm and still to be enjoyed,
Forever panting and forever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
* That leaves a heart high sorrowful and cloyed,
A burning forehead and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice 2
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea-shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul, to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.

O Attic shapel Fair attitude 1 with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest-branches and the trodden weed

Thou, silent form 1 dost tease us out of thought,

As doth eternity. Cold pastoral
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe

Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st

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EAD ! One of them shot by the sea in the east,
And one of them shot in the west by the seal

Dead both my boys 1 when you sit at the feast,

And are wanting a great song for Italy free,

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

Forever instead.

MOTHER AND POET. 59

What art can a woman be good at 7 Oh, vain
What art is she good at, but hurting her breast
With the milk-teeth of babes, and a smile at the pain P
Ah boys, how you hurt l you were strong as you pressed,
And I proud, by that test.

What art's for a woman 2 to hold on her knees
Both darlings to feel all their arms round her throat
Cling, strangle a little 1 to sew by degrees
And 'broider the long-clothes and neat little coat .
To dream and to doat I

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 1 nay, let them go forth at the wheels
Of the guns, and denied not.—But then the surprise
When one sits quite alonel—Then one weeps, then one
kneels 1
God, how the house feels 1

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 l’”
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.

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