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Like leviathans afloat,
Lay their bulwarks on the brine ;
While the sign of battle flew
On the lofty British line :
It was ten of April morn by the chime:
As they drifted on their path,
There was silence deep as death;
And the boldest held his breath,

For a time.

But the might of England flushed
To anticipate the scene;
And her van the fleeter rushed
O'er the deadly space between.
“Hearts of oak !" our captain cried; when each gun

From its adamantine lips
Spread a death-shade round the ships, .
Like the hurricane eclipse

Of the sun.

Again ! again ! again!
And the havock did not slack,
Till a feeble cheer the Dane
To our cheering sent us back ;
Their shots along the deep slowly boom :-
Then ceased—and all is wail,
As they strike the shattered sail ;
Or, in conflagration pale,

Light the gloom.

Out spoke the victor then,
As he hailed them o'er the wave;
“ Ye are brothers ! ye are men !
And we conquer but to save :-
So peace instead of death let us bring ;
But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,
With the crews, at England's feet,
And make submission meet

To our King.”—

Then Denmark blessed our chief,
That he gave her wounds repose ;
And the sounds of joy and grief
From her people wildly rose,
As Death withdrew his shades from the day.
While the sun looked smiling bright,
O'er a wide and woeful sight,
Where the fires of funeral light


Now joy, Old England, raise !
For the tidings of thy might,
By the festal cities' blaze,
Whilst the wine-cup shines in light;
And yet amidst that joy and uproar,
Let us think of them that sleep,
Full many a fathom deep,
By thy wild and stormy steep,

Elsinore !

Brave hearts ! to Britain's pride
Once so faithful and so true,
On the deck of fame that died ;-
With the gallant good Riou ;'
Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave!
While the billow mournful rolls,
And the mermaid's song condoles,
Singing glory to the souls

Of the brave !

i Captain Riou, justly entitled the gallant and the good, by Lord Nelson, when he wrote home his despatches.



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.

| Marco Bozzaris was a leader of the Greeks in the late revolutionary war: he was killed in the assault of a Turkish camp. The circumstances of his fall are thus described by Mr. Gordon, in his admirable History of the Greek Revolution :-"In a council of war, held on the 20th, Mark Bozzaris pointed out the impossibility of keeping the foe in check by demonstrations; or of spinning out the campaign, becanse they were in want of provisions and ammunition; and he therefore insisted on the necessity of hazarding, without delay, a desperate attack: his generous proposition was approved, and the execution fixed for the following night. Their troops being divided into three columns, Bozzaris undertook to lead the centre; George Kizzos, the two Tzavellas (uncle and nephew), the captains of Karpenisi, and the Khiliarch Yakis, headed one wing; the other, formed of the soldiers of Agrafa and Souvalakos, was intrusted to the command of a Souliote, named Fotos: the onset was to commence at five hours after sunset, and their watchword to be Stornari (or flint). Having waited a quarter of an hour beyond the appointed time, to allow the wings to come up, and perceiving no signs of them, Mark, with three hundred and fifty men, entered Jeladin Bey's camp, and finding the Scodrians asleep, made a terrible slaughter of them. If all the Greeks had behaved like the Souliotes, the result would have been a complete victory.

The Souliotes, using their swords after their first discharge of fire-arms, drove the Mirdites from all their tambonrias, except one within an enclosure, which Bozzaris assaulted in vain. Wounded by a shot in the loins, he concealed that accident, and continued to fight, until a ball struck him in the face; he fell, and instantly expired. The action lasted for an hour and a half longer, but their leader's death becoming known, and day beginning to dawn, the Souliotes retreated to their original position at Mikrokhori, carrying off with them their general's body."

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 thousand stood,
There had the glad earth drunk their blood

On old Platæa's day:
And now there breathed that haunted air
The sons of sires who conquered there,
With arm to strike, and soul to dare,

As quick, as far as they.

An hour passed on-the Turk awoke:

That bright dream was his last;
He woke- to hear his 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, 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 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.

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