Sidor som bilder

Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last falt'ring accents whisper'd praise.
At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorn'd the venerable place;
Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway,
And fools who came to scoff remain’d to pray:
The service past, around the pious man,
With ready zeal each honest rustic ran;
Een children follow'd with endearing wile,
And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile:
His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest,
Their welfare pleas'd him, and their cares distrest;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs, were givin,
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heav'n: ,
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale and midway leaves the storm,
Tho'round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on its head.


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 boro
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.

An hour passed on-the Turk awoke;

That bright dream was his last;
He woke-lo hear his sentry's shriek,

" To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek py
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 armed 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 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 sup.

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.

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 glorys' time,
Rest thee—there is no prouder grave, i

Even in her own proud clime.
We tell thy doom without a sigh;
For thou art Freedom's now and Fame'.
One of the few, the immortal names,

That were not born to die.


WHERE Calpe frowns, where Etna flames on high,
Where Mocha's minarets salute the eye;
And where the billows of the ocean roll
Q'er half the globe and flow from pole to polo

Where'er he sail'd o'er Neptune's old domain,
A Briton saw, but with a patriot's pain,
America's proud Flag displayed to view.
Her thirty stars, and in a field of blue
Proclaim'd her freedom to each distant zone;
6 Alas!" he sigh’d, “their ships surpass our own,
And we must tolerate, that rebels thus
On our own element should vie with us.”
When lo! he saw, or thought he saw, arise,
For sleep no doubt had seal'd his angry eyes,
The Genius of the Deep, and heard him say,
Why are ye not high-spirited as they?
To see your younger brothers free and great,
Should rouse your energy, but not your hate;
Brittannia's sons shall ever rule the waves,
But 'tis those sons that are no longer slaves;
They-only they-brave Death in ev'ry form,
And ride in triumph thro’ the impetuous storm;
Who bold in conscious independence stand,
Nor bend the knee to kiss a royal hand;
Subjects are slaves, tho’ in a mild degree;
But only citizens are dear to me;
And them I love the most who most are free,
And give to them the Empire of the Sea.


And now, to issue from the glen,
No pathway meets the wanderer's ken,
Unless he climb with footing nice,
A far projecting precipice;
The broom's tough roots his ladder made,
The hazel saplings lent their aid;
And thus an airy point he won,
Where, gleaming with the setting sun,
One burnish'd sheet of living gold,
Loch-Katrine lay beneath him rolled;
In all her length far winding lay,
With promontory, creek and bay,
And islands that, empurpled bright,
Floated amid the livelier light;
And mountains, that like giants stand,
To centinel enchanted land.
High on the south, huge Benvenue
Down to the lake in masses threw
Crags, knolls, and mounds, confusedly hurl'd,
The fragments of an earlier world;

A wildering forest feathered o’er
His ruined sides and summit hoar,
While on the north, through middle air,
Ben-an heaved high his forehead bare.

From the steep promontory gazed The stranger, raptured and amazed; And, “ What a scene were here,” he cried, “For princely pomp or churchman's pride!"

Blithe were it then to wander here!
But now,-beshrew yon nimble deer,-
Like that same hermits, thin and spare,
The copse must give my ev’ning fare;
Some mossy bank my couch must be,
Some rustling oak my canopy:
Yet pass we that:-the war and chase
Give little choice of resting place;
A summer night, in green-wood spent,
Were but to-morrow's merriment;
But hosts may in these wilds abound,
Such as are better missed than found;
To meet with highland plunderers here
Were worse than loss of steed or deer.
I am alone;-my bugle strain
May call some straggler of the train;
Or fall the worst that may betide,
Ere now this falchion has been tried.”

But scarce again his horn he wound,
When lo! forth starting at the sound,
From underneath an aged oak,
That slanted from the islet rock,
A damsel guider of its way,
A little skiff shot to the bay,
That round the promontory steep
Led its deep line in graceful sweep,
Eddying, in almost viewless wave,
The weeping willow twig to lave,
And kiss, with whispering sound and slow,
The beach of pebbles bright as snow.
The boat had touched the silver strand,
Just as the hunter left his stand,
And stood concealed amid the brake
To view this Lady of the Lake.
The maiden paused, as if again
She thought to catch the distant strain,
With head up-raised, and look intent
And eye and ear attentive bent,


And locks flung back, and lips apart,
Like monument of Grecian art;
In listening mood she seemed to stand,
The guardian Naiad of the strand.

And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace A nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace, of finer form, or lovelier face! What though the sun, with ardent frown, Had slightly tinged her cheek with brown, The sportive toil, which, short and light, Had dyed her glowing hue so bright, Served too in hastier swell to show Short glimpses of a breast of snow; What though no rule of courtly grace To measured mood had trained her pace, A foot more light, a step more true, Ne'er from the heath-flower dashed the dew; E'en the slight hare-bell raised its head, Elastic from her airy tread: What though upon her speech there hung The accents of the mountain tongue, Those silver sounds, so soft, so dear, The listener held his breath to hear.

A chieftain's daughter seemed the maid;
Her satin snood, her silken plaid,
Her golden brooch such birth betrayed;
And seldom was a snood amid
Such wild luxuriant ringlets hid,
Whose glossy black to shame might bring
The plumage of the raven's wing;
And seldom o'er a breast so fair
Mantled a plaid with modest care;
And never brooch the folds combined
Above a heart more good and kind;
Her kindness and her worth to spy,
You need but gaze on Ellen's eye;
Not Katrine in her mirror blue,
Gives back the shaggy banks more true,
Than every free-born glance confessed
The guileless movements of her breast;
Whether joy danced in her dark eye,
Or wo or pity claimed a sigh,
Or filial love was glowing there,
Or meek devotion poured a prayer,
Or tale of injury called forth,
The indignant spirit of the north,
One only passion unrevealed,
With maiden pride the maid concealed,

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