A gallery of famous English and American poets . e are broke,And crowded cities wail its stroke;Come in consumptions 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 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 voice sounds like a prophets word;And in its hollow tones are heard The thanks of millions yet to , when his task of fame is wrought—Come, with her
A gallery of famous English and American poets . e are broke,And crowded cities wail its stroke;Come in consumptions 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 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 voice sounds like a prophets word;And in its hollow tones are heard The thanks of millions yet to , when his task of fame is wrought—Come, with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought— Come in her crownino; hour—-and thenThy sunken eyes unearthly lightTo him is welcome as the sight Of sky and stars to prisoned men :Thy grasp is welcome as the handOf brother in a foreign land;Thy summons welcome as the cryThat told the Indian isles were nigh To the world-seeking Genoese,When the land-wind, from woods of palm, MARCO BOZZARIS. 377 And orange-groves, and fields of balm,Blew oer the Havtian Bozzaris ! with the storied brave Greece nurtured in her glorys time, Rest thee—there is no prouder in her own proud clime. She wore no funeral weeds for thee,Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume, Like torn branch from deaths leafless tree, In sorrows pomp and heartless luxury of the tomb : But she remembers thee as one Long-loved, and for a season gone; For thee her poets lyre is wreathed. Her marble wrought, her music breathed; 95 378 HALLECK. For thee she rings the birthday bells;Of thee her babes first lisping tells:For thine her evening prayer is saidAt palace couch, and cottage bed;Her soldier, closing with the foe,Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow;His plighted maiden, when she fearsFor him, the joy of her young of thy fate, and checks her tears: And she, the mother of thy boys,Though in her eye and faded cheekIs read the grief she will not speak,— The memory of her buried joys,—And
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1800, bookdecade1870, booksu, booksubjectenglishpoetry
