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 had the Persian's thousands stood,
There had the glad earth drunk their blood
On old Platea's day;
And now there breathed that haunted air
The sons of sires who conquer'd there,
With arm to strike, and soul to dare,
As quick, as far as they.
An hour pass'd on-the Turk awoke;
That bright dream was his last;
He woke to hear his sentries shriek,
"To arms! they come ! the Greek! the Greek !”
He woke to die midst flame and smoke,
And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke,
And death-shots falling thick and fast
As lightnings from the mountain-cloud;
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud,
BOZZARIS cheer his band:
"Strike-till the last arm'd foe expires;
Strike---for your altars and your
fires;
Strike---for the green graves of your
God---and your native land!"
They fought---like brave men, long and well;
They piled that ground with Moslem slain;
They conquer'd-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 eyelids close
Calmly, as to a night's repose,
Like flowers at set of sun.
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!
Hymn to the Stars.—ANONYMOUS.
AY! there ye shine, and there have shone
In one eternal hour of prime;
Each rolling, burningly, alone,
Through boundless space and countless time! Ay! there ye shine! the golden dews
That pave the realms by seraphs trod;
There, through yon echoing vault diffuse
The song of choral worlds to God.
Ye visible spirits! bright as erst
Young Eden's birth-night saw ye shine
On all her flowers and fountains first,
Yet sparkling from the hand divine,-
Yes! bright as when ye smiled to catch
The music of a sphere so fair,
Ye hold your high immortal watch,
And gird your God's pavilion there!
Gold frets to dust-yet there ye are :
Time rots the diamond-there ye roll
In primal light, as if each star
Enshrined an everlasting soul!
And do they not? Since yon bright throngs
One all-enlightened Spirit own,
Praised there by pure sidereal tongues,
Eternal, glorious, blest, and lone?
Could man but see what
Unfold awhile the shrouded past,
From all that is, to what has been
The glance how rich, the range how vast!
The birth of time; the rise; the fall
Of empires; myriads, ages flown;
Thrones, cities, tongues, arts, worships, all
The things whose echoes are not gone!
Ye saw red Zoroaster send
His soul into your mystic reign: Ye saw the adoring Sabian bend, The living hills his mighty fane;
Beneath this blue and beaming sky,
He worshipped at your lofty shrine,
And deemed he saw with gifted eye,
The Godhead in his works divine.
And there ye shine, as if to mock
The children of an earthly sire :
The storm, the bolt, the earthquake's shock,
The red volcano's cataract fire;
Drought, famine, plague, and blood, and flame
All nature's ills, and life's worst woes,
Are nought to you; ye smile the same,
And scorn alike their dawn and close.
Ay! there ye roll, emblems sublime
Of him whose spirit o'er us moves,
Beyond the clouds of grief and crime
Still shining on the world he loves.
Nor is one scene to mortals given
That more divides the soul and sod,
Than yon proud heraldry of heaven,
Yon burning blazonry of God!
The Passions.-COLLINS.
WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Throng'd around her magic cell;
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possess'd beyond the Muse's painting.
By turns, they felt the glowing mind
Disturb'd, delighted, raised, refined:
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired,
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspired,
From the supporting myrtles round
They snatch'd her instruments of sound;
And, as they oft had heard apart,
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each for Madness ruled the hour-
Would prove his own expressive power.
First, Fear, his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewilder'd laid;
And back recoil'd, he knew not why,
Even at the sound himself had made.
Next, Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire,
In lightnings own'd his secret stings:
In one rude clash he struck the lyre,
And swept, with hurried hands, the strings.
With woful measures, wan Despair-
Low sullen sounds !—his grief beguiled;
A solemn, strange, and mingled air;
'Twas sad, by fits-by starts, 'twas wild.
But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure!
Still it whisper'd promised pleasure,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail.
Still would her touch the strain prolong;
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,
She call'd on Echo still through all her song.
And, where her sweetest theme she chose,
A soft responsive voice was heard at every close;
And Hope, enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden hair.
And longer had she sung-but with a frown,
Revenge impatient rose.
He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down;
And, with a withering look,
The war-denouncing trumpet took,
And blew a blast, so loud and dread,
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe;
And, ever and anon, he beat
The doubling drum with furious heat.
And though, sometimes, each dreary pause between, Dejected Pity, at his side,
Her soul-subduing voice applied,
Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien;
While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from
Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd;
Sad proof of thy distressful state!
Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd:
And, now, it courted Love; now, raving call'd on Hate
With eyes upraised, as one inspired,
Pale Melancholy sat retired;
And, from her wild sequester'd seat,
In notes by distance made more sweet,
Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul:
And, dashing soft, from rocks around,
Bubbling runnels join'd the sound.
Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole ; Or o'er some haunted streams, with fond delayRound a holy calm diffusing,
Love of peace and lonely musing—
In hollow murmurs died away.
But, ob, how alter'd was its sprightlier tone!
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,
Her bow across her shoulders flung,
Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew,
Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung ;
The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known!
The oak-crown'd sisters, and their chaste-eyed queen,
Satyrs, and sylvan boys, were seen,
Peeping from forth their alleys green;
Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear;
And Sport leap'd up, and seized his beechen spear
Last, came Joy's ecstatic trial.
He, with viny crown advancing,
First to the lively pipe his hand address'd;
But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol,
Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best.
They would have thought, who heard the strain,
They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maids,
Amid the festal-sounding shades,
To some unwearied minstrel dancing;
While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings,
Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round-
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound;
And he, amid his frolic play,
As if he would the charming air repay.
Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.
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