2. Lo! from the regions of the North, The reddening storm of battle pours; Rolls along the trembling earth,
Fastens on the Olynthian* towers. "Where rests the sword?—where sleep the brave? Awake! Cecropia's ally save
From the fury of the blast;
Burst the storm on Phocis' walls; Rise! or Greece forever falls, Up! or Freedom breathes her last!"
3. The jarring States, obsequious now, View the Patriot's hand on high; Thunder gathering on his brow,
Lightning flashing from his eye! Borne by the tide of words along, One voice, one mind, inspire the throng
"To arms! to arms! to arms!" they cry, "Grasp the shield, and draw the sword, Lead us to Philippi's lord,†
Let us conquer him—or die!"
4. Ah! Eloquence! thou wast undone; Wast from thy native country driven, When Tyranny eclips'd the sun,
And blotted out the stars of heaven. When liberty from Greece withdrew, And o'er the Adriatic flew,
To where the Tiber pours his urn, She struck the rude Tarpeiant rock; Sparks were kindled by the shock- Again thy fires began to burn!
5. Now shining forth, thou mad'st compliant The Conscript Fathers to thy charms; Rous'd the world-bestriding giant,
Sinking fast in Slavery's arms!
I see thee stand by Freedom's fane, Pouring the persuasive strain,
* Olynthus was a celebrated town of Macedonia, which was destroyed by Philip, and the inhabitants sold for slaves.
+ Philip, king of Macedon.
The Tarpeian rock is a hill at Rome, about 80 feet in perpendicular height, whence condemned criminals were sometimes thrown.
Giving vast conceptions birth; Hark! I hear thy thunder's sound, Shake the Forum round and round- Shake the pillars of the earth!
6. First-born of Liberty divine!
Put on Religion's bright array; Speak! and the starless grave shall shine The portal of eternal day!
Rise, kindling with the orient beam; Let Calvary's hill inspire the theme!
Unfold the garments roll'd in blood! O touch the soul, touch all her chords, With all the omnipotence of words,
And point the way to Heaven-to God.
LESSON CLXXVII.
Death of Marco Bozzaris.*—HALLECK.
1. 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.
2. An hour passed on-the Turk awoke; That bright dream was his last;
He woke to hear his sentry's 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,
* He fell in an attack upon the Turkish Camp at Laspi, the site of the ancient Platea, August 20, 1823, and expired in the moment of victory. His last words were-" To die for liberty is a pleasure, not a pain."
"Strike-till the last armed foe expires, Strike-for your altars and your fires, Strike-for the green graves of your sires, God-and your native land!"
3. 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, 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.
4. Come to the bridal chamber, Death! Come to the mother, when she feels For the first time her first-born's breath ;- Come when the blessed seals Which 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.
5. 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. 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 Fredom's now, and Fame's- One of the few, the immortal names, That were not born to die.
LESSON CLXXVIII.
Dream of Clarence.-SHAKSPEARE.
1. O, I have passed a miserable night, So full of ugly sights, of ghastly dreams, That, as I am a Christian faithful man, I would not spend another such a night, Though 'twere to buy a world of happy days: So full of dismal terror was the time.
2. Methought that I had broken from the tower, And was embarked to cross to Burgundy,
And in my company my brother Gloucester,* Who from my cabin tempted me to walk
Upon the hatches. Thence we looked toward England, And cited up a thousand heavy times,
During the wars of York and Lancaster,
That had befallen us. As we passed along
Upon the giddy footing of the hatches,
Methought that Gloucester stumbled, and in falling Struck me (that sought to stay him) overboard, Into the tumbling billows of the main.
3. O, then methought, what pain it was to drown! What dreadful noise of waters in my ears! What sights of ugly death within mine eyes! Methought I saw a thousand fearful wrecks; A thousand men that fishes gnawed upon; Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl, Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels;
All scattered in the bottom of the sea.
Some lay in dead men's sculls; and in those holes Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept, As 'twere in scorn of eyes, reflecting gems, That wooed the slimy bottom of the deep,
And mocked the dead bones that lay scattered by. 4. -Often did I strive To yield the ghost; but still the envious flood Kept in my soul, and would not let it forth To find the empty, vast, and wandering air; But smother'd it within my panting bulk, Which almost burst to belch it in the sea. 5. My dream was lengthened after life; O, then began the tempest of my soul;
* Richard III, king of England, in 1483,
I passed, methought, the melancholy flood, With that grim ferryman which poets write of, Unto the kingdom of perpetual night.
The first that there did greet my stranger-soul, Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick, Who cried aloud- "What scourge for perjury Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence?" And so he vanished.
Then came wandering by A shadow like an angel, with bright hair Dabbled in blood, and he shrieked out aloud"Clarence is come, false, fleeting, perjured Clarence, That stabbed me in the field by Tewkesbury; Seize on him, furies! take him to your torments !" With that, methought a legion of foul fiends Environed me, and howled into mine ears Such hideous cries, that with the very noise I trembling waked; and for a season after Could not believe but that I was in hell; Such terrible impression made my dream.
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