VII.

Now joy, Old England, raise! For the tidings of thy might, By the festal cities' blaze,

Whilst the wine-cup shines in light;
And yet, amidst that joy and uproar,
Let us think of them that sleep
Full many a fathom deep,

By thy wild and stormy steep,
Elsinore!

VIII.

Brave hearts! to Britain's pride
Once so faithful and so true,
On the deck of fame that died,
With the gallant good Riou—

Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their

grave!

While the billow mournful rolls,

And the mermaid's song condoles, Singing glory to the souls

Of the brave!

THOMAS CAMPBELL

THE SEA FIGHT.

AS TOLD BY AN ANCIENT MARINER.

An, yes the fight! Well, messmates, well,
I served on board that Ninety-eight;
Yet what I saw I loathe to tell.

To-night, be sure a crushing weight
Upon my sleeping breast-a hell

Of dread will sit. At any rate, Though land-locked here, a watch I'll keep— Grog cheers us still. Who cares for sleep?

That Ninety-eight I sailed on board;

Along the Frenchman's coast we flew; Right aft the rising tempest roared;

A noble first-rate hove in view; And soon high in the gale there soared Her streamed-out bunting-red, white,

blue!

We cleared for fight, and landward bore,
To get between the chase and shore.

Masters, I cannot spin a yarn

Twice laid with words of silken stuff. A fact's a fact; and ye may larn

The rights o' this, though wild and rough

My words may loom. 'Tis your consarn, Not mine, to understand. Enough;— We neared the Frenchman where he lay, And as we neared, he blazed away.

We tacked, hove to; we filled, we wore;
Did all that seamanship could do
To rake him aft, or by the fore-

Now rounded off, and now broached to; And now our starboard broadside bore,

And showers of iron through and through His vast hull hissed; our larboard then Swept from his three-fold decks his men.

As we, like a huge serpent, toiled,

And wound about, through that wild sea, The Frenchman each manœuvre foiled"Vantage to neither there could be. Whilst thus the waves between us boiled, We both resolved right manfully To fight it side by side;-began Then the fierce strife of man to man.

Gun bellows forth to gun, and pain
Rings out her wild, delirious scream!
Redoubling thunders shake the main
Loud erashing, falls the shot-rent beam.
The timbers with the broadsides strain;

The slippery decks send up a steam
From hot and living blood-and high
And shrill is heard the death-pang cry.

The shredded limb, the splintered bone,

Th' unstiffened corpse, now block the way! Who now can hear the dying groan?

The trumpet of the judgment day, Had it pealed forth its mighty tone,

We should not then have heard,—to say Would be rank sin; but this I tell, That could alone our madness quell.

Upon the fore-castle I fought

As captain of the for'ad gun.
A scattering shot the carriage caught!

What mother then had known her son Of those who stood around?-distraught, And smeared with gore, about they run, Then fall, and writhe, and howling die! But one escaped-that one was I!

To windward of us lay the foe.

As he to leeward over keeled,

He could not fight his guns below;

So just was going to strike-when reeled
Our vessel, as if some vast blow
From an Almighty hand had rent

The huge ship from her element.

Then howled the thunder.

Tumult then Round

Had stunned herself to silence. Were scattered lightning-blasted men! Our mainmast went. All stifled, drowned, Arose the Frenchman's shout. Again

The bolt burst on us, and we found
Our masts all gone-our decks all riven:
-Man's war mocks faintly that of Heaven!

Just then-nay, messmates, laugh not now-
As I, amazed, one minute stood
Amidst that rout; I know not how-

'Twas silence all-the raving flood,
The guns that pealed from stem to bow,
And God's own thunder-nothing could'
I then of all that tumult hear,

Or see anght of that scene of fear.

My aged mother at her door

Sat mildly o'er her humming wheel; The cottage, orchard, and the moor

I saw them plainly all. I'll kneel, And swear I saw them! Oh, they wore A look all peace. Could I but feel Again that bliss that then I felt, That made my heart, like childhood's, melt!

The blessed tear was on my cheek,

She smiled with that old smile I know: "Turn to me, mother, turn and speak," Was on my quivering lips-when lo! All vanished, and a dark, red streak

Glared wild and vivid from the foe, That flashed upon the blood-stained waterFor fore and aft the flames had caught her.

She struck and hailed us. On us fast

All burning, helplessly, she came— Near, and more near; and not a mast Had we to help us from that flame. Twas then the bravest stood aghast'Twas then the wicked, on the name With danger and with guilt appalled,) Of God, too long neglected, called.

889

Tis something, in the dearth of fame, Though linked among a fettered race, To feel at least a patriot's shame,

Even as I sing, suffuse my face; For what is left the poet here? For Greeks a blush-for Greece a tear.

Must we but weep o'er days more blest?
Must we but blush ?-Our fathers bled.
Earth! render back from out thy breast

A remnant of our Spartan dead!
Of the three hundred grant but three,
To make a new Thermopyla!

What! silent still? and silent all?
Ah no!-the voices of the dead
Sound like a distant torrent's fall,

And answer, "Let one living head, But one, arise-we come, we come!" 'Tis but the living who are dumb.

In vain-in vain; strike other chords;

Fill high the cup with Samian wine! Leave battles to the Turkish hordes,

And shed the blood of Scio's vine! Hark! rising to the ignoble call, How answers each bold Bacchanal!

You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? Of two such lessons, why forget

The nobler and the manlier one? You have the letters Cadmus gaveThink ye he meant them for a slave?

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
We will not think of themes like these!

It made Anacreon's song divine;

He served but served Polycrates-
A tyrant; but our masters then
Were still at least our countrymen.

The tyrant of the Chersonese

Was freedom's best and bravest friend; That tyrant was Miltiades!

Oh that the present hour would lend
Another despot of the kind!
Such chains as his were sure to bind.

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore, Exists the remnant of a line

Such as the Doric mothers bore;

And there perhaps some seed is sown The Heracleidan blood might own.

Trust not for freedom to the Franks-
They have a king who buys and sells;
In native swords, and native ranks,
The only hope of courage dwells;
But Turkish force, and Latin fraud,
Would break your shield, however broad.

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
Our virgins dance beneath the shade-
I see their glorious black eyes shine;
But gazing on each glowing maid,
My own the burning tear-drop laves,
To think such breasts must suckle slaves.

Place me on Sunium's marbled steep, Where nothing, save the waves and I, May hear our mutual murmurs sweep; There, swan-like, let me sing and die. A land of slaves shall ne'er be mineDash down yon cup of Samian wine!

391

LORD BYRON.

MARCO BOZZARIS.

Ar 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-ringThen 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 bandTrue 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,

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

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
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 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

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.

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, 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 birth-day 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.

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.