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As wild his thoughts, and gay of They conquered - but Bozzaris fell,

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stood,

Bleeding at every vein.

His few surviving comrades saw

His smile when rang their proud hur

rah,

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.

There had the glad earth drunk their Come to the bridal chamber, Death!

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Come to the mother's, when she

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Thy voice sounds like a prophet's And even she who gave thee birth,

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, bloodbought

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
palm,

And orange-groves, and fields of balm, Blew o'er the Haytien seas.

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less 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 poets' lyre 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 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,

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, the immortal names That were not born to die.

BURNS.

WILD rose of Alloway! my thanks; Thou mind'st me of that autumn

noon

When first we met upon "the banks And braes o' bonny Doon."

Like thine, beneath the thorn-tree's bough,

My sunny hour was glad and brief We've crossed the winter sea, and thou

Art withered - flower and leaf.

And will not thy death-doom be mine

The doom of all things wrought of clay?

And withered my life's leaf like thine,

Wild rose of Alloway?

Not so his memory for whose sake

My bosom bore thee far and long, His, who a humbler flower could make

Immortal as his song.

The memory of Burns. -a name

That calls, when brimmed her fes-
tal cup,
A nation's glory and her shame,
In silent sadness up.

A nation's glory-be the rest
Forgot-she's canonized his mind,
And it is joy to speak the best

We may of humankind.

I've stood beside the cottage-bed Where the bard-peasant first drew breath;

A straw-thatched roof above his And who hath heard his song, nor

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Yet read the names that know not death;

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Few nobler ones than Burns are And when he breathes his master-lay

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Of Alloway's witch-haunted wall, All passions in our frames of clay Come thronging at his call.

Imagination's world of air,

And our own world, its gloom and
glee,

Wit, pathos, poetry, are there,
And death's sublimity.

And Burns, though brief the race he

ran,

Though rough and dark the path

he trod

Lived, died, in form and soul a man, The image of his God.

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