At midnight, in the forest's shades,
Bozzaris ranged his Suliot 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!
They fought, like brave men, long and well;
They piled the 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.
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.
We tell 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!
RIENZI'S ADDRESS TO THE ROMANS.
COME not here to talk. You know too well
The story of our thraldom.
The bright sun rises to his course and lights
A race of slaves! He sets, and his last beams
Fall on a slave; not such as swept along
By the full tide of power, the conqueror led
To crimson glory and undying fame:
But-base-ignoble-slaves; slaves to a horde
Of petty tyrants, feudal despots, lords,
Rich in some dozen paltry villages;
Strong in some hundred spearmen; only great
In that strange spell;-a NAME.
Each hour, dark fraud,
Or open rapine, or protected murder,
Cry out against them. But this very day,
An honest man, my neighbor,- there he stands,-
Was struck, struck like a dog, by one who wore
The badge of Ursin; because, forsooth,
He tossed not high his ready cap in air,
Nor lifted up his voice in servile shouts,
At sight of that great ruffian! Be we men,
And suffer such dishonor? men, and wash not
The stain away in blood? Such shames are common,
I have known deeper wrongs; I, that speak to ye,
I had a brother once a gracious boy,
Full of gentleness, of calmest hope,
Of sweet and quiet joy,- there was the look
Of heaven upon his face, which limners give
To the beloved disciple.
That gracious boy! Younger by fifteen years,
Brother at once, and son! He left my side,
A summer bloom on his fair cheek; smile
Parting his innocent lips. In one short hour,
The pretty, harmless boy was slain! I saw
The corse, the mangled corse, and then I cried
For vengeance! ROUSE ye, ROMANS! ROUSE ye, SLAVES!
Have
ye brave sons? Look in the next fierce brawl
To see them die. Have ye fair daughters? Look
To see them live, torn from your arms, distained,
Dishonored; and if ye dare call for justice,
Be answered by the lash.
That sat on her seven hills, and, from her throne
Of beauty, ruled the world! Yet we are Romans!
Why, in that elder day, to be a Roman,
Was greater than a king!
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