by Redfield. It has always been regretted by the public that one who writes so well should have written so little.2 MARCO BOZZARIS.3 At midnight, in his guarded tent, In dreams, through camp and court he bore In dreams, his song of triumph heard; At midnight, in the forest shades, BOZZARIS ranged his Suliote band, There had the Persian's thousands stood, And now there breathed that haunted air With arm to strike, and soul to dare, As quick, as far as they. An hour pass'd on-the Turk awoke; This year (1859) has appeared a new edition of his poems, in one small volume, in blue and gold, published by Appleton & Co. 2 "Mr. Halleck has written very little, but that little is of great excellence. His poetry is polished and graceful, and finished with great care under the guidance of a fastidious taste. A vein of sweet and delicate sentiment runs through all nis serious productions, and he combines with this a power of humor of the most refined and exquisite cast. He has the art of passing from grave to gay, or the reverse, by the most skilful and happily-managed transitions."-G. S. HILLARD. "The poems of Fitz-Greene Halleck, although limited in quantity, are perhaps the best known and most cherished, especially in the latitude of New York, of all American verses. All his verses have a vital meaning, and the clear ring of pure metal. They are few, but memorable. The school-boy and the old Knickerbocker' both know them by heart. Burns, and the Lines on the Death of Drake,* have the beautiful impressiveness of the highest elegiac verse. Marco Bozzaris is perhaps the best martial lyric in the language, Red Jacket the most effective Indian portrait, and Twilight an apt piece of contemplative verse; while Alnwick Castle combines his grave and gay style with inimitable art and admirable effect. As a versifier, he is an adept in that relation of sound to sense which embalms thought in deathless melody."-HENRY T. TUCKERMAN. 3 He fell in an attack upon the Turkish camp at Lapsi, the site of the ancient Platea, August 20, 1823, and expired in the moment of victory. The modern Greeks, like the Italians, pronounce a as in father, and zz like tz. This hero's name, therefore, is pronounced Bot-zah'ri. * See p. 400. He woke to hear his sentries shriek, "To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek." "Strike-till the last arm'd foe expires; They fought,-like brave men, long and well; 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 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, Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word; The thanks of millions yet to be. Of sky and stars to prison'd men: To the world-seeking Genoese, When the land-wind, from woods of palm, BOZZARIS! with the storied brave, Greece nurtured in her glory's time, She wore no funeral weeds for thee, Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume, The heartless luxury of the tomb: But she remembers thee as one Talk of thy doom without a sigh: BURNS. TO A ROSE, BROUGHT FROM NEAR ALLOWAY KIRK, IN AYRSHIRE, IN THE AUTUMN OF 1822. Wild Rose of Alloway! my thanks: Thou 'mindst me of that autumn noon Like thine, beneath the thorn-tree's bough, And will not thy death-doom be mine The doom of all things wrought of clay- His is that language of the heart In which the answering heart would speak, Thought, word, that bids the warm tear start, Or the smile light the cheek; And his that music, to whose tone The common pulse of man keeps time, In cot or castle's mirth or moan, In cold or sunny clime. And who hath heard his song, nor knelt O'er the mind's sea, in calm and storm, O'er the heart's sunshine and its showers, O'er Passion's moments, bright and warm, O'er Reason's dark, cold hours; On fields where brave men "die or do," What sweet tears dim the eyes unshed, Pure hopes, that lift the soul above, Come with his Cotter's hymn of praise, And when he breathes his master-lay All passions in our frames of clay Imagination's world of air, And our own world, its gloom and glee, Wit, pathos, poetry, are there, And death's sublimity. And Burns-though brief the race he ran, Through care, and pain, and want, and woe, He kept his honesty and truth, His independent tongue and pen, Praise to the bard! his words are driven, Praise to the man! a nation stood Such graves as his are pilgrim-shrines, Sages, with Wisdom's garland wreathed, And lowlier names, whose humble home Are there-o'er wave and mountain come, Pilgrims, whose wandering feet have press'd 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, But what to them the sculptor's art, His funeral columns, wreaths, and urns? Wear they not graven in the heart |