Then wore that monarch's signet ring,
Then press'd 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's thousands stood,
There had the glad earth drunk their blood
On old Platæa's day;

And now these breathed that haunted air,
The sons of sires who 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,
Like forest pines before the blast,
Or 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,

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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.

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

Which close the pestilence are broke,
And crowded cities wail its stroke;
Come in Consumption's ghastly form,
The Earthquake's shock, the Ocean's 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 the laurel-leaf blood-bought;
Come in the crowning hour; and then
Thy sunken eyes' 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
Which 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 Haytian 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, 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
Long loved, and for a season gone;
For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed,
Her marble wrought, her music breathed;
For thee she rings the birthday bells;
Of thee her babe's 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.

MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS.

HALLECK.

I LOOK'D far back into other years, and lo! in bright array, I saw, as in a dream, the forms of ages pass'd away.

It was a stately convent, with its old and lofty walls, And gardens, with their broad green walks, where soft the footstep falls;

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And there five noble maidens sat, beneath the orchard trees, In that first budding spring of youth, when all its prospects please;

And little reck'd they, when they sang, or knelt at vesper

prayers,

That Scotland knew no prouder names-held none more dear than theirs;

And little even the loveliest thought, before the Virgin's shrine,

Of royal blood, and high descent from the ancient Stuart line;

Calmly her happy days flew on, uncounted in their flight, And, as they flew, they left behind a long-continuing light.

The scene was changed. It was the court-the gay court of Bourbon

And 'neath a thousand silver lamps, a thousand courtiers throng;

And proudly kindles Henry's eye-well pleased, I ween, to

see

The land assemble all its wealth of grace and chivalry:—

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And there walks she of Medicis-that proud Italian line, The mother of a race of kings-the haughty Catherine! The forms that follow in her train, a glorious sunshine make, A milky way of stars that grace a comet's glittering wake; But fairer far than all the rest, who bask on fortune's tide, Effulgent in the light of youth, is she, the new-made bride!

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Ah! who shall blame, if scarce that day, through all its

brilliant hours?

She thought of that quiet convent's calm, its sunshine, and its flowers!

The scene was changed. It was a bark that slowly held

its way,

And o'er its lee the coast of France in the light of evening

lay;

And on its deck a lady sat, who gazed with tearful eyes
Upon the fast-receding hills, that dim and distant rise.

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No marvel that the lady wept-it was the land of FranceThe chosen home of chivalry-the garden of romance! The past was bright, like those dear hills so far behind her bark;

The future, like the gathering night, was ominous and dark! One gaze again-one long, last gaze-" Adieu, fair France, to thee!"

The breeze comes forth-she is alone on the unconscious sea.

The scene was changed. It was an eve of raw and surly

mood,

And in a turret-chamber high of ancient Holyrood

Sat Mary, listening to the rain, and sighing with the winds, That seem'd to suit the stormy state of men's uncertain minds.

The touch of care had blanch'd her cheek-her smile was sadder now,

The weight of royalty had press'd too heavy on her brow; And traitors to her councils came, and rebels to the field; The Stuart sceptre well she sway'd, but the sword she could not wield;

She thought of all her blighted hopes-the dreams of youth's brief day

And summon'd Rizzio with his lute, and bade the minstrel play

The songs she loved in early years the songs of gay

Navarre,

The songs perchance that erst were sung by gallant Chatelar;

They half beguiled her of her cares, they soothed her into smiles,

They won her thoughts from bigot zeal, and fierce domestic broils:

But hark! the tramp of armed men! the Douglas' battle cry!

They come-they come-and lo! the scowl of Ruthven's hollow eye!

And swords are drawn, and daggers gleam, and tears and words are vain,

The ruffian steel is in his heart-the faithful Rizzio 's slain! Then Mary Stuart brush'd aside the tears that trickling fell: "Now for my father's arm!" she said; "my woman's heart, farewell!"

The scene was changed. It was a lake, with one small lonely isle,

And there, within the prison-walls of its baronial pile, Stern men stood menacing their queen, till she should stoop to sign

The traitorous scroll that snatch'd the crown from her ancestral line :-