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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 prisoned 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 Haytian seas.

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.
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 Platæa's day ;
And now there breathed that haunted air
The sons of sires who conquered there,
With arms to strike, and soul to dare,

As quick, as far, as they.
An hour passed on, the Turk awoke :

That bright dream was his last ;
He woke - to hear his sentries shriek,

"Toarms ! 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 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
('almly, 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

ilus won the battle for the free,

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 poet's 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 her pilgrim-circled hearth,

Talk of thy doom without a sigh ;
For thou art freedon's now, and fame's,
One of the few, the immortal names

That were not born to die.

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Was Freedom's home or Glory's grave!
Shrine of the mighty can it be
That this is all remains of thee?
Approach, thou craven, crouching slave ;
Say, is not this Thermopyla?
These waters blue that round you lave,

O servile offspring of the free,
Pronounce what sea, what shore is this?
The gulf, the rock of Salamis !
These scenes, their story not unknown,
Arise and make again your own ;
Snatch from the ashes of your sires
The embers of their former fires;
And he who in the strife expires
Will add to theirs a name of fear
That Tyranny shall quake to hear,
And leave his sons a hope, a fame,
They too will rather die than shame;
For Freedom's battle once begun,
Bequeathed by bleeding sire to son,
Though baffled oft is ever won.
Bear witness, Greece, thy living page,
Attest it, many a deathless age:
While kings, in dusty darkness hid,
Have left a nameless pyramid,
Thy heroes, though the general doom
Have swept the column from their tomb,
A mightier monument command,
The mountains of their native land!
There points thy muse to stranger's eye
The graves of those that cannot die!
'T were long to tell, and sad to trace,
Each step from splendor to disgrace :
Enough, no foreign foe could quell
Thy soul, till from itself it fell;
Yes! self-abasement paved the way
To villain-bonds and despot sway.
What can he tell who treads thy shore
No legend of thine olden time,
No theme on which the muse might soar,
High as thine own in days of yore,

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When man was worthy of thy clime.
The hearts within thy valleys bred,
The fiery souls that might have led

Thy sons to deeds sublime,
Now crawl from cradle to the grave,
Slaves-nay, the bondsmen of a slave,
And callous save to crime.




Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid;
"O Heaven!" he cried, "my bleeding country




THE storm is out; the land is roused;
Where is the coward who sits well housed?
Fie on thee, boy, disguised in curls,
Behind the stove, 'mong gluttons and girls.
A graceless, worthless wight thou must be;
No German maid desires thee,
No German song inspires thee,
No German Rhine-wine fires thee.
Forth in the van,
Man by man,

Swing the battle-sword who can.

When, we stand watching, the livelong night,
Through piping storms, till morning light,
Thou to thy downy bed canst creep,
And there in dreams of rapture sleep.

A graceless, worthless wight, etc.

When hoarse and shrill, the trumpet's blast,
Like the thunder of God, makes our hearts beat

Thou in the theatre lov'st to appear,
Where trills and quavers tickle the ear.
A graceless, worthless wight, etc.




WARSAW's last champion from her height sur- When the glare of noonday scorches the brain,
When our parchéd lips seek water in vain,
Thou canst make champagne corks fly
At the groaning tables of luxury.

A graceless, worthless wight, etc.




When we, as we rush to the strangling fight, | And stop her bloody lips, she takes no heed
Send home to our truc-loves a long "Good-night," How one clear word would draw an avalanche
Thou canst hie thee where love is sold,

Of living sons around her, to succeed
And buy thy pleasure with paltry gold.

The vanished generations. Can she count A graceless, worthless wight, etc.

These oil-eaters, with large, live, mobile mouths

Agape for macaroni, in the amount When lance and bullet come whistling by, Of consecrated heroes of her south's And death in a thousand shapes draws nigh,

Bright rosary ? The pitcher at the fount, Thou canst sit at thy cards, and kill

The gift of gods, being broken, she much loathes King, queen, and knave with thy spadille.

To let the ground-leaves of the place confer A graceless, worthless wight, etc.

A natural bowl. So henceforth she would seem If on the red field our bell should toll,

No nation, but the poet's pensioner, Then welcome be death to the patriot's soul.

With alıns from every land of song and dream,

While aye her pipers sadly pipe of her, Thy pampered flesh shall quake at its doom,

Until their proper breaths, in that extreme And crawl in silk to a hopeless tomb.

Of sighing, split the reed on which they played ! A pitiful exit thine shall be ;

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. No German maid shall weep for thee, No German song shall they sing for thee, No German goblets shall ring for thee. Forth in the van,

A COURT LADY. Man for man, Swing the battle-sword who can ! Kürner. Translation of Her hair was tawny with gold, her eyes with

purple were dark,
Her cheeks' pale opal burnt with a red and rest-

less spark.

Never was lady of Milan nobler in name and in “Less wretched if less fair.” Perhaps a truth Never was lady of Italy fairer to see in the face. Is so far plain in this, — that Italy,

Long trammelled with the purple of her youth Against her age's ripe activity,

Never was lady on earth more true as woman and Sits still upon her tombs, without death's ruth, wife, But also without life's brave energy.

Larger in judgment and instinct, prouder in “Now tell us what is Italy ?” men ask :

manners and life. And others answer, “Virgil, Cicero,

Catullus, Cæsar." What beside ? to task The memory closer, "Why, Boccaccio,

She stood in the early morning, and said to her Dante, Petrarca," and if still the flask

maidens, “ Bring Appears to yield its wine by drops too slow,

That silken robe made ready to wear at the court

of the king. Angelo, Raffael, Pergolese," — all

v. Whose strong hearts beat through stone, or charged again

“Bring me the clasps of diamond, lucid, clear The paints with fire of souls electrical,

of the mote, Or broke up heaven for music. What more then ? Clasp me the large at the waist, and clasp me the Why, then, no more. The chaplet's last beads small at the throat. fall

VI. In naming the last saintship within ken,

Diamonds to fasten the hair, and diamonds to And, after that, none prayeth in the land.

fasten the sleeves, Alas, this Italy has too long swept

Laces to drop from their rays, like a powder of Heroic ashes up for hour-glass sand;

snow from the eaves." Of her own past, impassioned nympholept ! Consenting to be nailed here by the hand

VII. To the very bay-tree under which she stepped Gorgeous she entered the sunlight which gathA queen of old, and plucked a leafy branch.

ered her up in a flame, And, licensing the world too long indeed While, straight in her open carriage, she to the To use her broad phylacteries to stanch

hospital came.

race ;



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In she went at the door, and gazing, from end to end,

"Many and low are the pallets, but each is the place of a friend."


"Art thou a Lombard, my brother? Happy art thou!" she cried,

And smiled like Italy on him he dreamed in her face and died.



Up she passed through the wards, and stood at a young man's bed:

"Each of the heroes around us has fought for his land and line,

Bloody the band on his brow, and livid the droop But thou hast fought for a stranger, in hate of a

of his head.

wrong not thine.


Pale with his passing soul, she went on still to a second:

He was a grave, hard man, whose years by dungeons were reckoned.

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On she passed to a Frenchman, his arm carried off by a ball:


Wounds in his body were sore, wounds in his life were sorer.

"Art thou a Romagnole ?" Her eyes drove light- But two great crystal tears were all that faltered nings before her.

and came.

Kneeling, . . "O more than my brother! how shall I thank thee for all?

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Long she stood and gazed, and twice she tried at

the name,

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"Now be grave for the rest of us, using the life overcast

To ripen our wine of the present (too new) in glooms of the past."

Young, and pathetic with dying, - a deep black

hole in the curls.


"Art thou from Tuscany, brother? and seest
thou, dreaming in pain,
Thy mother stand in the piazza, searching the

list of the slain?"


Kind as a mother herself, she touched his cheeks
with her hands:
"Blessed is she who has borne thee, although
she should weep as she stands."



Down she stepped to a pallet where lay a face Holding his hands in hers :—

like a girl's,


Faint with that strain of heart, she moved on then to another,

Stern and strong in his death. "And dost thou suffer, my brother?"

"Out of the Pied

mont lion Cometh the sweetness of freedom! sweetest to live or to die on."


Holding his cold rough hands, — “Well, O, well
In noble, noble Piedmont, who would not be


noble alone."


Back he fell while she spoke. She rose to her feet with a spring,

"That was a Piedmontese ! and this is the Court of the King."


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