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, And now there breathed that haunted air An hour passed on-the Turk awoke: "To arms!—they come! the Greek! the Greek!" And death-shots falling thick and fast "Strike-till the last armed foe expires; 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, Then saw in death his eyelids close, Like flowers at set of sun. Come to the bridal chamber, Death! That close the pestilence are broke, The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier; 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 Of sky and stars to prisoned men; To the world-seeking Genoese, 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. Talk of thy doom without a sigh: That were not born to die! A gentle hill its side inclines, Lovely in England's fadeless green, To meet the quiet stream which winds Through this romantic scene, As silently and sweetly still As when, at evening, on that hill, While summer's wind blew soft and low, Seated by gallant Hotspur's side, Gaze on the Abbey's ruined pile: Still tells, in melancholy glory, The Percy's proudest border-story. That day its roof was triumph's arch; Then rang, from aisle to pictured dome, The light step of the soldier's march, The music of the trump and drum; And babe, and sire, the old, the young, And the monk's hymn, and minstrel's song, And woman's pure kiss, sweet and long, Welcomed her warrior home. Wild roses by the Abbey towers Are gay in their young bud and bloom: They were born of a race of funeral-flowers That garlanded, in long-gone hours, A templar's knightly tomb. He died, his sword in his mailéd hand, On the holiest spot of the Blesséd land, Where the Cross was damped with his dying breath, When blood ran free as festal wine, And the sainted air of Palestine Was thick with the darts of death. Wise with the lore of centuries, What tales, if there be "tongues in trees," Of beings born and buried here! The welcome and farewell, I wandered through the lofty halls From him who once his standard set Glitter the Sultan's crescent moons; To him who, when a younger son, Fought for King George at Lexington, A major of dragoons.' That last half stanza-it has dashed And beasts and borderers throng the way; Men in the coal and cattle line; From Teviot's bard and hero land, From royal Berwick's beach of sand, From Wooller, Morpeth, Hexham, and Newcastle-upon-Tyne. These are not the romantic times So dazzling to the dreaming boy: And leave off cattle-stealing: 1 Hugh, Earl Percy, here referred to, rose to be something more than a major. Born in 1742, and educated at Eton College, he married, unhappily (1764), a daughter of the Earl of Bute; and in 1774 was sent to the American colony. In letters to his father, the Duke of Northumberland, he writes of the country about Boston: "Nature has herself done the work of the landscape gardener; but the climate is more trying than that of England. I have been (July) in both the torrid and frigid zone in the space of twenty-four hours. Sometimes my shirt is a burden; again I need a blanket." The earl, while in Boston, occupied a fine house at the corner of Winter and Tremont streets. In the skirmish at Lexington he covered the retreat of Pitcairn's column, and showed both courage and generalship. He was the father of Thomas Smithson, who was born ont of wedlock, and who founded the Smithsonian Institute at Washington, D. C. Lord Stafford mines for coal and salt, The age of bargaining, said Burke, And not a sabre-blow is given For Greece and fame, for faith and heaven, You'll ask if yet the Percy lives In the armed pomp of feudal state? The present representatives Of Hotspur and his "gentle Kate" Are some half-dozen serving-men In the drab coat of William Penn; A chamber-maid, whose lip and eye, And cheek, and brown hair, bright and curling, And one, half groom, half seneschal, Who bowed me through court, bower, and hall, For ten-and-sixpence sterling. James Gates Percival. AMERICAN. But on Olympian heights shall dwell the devoted forever; There shall assemble the good, there the wise, valiant, and free. A native of Berlin, Conn., son of a country physician, Percival (1795-1857) entered Yale College at sixteen, and, on graduating, began the study of medicine. He tried to establish himself in his profession at Charleston, S. C., but failed, and turned his attention to literature. 1827 he revised the translation of Malte Brun's "Geography," and assisted Noah Webster in his "Dictionary." Oh, then, how great for our country to die, in the In In both instances he quarrelled with his employers. He became a skilful geologist, and was employed in surveys by the States of Connecticut and Wisconsin. His poetry was not a source of profit to him, and he was always poor. An earnest student, he became quite an accomplished linguist. Constitutionally melancholy, he was shy of social distinction, and made few personal friends. His scholarship was remarkable, but unfruitful. He front rank to perish, Firm with our breast to the foe, victory's shout in our ear! Long they our statues shall crown, in songs our memory cherish; We shall look forth from our heaven, pleased the sweet music to hear. |