« 上一頁繼續 »
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,
BozzAR is 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 BozzAR is 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.
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 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 Haytien 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,
Norbade 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 poets' lyre is wreathed,
Her marble wrought, her music breathed :
For thee she rings the 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.
brought from NEAR Allow Ay Kirk, IN Ayrshire, in the . Autu MN of 1822.
Wild Rose of Alloway! my thanks:
Thou 'mindst me of that autumn noon
When first we met upon “the banks
And braes o' bonny Doon.”
Like thine, beneath the thorn-tree's bough,
My sunny hour was glad and brief,
We've cross'd the winter sea, and thou
Art wither’d—flower and leaf.
And will not thy death-doom be mine—
The doom of all things wrought of clay—
And wither'd my life's leaf like thine,
Wild rose of Alloway !
And Burns—though brief the race he ran,
Though rough and dark the path he trod—
Lived—died—in form and soul a Man,
The image of his God.
Through care, and pain, and want, and woe,
With wounds that only death could heal,
Tortures—the poor alone can know,
The proud alone can feel;
He kept his honesty and truth,
His independent tongue and pen.
And moved, in manhood as in youth,
Pride of his fellow-men.
Praise to the bard ' his words are driven,
Like flower-seeds by the far winds sown,
Where'er, beneath the sky of heaven,
The birds of fame have flown.
Praise to the man a nation stood
Beside his coffin with wet eyes,
Her brave, her beautiful, her good,
As when a loved one dies.
Such graves as his are pilgrim-shrines,
Shrines to no code or creed confined—
The Delphian vales, the Palestines,
The Meccas, of the mind.
Sages, with Wisdom's garland wreathed, Crown'd kings, and mitred priests of power,
And warriors with their bright swords sheathel, The mightiest of the hour;
And lowlier names, whose humble home
Is lit by Fortune's dimmer star,
Are there—o'er wave and mountain come,
From countries near and far;
Pilgrims, whose wandering feet have press'd
The Switzer's snow, the Arab's sand,
Or trod the piled leaves of the West,
My own green forest-land.
All ask the cottage of his birth,
Gaze on the scenes he loved and sung,
And gather feelings not of earth
His fields and streams among.
They linger by the Doon's low trees,
And pastoral Nith, and wooded Ayr,
And round thy sepulchres, Dumfries'
The Poet's tomb is there.
But what to them the sculptor's art,
His funeral columns, wreaths, and urns?
Wear they not graven on the heart
The name of Robert Burns :
This eminent scholar and classic poet was born at Berlin, Connecticut, September 15, 1795, and graduated at Yale College in 1815, with high honor. After leaving college, he entered the medical school connected with the same, and received the degree of M.D. He did not, however, engage in practice, but devoted himself chiefly to the cultivation of his poetical powers and to the pursuits of science and literature. He first appeared before the public as an author in 1821, when he published a volume containing some minor poems, and the first part of his Prometheus, which was very favorably noticed in the “North American Review.” In 1822, he published two volumes of miscellaneous poems and prose writings, and the second part of Prometheus, a poem in the Spenserian measure. In 1824, he was for a short time in the service of the United States, as Professor of Chemistry in the Military Academy at West Point, and subsequently as a surgeon connected with the recruiting-station at Boston. But his tastes lay in a different direction, and he gave himself to the Muses, and to historical, philological, and scientific pursuits. In 1827, he was employed to revise the manuscript