Thursday, May 16, 2013

MARCO BOZZARIS, THE EPAMINONDAS OF MODERN GREECE


His last words were: "To die for liberty is a pleasure and not a pain."

At 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 ring
Then pressed that monarch's throne-a king
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,
As Eden's garden bird.
An hour passed on-the Turk awoke;
That bright dream was his last;
He woke-to hear the sentry's 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 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.

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.
We tell 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.
                                       
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 f-or the free
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word,
And in its hollow tones are heard
   The thanks of millions yet to be.

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.
We tell 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.

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