You'll ask if yet the Percy lives In the armed pomp of feudal state? The present representatives Of Hotspur and his "gentle Kate," Are some half dozen serving men, In the drab coat of William Penn; A chambermaid, whose lip and eye, And cheek, and brown hair, bright and curling, Spoke Nature's aristocracy ; And one, half groom half Seneschal, Who bowed me through court, bower, and hall, From donjon keep to turret wall, For ten-and-sixpence sterling. MARCO BOZZARIS.* 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, True as the steel of their tried blades, There had the Persian's thousands stood, 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, An hour passed on-the Turk awoke; 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; 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, 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, That close the pestilence are broke, 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 wroughtCome, with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought— Come in her crowning hour-and then Thy sunken eye's unearthly light Of sky and stars to prisoned men: That told the Indian isles were nigh |