And the world's warm breast is in verdure drest,

Go, stand on the hill where they lie. The earliest ray of the golden day

On that hallowed spot is cast;

And the evening sun, as he leaves the world, Looks kindly on that spot last.

The Pilgrim spirit has not fled:

It walks in noon's broad light; And it watches the bed of the glorious dead, With the holy stars by night.

It watches the bed of the brave who have bled,

And still guard this ice-bound shore, Till the waves of the bay, where the Mayflower lay,

Shall foam and freeze no more.

With

there!

he is not

When, at the cool, gray break
Of day, from sleep I wake,

my first breathing of the morning

air

On old Platea's day;

And now there breathed that haunted air The sons of sires who conquered there, With arm 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,
"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 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

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 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.

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 babe's 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.

ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPH
RODMAN DRAKE

GREEN be the turf above thee,
Friend of my better days!
None knew thee but to love thee,
Nor named thee but to praise.

Tears fell when thou wert dying,
From eyes unused to weep,
And long, where thou art lying,
Will tears the cold turf steep.

When hearts, whose truth was proven,
Like thine, are laid in earth,
There should a wreath be woven

To tell the world their worth;

And I who woke each morrow
To clasp thy hand in mine,
Who shared thy joy and sorrow,
Whose weal and woe were thine;

It should be mine to braid it Around thy faded brow, But I've in vain essayed it, And feel I cannot now.

While memory bids me weep thee, Nor thoughts nor words are free, The grief is fixed too deeply

That mourns a man like thee.

ALNWICK CASTLE

HOME of the Percys' high-born race, Home of their beautiful and brave, Alike their birth and burial-place,

Their cradle and their grave! Still sternly o'er the castle gate Their house's Lion stands in state,

As in his proud departed hours; And warriors frown in stone on high, And feudal banners flout the sky Above his princely towers.

A gentle hill its side inclines,
Lovely in England's fadeless green,
To meet the quiet stream which winds
Through this romantic scene

As silently and sweetly still,
As when at evening on that hill,

While summer's wind blew soft and low, Seated by gallant Hotspur's side,

His Katherine was a happy bride
A thousand years ago.

Gaze on the Abbey's ruined pile:
Does not the succoring ivy, keeping
Her watch around it, seem to smile,
As o'er a loved one sleeping?
One solitary turret gray

Still tells, in melancholy glory,
The legend of the Cheviot day,

The Percys' proudest border story. That day its roof was triumph's arch; Then rang from isle to pictured dome The light step of the soldier's march,

The music of the trump and drum;
And babe and sire, the old, the young,
And the monk's hymn and minstrel's
song,

And woman's pure kiss, sweet and long,
Welcomed her warrior home.

Wild roses by the Abbey towers

Are gay in their young bud and bloom;
They were born of a race of funeral-flowers
That garlanded, in long-gone hours,
A templar's knightly tomb.
He died, the sword in his mailed hand,
On the holiest spot of the Blessed land,
Where the Cross was damped with his
dying breath,

When blood ran free as festal wine,
And the sainted air of Palestine

Was thick with the darts of death.

Wise with the lore of centuries,
What tales, if there "be tongues in trees,"
Those giant oaks could tell,
Of beings born and buried here;
Tales of the peasant and the peer,
Tales of the bridal and the bier,

The welcome and farewell,
Since on their boughs the startled bird
First, in her twilight slumbers, heard
The Norman's curfew-bell!

I wandered through the lofty halls
Trod by the Percys of old fame,
And traced upon the chapel walls

Each high heroic name,
From him who once his standard set
Where now, o'er mosque and minaret,
Glitter the Sultan's crescent moons,
To him who, when a younger son,
Fought for King George at Lexington,
A major of dragoons.

From my warm lips the sparkling cup; The light that o'er my eyebeam flashed, The power that bore my spirit up Above this bank-note world is gone; And Alnwick 's but a market town, And this, alas! its market day, And beasts and borderers throng the way; Oxen and bleating lambs in lots, Northumbrian boors and plaided Scots,

Men in the coal and cattle line; From Teviot's bard and hero land, From royal Berwick's beach of sand, From Wooller, Morpeth, Hexham, and Newcastle-upon-Tyne.

These are not the romantic times
So beautiful in Spenser's rhymes,

So dazzling to the dreaming boy:
Ours are the days of fact, not fable,
Of knights, but not of the round table,
Of Bailie Jarvie, not Rob Roy:
"T is what " our President " Monroe

Has called "the era of good feeling":
The Highlander, the bitterest foe
To modern laws, has felt their blow,
Consented to be taxed, and vote,
And put on pantaloons and coat,

And leave off cattle-stealing:
Lord Stafford mines for coal and salt,
The Duke of Norfolk deals in malt,

The Douglas in red herrings;
And noble name and cultured land,
Palace, and park, and vassal-band,
Are powerless to the notes of hand
Of Rothschild or the Barings.

The age of bargaining, said Burke, Has come: to-day the turbaned Turk (Sleep, Richard of the lion heart! Sleep on, nor from your cerements start) Is England's friend and fast ally; The Moslem tramples on the Greek,

And on the Cross and altar-stone, And Christendom looks tamely on, And hears the Christian maiden shriek, And sees the Christian father die; And not a sabre-blow is given

For Greece and fame, for faith and heaven, By Europe's craven chivalry.

You'll ask if yet the Percy lives

In the armed pomp of feudal state?

The present representatives

Of Hotspur and his "gentle Kate"