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THE NORTHERN STAR.

WRITTEN AT TYNEMOUTH, NORTHUMBERLAND,

"THE Northern Star

Sailed o'er the Bar,

Bound to the Baltic Sea :

In the morning gray

She stretched away

'Twas a weary day to me.

"And many an hour,

In sleet and shower,

By the lighthouse rock I stray,

And watch till dark

For the winged bark

Of him that's far away.

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The Northern Star

Is set afar,

Set in the raging sea;

And the billows spread

O'er the sandy bed,

That holds thy love from thee!

LYRE.

THE GIRL AND THE HAWK.

FROM A PICTURE BY NEWTON.

BY ALARIC A. WATTS.

GRACEFUL "Phantom of delight!"
Glorious type of beauty bright!
Such as haunts the poet's vision,
When his dreams are all elysian,—
When his musing fancy brings
Shadows of all lovely things;
And famed Zeuxis' art excelling,
He hath formed a second Helen,-
Wanting but the power of speech,—
From the glowing traits of each!

But she may not vie with thee!-
There's a sweet simplicity
Flitting round thine open brow,
Sporting on thy ripe lips now,
Mantling o'er thy maiden cheek,
(In hues that leave description weak,)
With a brightness all too real
For a poet's beau ideal!

Though an angel's grace is thine,—
Though the light is half divine,
That with chastened lustre flashes
From beneath thine eyes' dark lashes;
Yet thy thoughtful forehead fair,
And that sweetly pensive air,
Speak thee but of mortal birth,
An erring, witching child of earth;
In each varied mood revealing
Human hope, and human feeling.

P

158

THE GIRL AND THE HAWK.

Gladsome now-now vowed to sorrow-
Gay to-day, if sad to-morrow!

Huntress fair, the sport is over,
Wherefore chain thy feathered rover!
Rich, indeed, the prize must be,
That can lure him far from thee!
What to him are hood and jesses,
Tangled in thy glossy tresses?
Dazzled by thy beauty's light,
Can he plume his wings for flight?
Fettered by a smile so bland,
Will he ever leave thy hand?-
No,-let him on thy beauty feed,
And he'll no firmer jesses need.

MARCO BOZZARIS.

BY FITZ GREENE HALLECK.

AT midnight, in his guarded tent,
The Turk was dreaming of the hour
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,
Should tremble at his power:

In dreams, through camp and court, he bore
The trophies of a conqueror;

In dreams his song of triumph heard;

Then wore his monarch's signet ring:

Then pressed that monarch's throne-a king; As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,

As Eden's garden bird.

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 Platæa's day;

And now there breathed that haunted air
The sons of sires who conquered there,
With arm to strike, and soul to dare,

As quick, as far as they.

An hour passed 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 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 that ground with Moslem slain;
They conquered-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.

Come to the bridal chamber, Death!
Come to the mother's, when she feels,

For the first time, her firstborn's breath;
Come when the blesséd seals

160

MARCO BOZZARIS.

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 a 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 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,
A torn branch from death's leafless tree,
In sorrow's pomp and pageantry,
The heartless luxury of the tomb:

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