It was no noise from the strife afar, It was the pipes of the Highlanders! And now they played Auld Lang Syne. It came to our men like the voice of God, And they shouted along the line. 60 64 And they wept, and shook one another's hands, That happy time, when we welcomed them, 68 And the general gave her his hand, and cheers Like a storm from the soldiers burst. And the pipers' ribbons and tartan streamed, 1860. Robert Traill Spence Lowell. 72 76 MARCO BOZZARIS Ar midnight, in his guarded tent, 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, Heroes in heart and hand. There had the Persian's thousands stood, And now there breathed that haunted air As quick, as far as they. An hour passed on, the Turk awoke: He woke to die midst flame, and smoke, And death-shots falling thick and fast 22 '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!" 36 They fought-like brave men, long and well; His few surviving comrades saw His smile when rang their proud hurrah, 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, That close the pestilence are broke, 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. 60 46 But to the hero, when his sword Has won the battle for the free, The thanks of millions yet to be. Of sky and stars to prisoned men; Bozzaris! with the storied brave 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 79 For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed, The memory of her buried joys,— 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. 1825. 111 Fitz-Greene Halleck. THE PRISONER OF CHILLON My hair is gray, but not with years, Nor grew it white In a single night, As men's have grown from sudden fears; |