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5. Old Greece lightens up with emotion!
Her inlands, her isles of the ocean,
Our hearths shall be kindled in gladness,
That were cold, and extinguished in sadness;
When the blood of yõn Mussulman cravens
128. MARCO BOZZARIS.
T midnight, in his guarded tent,
The Turk was dreaming of the hour
Should tremble at his power;
In dreams, his song of triumph heard ;
As Eden's garden bird.
Bozzaris : ranged his Suliote band,
Heroes in heart and hand.
There had the glad earth drunk their blood | Hěl' i con, a famous mountain here described, in which, with a in Bæotia, in Greece, from which handful of five hundred Suliotes, at flows a fountain, and where resided midnight, August 20th, 1823, he thie Muscs.
surprised a Turkish army of twenty ? Marco Bozzaris, (bởt' så rls), a thousand men, fought his way to the Suliote of Arnaout and Greek descent, very tent of the commander-in-chief, was born in 1789. He was early in- and was killed by a random slot, volved in revolutionary movements. while making the pasha prisoner. His most brilliant exploit is the one The victory, however, was complete.
On old Platæa's' day;
As quick, as far as they.
That bright dream was his last ;
And death-shots falling thick and fast
Bozzaris cheer his band :
God-and your native land!
They piled that ground with Moslem slain;
Bleeding at every vein.
And the red field was won ;
Like flowers at set of sun.
Come to the mother, when she feels,
Come when the blessed seals
The earthquake's shock, the ocean's storm ; 1 Platæa, (plå té’d), a ruined city feated and nearly annihilated the of Greece. Near it, B. C. 479, the grand Persian army, under MarGreeks, under Pausanias, totally de- donius, who was killed in the action.
Come when the heart beats high and warm
With banquet-sõng, and dance, and wine,-
Of agony, are thine.
Has won the battle for the free,
The thanks of millions yet to be.
Greece nurtured in her glory's time,
Even in her own proud clime.
We tell thy doom without a sigh ;
HALLECK. Fitz-GREENE HALLECK was born at Guilford, in Connecticut, August, 1795, and at the age of eighteen entered the banking-house of Jacob Barker, in New York, with which he was associated several years, susequently performing the duties of a book-keeper in the private office of John Jacob Astor. Soon after the decease of that noted millionaire, in 1848, he retired to his birth-place, where he has since resided. He evinced a taste for poetry and wrote verses at a very early period. “Twilight,” his first offering to the “Evening Post," appeared in October, 1818. The year following he gained his first celebrity in literature as a town wit, by producing, with his friend Drake, several witty and satirical pieces, which appeared in the columns of the “Evening Post” with the signature of Croaker & Co.; and his fame was fully established by the publication of a vol. ume of his poems in 1827. His poetry is characterized by its music and perfection of versification, and its vigor and healthy sentiment.
129. THE CLOSING YEAR.
VIS midnight's holy hour—and silence now
The still and pulseless world. Hark! on the winds
Of the departed year. No funeral train
Göne from the earth forever. 2.
'Tis a time For memory and for tears. Within the deep, Still chambers of the heart, a specter dim, Whose tones are like the wizard voice of Time, Heard from the tomb of ages, points its cold And solemn finger to the beautiful And holy visions that have passed ăway, And left no shadow of their loveliness On the dead waste of life. That specter lifts The coffin-lid of Hope, and Joy, and Love, And, bending mournfully above the pale, Sweet forms that slumber there, scatters dead flowers
O'er what has passed to nothingness. 3.
Has gone, and with it, many a glorious throng
And reckless shout resounded. 4.
It passed o'er The battle-plain, where sword, and spear, and shield,
Flashed in the light of mid-day,—and the strength
In the dim land of dreams. 5.
Remorseless Time! Fierce spirit of the glass and scythe!- what power Can stay him in his silent course, or melt His iron heart to pity? On, still on He presses, and forever. The proud bird, The condor of the Andes, that can soar Through heaven's unfathomable depths, or brave The fury of the northern húrricane, And bathe his plumage in the thunder's home, Furls his broad wings at nightfall, and sinks down To rest upon his mountain crag,—but Time Knows not the weight of sleep or wearinèss, And night's deep darkness has no chain to bind
His rushing pinions. 6.
sweep O’er earth, like troubled visions o'er the breast Of dreaming sorrow; cities rise and sink, Like bubbles on the water ; fiery isles Spring blazing from the ocean, and go back To their mysterious caverns; mountains rear To heaven their bald and blackened cliffs, and bow Their tall heads to the plain ; new empires rise, Gathering the strength of hòary centuries, And rush down like the Al'pine avalanche, Startling the nations,—and the věry stars, Yön bright and burning blazonry of God, Glitter a while in their eternal depths, And, like the Pleiad, loveliëst of their train, Shoot from their glórious spheres, and pass away, To darkle in the trackless void : yět TimeTime, the tomb-builder, holds his fierce career, Dark, stern, all-pitiless, and pauses not