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 arm’d 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 conquer'd—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 first-born's breath;

Come when the blessed seals
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 prison'd men:
Thy grasp is welcome as the hand
Of 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 Haytien 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,
Like torn branch from death's leafless tree,
In sorrow's pomp and pageantry,

The heartless luxury of the tomb:
But she remembers thee as one
Long loved and for a season gone.
For thee her poets' lyre is wreathed,
Her marble wrought, her music breathed :
For thee she rings the birthday bells;
Of thee her babes' first lisping tells :
For thine her evening prayer is said
At palace couch, and cottage bed;
Her soldier, closing with the foe,
Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow;
His plighted maiden, when she fears
For him, the joy of her young years,
Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears.

And she, the mother of thy boys,
Though in her eye and faded cheek
Is read the grief she will not speak,

The memory of her buried joys,
And even she who gave thee birth,
Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth,

Talk of 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.




Wild Rose of Alloway! my thanks :

Thou 'mindst me of that autumn noon
When first we met upon “the banks

And braes o' bonny Doon."
Like thine, beneath the thorn-tree's bough,

My sunny hour was glad and brief,
We've cross'd the winter sea, and thou

Art wither'd-flower and leaf.
And will not thy death-doom be mine-

The doom of all things wrought of clay-
And wither'd my life's leaf like thine,

Wild rose of Alloway!

Not so his memory, for whose sake

My bosom bore thee far and long,
His—who a humbler flower could make

Immortal as his song.
There have been loftier themes than his,

And longer scrolls, and louder lyres,
And lays lit up with Poesy's

Purer and holier fires :

Yet read the names that know not death;

Few nobler ones than Burns are there; And few have won a greener wreath

Than that which binds his hair.

His is that language of the heart

In which the answering heart would speak, Thought, word, that bids the warm tear start,

Or the smile light the cheek; And his that music, to whose tone

The common pulse of man keeps time,
In cot or castle's mirth or moan,

In cold or sunny clime.
And who hath heard his song, nor knelt

Before its spell with willing knee,
And listen’d, and believed, and felt

The Poet's mastery?
O’er the mind's sea, in calm and storm,

O'er the heart's sunshine and its showers, O'er Passion's moments, bright and warm,

O’er Reason's dark, cold hours;
On fields where brave men “die or do,”

In halls where rings the banquet's mirth, Where mourners weep, where lovers woo,

From throne to cottage hearth? What sweet tears dim the eyes unshed,

What wild vows falter on the tongue,' When “Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled,"

Or “Auld Lang Syne,” is sung! Pure hopes, that lift the soul above,

Come with his Cotter's hymn of praise, And dreams of youth, and truth, and love,

With “ Logan's” banks and braes. And when he breathes his master-lay

Of Alloway's witch-haunted wall, All passions in our frames of clay

Come thronging at his call. Imagination's world of air,

And our own world, its gloom and glee, Wit, pathos, poetry, are there,

And death's sublimity.

And Burns—though brief the race he ran,

Though rough and dark the path he trod-
Lived-died-in form and soul a Man,

The image of his God.
Through care, and pain, and want, and woe,

With wounds that only death could heal,
Tortures-the poor alone can know,

The proud alone can feel;
He kept his honesty and truth,

His independent tongue and pen,
And moved, in manhood as in youth,

Pride of his fellow-men.
Praise to the bard! his words are driven,

Like flower-seeds by the far winds sown,
Where'er, beneath the sky of heaven,

The birds of fame have flown.

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Praise to the man! a nation stood

Beside his coffin with wet eyes,
Her brave, her beautiful, her good,

As when a loved one dies.
Such graves as his are pilgrim-shrines,

Shrines to no code or creed confined
The Delphian vales, the Palestines,

The Meccas, of the mind.
Sages, with Wisdom's garland wreathed,

Crown'd kings, and mitred priests of power, And warriors with their bright swords sheathed,

The mightiest of the hour;
And lowlier names, whose humble home

Is lit by Fortune's dimmer star,
Are there-o'er wave and mountain come,

From countries near and far;
Pilgrims, whose wandering feet have press’d

The Switzer's snow, the Arab's sand,
Or trod the piled leaves of the West,

My own green forest-land.
All ask the cottage of his birth,

Gaze on the scenes he loved and sung,
And gather feelings not of earth

His fields and streams among. They linger by the Doon's low trees,

And pastoral Nith, and wooded Ayr,
And round thy sepulchres, Dumfries !

The Poet's tomb is there.
But what to them the sculptor's art,

His funeral columns, wreaths, and urns !
Wear they not graven on the heart

The name of Robert Burns ?

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