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2.

3.

127. SONG OF THE GREEKS, 1822.
GAIN to the battle, Achaians!'

AG

Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance;

Our land, the first garden of Liberty's tree,

It has been, and shall yet be, the land of the free;
For the cross of our faith is replanted,

The pale dying crescent is daunted,

And we march that the footprints of Mahomet's' slaves
May be wash'd out in blood from our forefathers'
Their spirits are hovering o'er us,

And the sword shall to glory restore us.

Ah! what though no succor advances,

Nor Christendom's chivalrous lances

graves

Are stretch'd in our aid?-Be the combat our own!
And we'll perish or conquer more proudly alone;
For we've sworn by our country's assaulters,
By the virgins they've dragg'd from our altars,
By our massacred patriots, our children in chains,
By our heroes of old, and their blood in our veins,
That, living, we will be victorious,

Or that, dying, our deaths shall be glorious.

A breath of submission we breathe not:

The sword that we've drawn we will sheathe not:
Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid,
And the vengeance of ages has whetted its blade.

Earth may hide, waves engulf, fire consume us;
But they shall not to slavery doom us:
If they rule, it shall be o'er our ashes and graves:-
But we've sinote them already with fire on the waves,
And new triumphs on land are before us;-

To the charge!-Heaven's banner is o'er us.

Achaians (a ka' anz), the people of Achaia, a department of the king dom of Greece. MAHOMEт, a false prophet of Arabia, who, by the mere force of his genius and his convictions, subdued many nations to his religion, his laws, and his scepter; and whose authority at the present time is acknowledged by nearly two hundred millions of souls. He was born in 570, and died on the 8th of June, 632.- Chivalrous (shiv' al rus).

5.

This day-shall ye blush for its story; Or brighten your lives with its glory ?-— Our women-oh, say, shall they shriek in despair, Or embrace us from conquest, with wreaths in their hair? Accursed may his memory blacken,

If a coward there be that would slacken

Till we've trampled the turban, and shown ourselves worth Being sprung from, and named for, the god-like of earth. Strike home!-and the world shall revere us

As heroes descended from heroes.

Old Greece lightens up with emotion !

Her inlands, her isles of the ocean,

Fanes rebuilt, and fair towns, shall with jubilee ring,
And the Nine shall new hallow their Helicon's' spring.
Our hearths' shall be kindled in gladness,

That were cold, and extinguish'd in sadness;
Whilst our maidens shall dance with their white waving arms,
Singing joy to the brave that deliver'd their charms,—

When the blood of yon Mussulman cravens
Shall have crimson'd the beaks of our ravens!

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

1.

Α ́

128. MARCO BOZZARIS.

T 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 press'd that monarch's throne,—a king;

As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,

As Eden's garden bird. ·

'Helicon (hel' e kon), a famous mountain in Boeotia, in Greece, from which flows a fountain, and where resided the Muses.- Hearths (hårths). -See Biographical Sketch, p. 137.

2. At midnight, in the forest shades,
Bozzaris ranged his Suliote 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 Platea's' day,

And now, there breathed that haunted air
The sons of sires who conquer'd there,
With arm to strike, and soul to dare,
As quick, as far as they.

8. An hour pass'd 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 saber-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!"

4. 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 huzza,

'Platæa (plå tè'a), a ruined city of Greece, in Boeotia, seven miles 8 W. of Thebes. Near it, B. c. 479, the Geeks, under Pausanias, totally defeated and nearly annihilated the grand Persian army, under Mardonius, who was killed in the action. Here, also, fell MARCO Bozzaris, in an attack upon the Turkish camp, August 20th, 1823, and expired in the moment of victory. His last words were: "To DIE FOR LIBERIY IS A PLEASURE, NOT A PAIN

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.

5. 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 blessèd seals
That close the pestilence are broke,
And crowded cities wail its stroke;
Come in consumption's ghastly form,
The earthquake's shock, the ocean's 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.

6. 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 glōry'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!

HALLECK.

FITZ-GREENF 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, subsequently 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 birthplace, 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 volume of his poems in 1827. His poetry is characterized by its music and perfection of versification, and its vigor and healthy sentiment

129. CONVERSATIONS AFTER MARRIAGE.1

Enter LADY TEAZLE and SIR PETER.'

Sir Peter. Lady Teazle, Lady Teazle, I'll not bear it!

Lady Teazle. [Right.] Sir Peter, Sir Peter, you may bear it or not, as you please; but I ought to have my own way in every thing; and what's more, I will too. What! though I was educated in the country, I know very well that women of fashion in London are accountable to nobody after they are married.

Sir P. [Left.] Věry well, ma'am, very well-so a husband is to have no influence, no authority?

Lady T. Authority! No, to be sure:-if you wanted authority over me, you should have adopted me, and not married me; I am sure you were old enough.

Sir P. Old enough!-ay-there it is. Well, well, Lady Teazle, though my life may be made unhappy by your temper, I'll not be ruined by your extravagance.

Lady T. My extravagance! I'm sure I'm not more extravagant than a woman ought to be.

Sir P. No, no, madam, you shall throw away no more sums on such unmeaning luxury. 'Slife! to spend as much to furnish your dressing-room with flowers in winter as would suffice to turn the Pantheon3 into a green-house.

Lady T. Lord, Sir Peter, am I to blame, because flowers are dear in cold weather? You should find fault with the climate, and not with me. For my part, I'm sure, I wish it was spring all the year round, and that roses grew under our feet!

Sir P. Zounds! madam-if you had been born to this, I

From "The School for Scandal."-The following conversations are admirable exercises in Personation, see p. 60.- Pan the' on, a magnificent temple at Rome, dedicated to all the gods. It is now converted into a church. It was built or embellished by AGRIPPA, son-in-law to Augustus, is of a round or cylindrical form, with a spherical dome, and 144 feet in diameter.