And now they deemed the courier-ouphe,
Some hunter sprite of the elfin ground;
And they watched till they saw him mount the roof
That canopies the world around;
Then glad they left their covert lair,
And freaked about in the midnight air.
* * * * *
=_Fitz-Greene Halleck, 1795-1869._= (Manual, p. 515.)
=_346._= MARCO BOZZARIS.
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.
At midnight, in the forest shades,
Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band,
True as the steel of their tried blades,
Heroes in heart and hand.
There had the Persian thousands stood,
There had the glad earth drunk their blood
On old Platoea's day;
And now there breathed that haunted air
The sons of sires that conquer'd there,
With arm to strike and soul to dare,
As quick, as far as they.
An hour pass'd 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 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 Bozzaris fell,
Bleeding at every vein.
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