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THE GIRL AND THE HAWK. Gladsome now—now vow'd to sorrowGay to-day, if sad to-morrow!

Huntress fair, the sport is over,
Wherefore chain thy feather'd rover?
Rich, indeed, the prize must be,
That can lure him far from thee!
What to him are hood and jesses,
Tangled in thy glossy tresses ?
Dazzled by thy beauty's light,
Can he plume his wings for flight?
Fetter'd by a smile so bland,
Will he ever leave thy hand ?-
No,-let him on thy beauty feed,
And he'll no firmer jesses need.

MARCO BOZZARIS.

BY FITZ GREENE HALLECK.

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 press'd 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 conquer’d there,
With arm to strike, and soul to dare,
As quick, as far as they.
An hour passid on-

-the Turk awoke;
That bright dream was his last ;
He woke-to hear his sentries sbriek,
“ 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,
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 !"
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 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.
Come to the bridal chamber, Death!
Come to the mother's, when she feels,
For the first time, her firstborn's breath;
Come when the blessed seals

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MARCO BOZZARIS.

164
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
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
Thy sunken eye's unearthly light
To him is welcome as the sight
Of sky and stars to prison’d men:
Thy grasp

welcome as the hand
Of a 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.
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,
A 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 her 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 their pilgrim-circled hearth,
Talk of 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.

TO THE POET WORDSWORTH.

BY MRS. HEMANS.

Tuine is a strain to read among the hills,

The old and full of voices; by the source
Of some free stream, whose gladdening presence fills

The solitude with sound; for in its course
Even such is thy deep song, that seems a part
Of those high scenes, a fountain from their heart.

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TO THE POET WORDSWORTH. Or its calm spirit fitly may be taken

To the calm breast, in some sweet garden's bowers, Where vernal winds each tree's low tones awaken,

And bud and bell with changes mark the hours; There let thy thoughts be with me, while the day Sinks with a golden and serene decay.

Or by some hearth where happy faces meet,
When night hath hush'd the woods, with all their

birds, There, from some gentle voice, that lay were sweet

As antique music, link'd with household words ; While in pleased murmurs woman's lip might move, And the raised eye of childhood shine in love!

Or where the shadows of dark solemn yews

Brood silently o’er some lone burial-ground, Thy verse hath power that brightly might diffuse

A breath, a kindling, as of spring, around, From its own glow of hope, and courage high, And steadfast faith's victorious constancy.

True bard and holy!—Thou art even as one

Who by some secret gift of soul or eye, In every spot beneath the smiling sun,

Sees where the springs of living waters lie! Thou mov'st through nature's realm, and touch'd by

thee, Clear healthful waves flow forth, to each glad wan

derer free,

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