MARCO BOZZARIS. 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, 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, The thanks of millions yet to be. Of sky and stars to prisoned me.: 55 To the world-seeking Genoese, When the land-wind from woods of palm, And orange groves, and fields of balm, 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, The heartless luxury of the tomb. And she, the mother of thy boys, The memory of her buried joys— For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's- That were not born to die. FITZ. GREENE HALLECK. ODE ON A GRECIAN URN. 57 Ode on a Grecian Urn. HOU still unravished bride of quietness! TH Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time! Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme! What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals or of both, In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? what maidens loath? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone! Fair youth beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed Forever piping songs forever new; More happy love! more happy, happy love! Forever panting and forever young; All breathing human passion far above, That leaves a heart high sorrowful and cloyed, Who are these coming to the sacrifice ? To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn? Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st 'Beauty is truth, truth beauty," Ye know on earth, and all ye that is all need to know. JOHN KEATS. Mother and Poet. (Turin, after news from Gaeta, 1861.) EAD! One of them shot by the sea in the east, DE And one of them shot in the west by the sea! Yet I was a poetess only last year, And good at my art, for a woman, men said; But this woman, this, who is agonized here, -The east sea and west sea rhyme on in her head MOTHER AND POET. What art can a woman be good at? Oh, vain! 59 With the milk-teeth of babes, and a smile at the pain? What art's for a woman? to hold on her knees Both darlings! to feel all their arms round her throat And 'broider the long-clothes and neat little coat! To teach them. It stings there! I made them, indeed, Speak plain the word country. I taught them, no doubt, That a country's a thing men should die for at need. I prated of liberty, rights, and about The tyrant cast out. And when their eyes flashed. . O my beautiful eyes! God, how the house feels! At first, happy news came, in gay letters moiled With my kisses,—of camp-life and glory, and how They both loved me, and, soon coming home to be spoiled, In return would fan off every fly from my brow With their green laurel-bough. Then was triumph at Turin: "Ancona was free !” While they cheered in the street. |