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In dreams, through camp, and court, he bore | The trophies of a conqueror ; |
In dreams his song of triumph heard ;a |
As Eden's gardeno-bird. ī
?Bozza'ris rang’d his Suliote band, True as the steel of their tried blades', 1
Heroes in heart, and hand. I
On old Platæ'a's day - 1
As quick, as far as they. |
1 That bright dream was his last ; 1 He woke to hear his sentries shriek
ff" To arms'! they come ! the Greek! the Greek! He woke to die midst fame, and smoke', | And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke,
And death-shots falling thick, and fast,
Bozzaris cheer his band :
God, and your native land" !" ancient Platæa, August 20, 1823, and expired in the moment of victory. His last words were - To die for liberty is a pleasure, and not a pain."
• Triumph heard ; not tri-um'furd. Món'nårks. Går'an. + Pass'd on; not pass-ton'.
They fought like brave men - long, and well'; 1
They pild that ground with Moslem slain. ; They con quer'd – but Bozzaris fell', Bleeding at every vein. I
" , 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 first-born's breath - 1
Come when the blessed seals | That close the pes'tilence, are broke, | And crowded cities wail its stroke, 1 Come in consumption's ghastly form, | The earthquake shock', , the ocean-storm?Come when the heart beats high, and warm, |
With ban quet-song, and dance, and wine – ! "And thou art ler rible -- | the tears, I The groan., | the knell', 1 the pall', i the bier. ; I 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, I *Thy voice sounds like a proph'et's word And in its hollow tones, are heard |
*The thanks of mill'ions yet to be. I
Come in her crown'ing hour — and then
Of sky, and stars to prison'd men : 1
3Thy grasp is welcome as the hand
To the world-seeking Genoese,
Blew o'er the Haytian seas. ||
'Bozzaris !| with the stori'd brave, 1
Greece nurtur'd in her glo'ry's time, | . Res! thee - | 'there is no prouder grave, i
Even in her own proud clime. || She wore no funeral weeds for thee',
Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume 1 Like torn branch from death's leafless tree, In sorrow's pomp, and pa geantry, 1
The heartless luxury of the tomb. 1
But she remembers thee as one
And she, the mother of thy boy's', 1
The mem'ry of her buried joys, I And even she who gave thee birth', i Will. by their pilgrim-circled hearth, 1
Talk of thy doom without a sigh': 1 mf For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's ; 1 One of the few, the imınortal names, i
That were not born to die. I
(CAMPBELL.) Wizard and Lochiel.
WIZARD. Lochiel, Lochiel, beware of the day' || When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array !! For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight', 1 And the clans of Culloden are scatter'd in fight : 1 They rally, they bleed', for their kingdom and crown ; ! Wo, wo 10 the riders that trample them down ! | Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain', i And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain. I But hark !, through the fast-flashing lightning of war, i What steed to the desert flies frantic and far'? | "T is thine', Oh Glenullin! whose bride shall await ! Like a love-lighted watch'-fire, all night at the gate. A steed comes at morning - no ri der is there; But its bridle is red with the sign of despair. 1 Weep', Albin! to death, and captivity led! || ( weep! but thy tears cannot number the dead. :/ For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave', Culloden that reeks with the blood of the brave. I
LOCHIEL Go, preach to the cow'ard, thou death-telling seer!! Or, if gory Cullodrn so dreadful appear, ! Draw, dotaril, around thy old wavering sight, This man tle, , to cover the phantoms of fright. !
WIZARD. Ha ! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn'? || Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn.!!
Say', rush'd the bold eagle, exultingly forth', 1
LOCHIEL. False Wizard, avaunt'! I have marshall'd my clan':| Their swords are a thou'sand ; | their bosoms are one :/ They are true to the last of their blood, and their breath, And like reap'ers, descend to the harvest of death. Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock! Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock' ! | But wo to his kindred, and wo to his cause', | When Albin her claymore indig nantly draws; I When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, Clanronald the dauntless, and Moray the proud ; 1 All plaided, and plum'd in their tartan array
WIZARD. Lochiel, Lochiel, beware of the day ! | For, dark, and despairing, my sight I may seal, 1 Yet man cannot cover what God would reveal,: 1 'T is the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, And coming events cast their shadows before. I I tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring With the bloodhounds that bark for thy fugitive king. I