As lightnings from the mountain cloud,
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud,

66

Bozzaris cheer his band:

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 the ground with Moslem slain; They conquered, but Bozzaris fell,

Bleeding at every vein.

His few surviving comrades saw

His smile when rang their loud 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 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 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 plain
And orange groves, and fields of balm,
Blew o'er the Haitian 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 poet's lyre is wreathed, Her marble wrought, her music breathed; For thee she rings the birthday bells; Of thee her babes' 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 their pilgrim-circled hearth,

Talk of thy doom without a sigh; For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's, One of the few, th' immortal names

That were not born to die.

ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE

G

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK

REEN be the turf above thee,
Friend of my better days!
None knew thee but to love thee,
Nor named thee but to praise.

Tears fell when thou wert dying
From eyes unused to weep;
And long, where thou art lying,
Will tears the cold turf steep.

When hearts whose truth was proven,
Like thine, are laid in earth,
There should a wreath be woven
To tell the world their worth.

And I who woke each morrow
To clasp thy hand in mine,
Who shared thy joy and sorrow,
Whose weal and woe were thine,

It should be mine to braid it
Around thy faded brow;
But I've in vain essayed it,
And feel I cannot now,

While memory bids me weep thee,
Nor thoughts nor words are free;

The grief is fixed too deeply

That mourns a man like thee.

MEN

SUMMER RAIN

HENRY WARD BEECHER

It is

EN begin to look at the signs of the weather.
long since much rain fell. The ground is a little

The garden

Wheels are

Men specu

dry, and the road is a good deal dusty. bakes. Transplanted trees are thirsty. shrinking and tires are looking dangerous. late on the clouds; they begin to calculate how long it will be, if no rain falls, before the potatoes will suffer; the oats, the corn, the grass everything. To be sure,

nothing is yet suffering, but then —

Will it never stop? washes the garden. drunk their fill.

Rain, rain, rain! All day, all night steady raining. The hay is out and spoiling. The rain The ground is full. All things have The springs revive, the meadows are wet; the rivers run discolored with the soil from every hill. Smoking cattle reek under the sheds. Hens, and fowl in general, shelter and plume. The sky is leaden. The clouds are full yet. The long fleece covers the mountains. The hills are capped in white. The air is full of moisture.

Rain, rain, rain! The wind roars down the chimney. The birds are silent. No insects chirp. Closets smell moldy. The barometer is dogged. We thump it, but it will not get up. It seems to have an understanding with the weather. The trees drip, shoes are muddy, carriage and wagon are splashed with dirt. Paths are soft. So it is. When it is clear we want rain, and when it rains we wish it would shine.