"Oh, cease not yet to beat, thou vital urn!
Wait, gushing life, oh, wait my love's return!-
Hoarse barks the wolf, the vulture screams from far!
The angel, pity, shuns the walks of war!

Oh, spare ye war-hounds, spare their tender age,
On me, on me," she cried, "exhaust your rage!"
Then with weak arms her weeping babes caressed,
And sighing, hid them in her blood-stained vest.
From tent to tent the impatient warrior flies,
Fear in his heart, and frenzy in his eyes;
Eliza's name along the camp he calls,

Eliza echoes through the canvass walls;

Quick through the murmuring gloom his footseps tread
O'er groaning heaps, the dying and the dead,
Vault o'er the plain, and in the tangled wood,
Lo! dead Eliza, weltering in her blood!--
Soon hears his listening son the welcome sounds,
With open arms and sparkling eyes he bounds:-
"Speak low," he cries, and gives his little hand,
"Eliza sleeps upon the dew-cold sand;

Poor weeping babe with bloody fingers pressed,
And tried with pouting lips her milkless breast;
Alas! we both with cold and hunger quake-
Why do you weep?-Mamma will soon awake."
"She'll wake no more!" the hopeless mourner cried,
Upturned his eyes, and clasped his hands and sighed;
Stretched on the ground awhile entranced he lay,
And pressed warm kisses on the lifeless clay;
And then upsprung with wild convulsive start,
And all the father kindled in his heart;

"Oh heavens!" he cried, "my first rash vow forgive!
These bind to earth, for these I pray to live!"
Round his chill babes he wrapped his crimson vest,
And clasped them sobbing to his aching breast.

37.

BETH GELERT; OR, THE DEATH OF THE GRAYHOUND.

Spencer.

The spearmen heard the bugle sound,
And cheerly smiled the morn,

And many a brach and many a hound,
Obeyed Llewellyn's horn.

And still he drew a louder blast,
And gave a lustier cheer;

"Come Gelert, come-wert never last
Llewellyn's horn to hear.

Oh where does faithful Gelert roam,
The flower of all his race,

So true, so brave; a lamb at home,
A lion in the chase?"

In sooth he was a peerless hound,
The gift of royal John;

But now no Gelert could be found,
And all the chase rode on.

That day Llewellyn little loved
The chase of hart or hare,
And scant and small the booty proved,
For Gelert was not there.

Unpleased Llewellyn homeward hied,
When near the portal gate,
His truant Gelert he espied,
Bounding his lord to greet.

But when he gained his castle door,
Aghast the chieftain stood,

The hound all o'er was smeared with gore,
His lips, his fangs, ran blood.

Llewellyn gazed with much surprise,
Unused such looks to meet,

His favorite checked his joyful guise,
And crouched and licked his feet.

Onward in haste Llewellyn past,
And on went Gelert too,

And still where'er his eyes he cast
Fresh blood-gouts shocked his view.

O'erturned his infant's bed he found,
With blood-stained covert rent,
And all around, the walls and ground,
With recent blood besprent!

He called his child; no voice replied;
He searched with terror wild:
Blood, blood he found on every side,
But no where found the child.

"Hell-hound! my child by thee's devoured,"
The frantic father cried,

And to the hilt his vengeful sword
He plunged in Gelert's side!

Aroused by Gelert's dying yell,

Some slumberer wakened nigh—
What words the parent's joy can tell—
He hears his infant cry!

Nor scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread,
But the same couch beneath
Lay a gaunt wolf all torn and dead,
Tremendous still in death!

Ah! what was then Llewellyn's pain?
For now the truth was clear,
His gallant hound the wolf had slain,
To save Llewellyn's heir.

38. MARCO BOZZARIS, THE EPAMINONDAS OF MODERN GREECE.-Halleck.

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 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 firstborn'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.

Stay, jailer, stay, and hear my wo!
She is not mad who kneels to thee;
For what I'm now, too well I know,
And what I was, and what should be.
I'll rave no more in proud despair;
My language shall be mild, though sad:
But yet I firmly, truly swear,

I am not mad, I am not mad.

My tyrant husband forged the tale,
Which chains me in this dismal cell;
My fate unknown my friends bewail—
Oh! jailer, haste that fate to tell :
Oh! haste my father's heart to cheer:
His heart at once 'twill grieve and glad
To know, though kept a captive here,
I am not mad, I am not mad.

He smiles in scorn, and turns the key;
He quits the grate; I knelt in vain;
His glimmering lamp, still, still I see-
'Tis gone! and all is gloom again.
Cold, bitter cold!-No warmth! no light!—
Life, all thy comforts once I had;
Yet here I'm chained, this freezing night,
Although not mad; no, no, not mad.

'Tis sure some dream, some vision vain ;
What! I, the child of rank and wealth,-
Am I the wretch who clanks this chain,
Bereft of freedom, friends, and health?
Ah! while I dwell on blessings fled,
Which never more my heart must glad,
How aches my heart, how burns my head;
But 'tis not mad; no, 'tis not mad.