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Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave!
And charge with all thy chivalry! 8 (-) Ah! few shall part
meet! Thé snow shall be their winding sheet, And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. Campbell
Battle of Waterloo.
And Belgium's capital had gathered then
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street: (9) On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet To chase the glowing hours with flying feet(.) But, hark!—That heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat. And
ņearer, clearer, deadlier than before! (o) Arn! àrm! it is—it is the cannon's opening roar! 3 Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness: And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated--who could guess If ever more should meet, those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet, such awful morn could rise? 4 And there was mounting, in hot haste; the steed,
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
the soldier ere the morning star; While thronged the citizens with terror dumb Or whispering with white lips-" The foe! They come!
They come!” 5 -) And Ardennes* waves above them her green leaves,
Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass,
And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low 6 Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,
Last eve in beauty's circle proudly gay,
Afric's coast I left forlorn;
O’er the raging billows borne.
Paid my price in paltry gold;
Minds are never to be sold.
What are England's rights, I ask,
Me to torture, me to task?
* Pronounced in two syllables.
Fleecy locks, and black complexion,
Cannot forfeit Nature's claim;
Dwells in white and black the same. 3 Why did all-creating nature
Make the plant for which we toil?
Sweat of ours must dress the soil.
Lolling at your jovial boards;
For the sweets your cane affords.
4 (9) Is there, as ye sometimes tell us,
Is there one who reigns on high?
Speaking from his throne the sky?
Matches, blood-extorting screws,
Agents of his will to use? 5 (.) Hark!-he answers;—wild tornadoes,
Strewing yonder sea with wrecks;
Are the voice with which he speaks.
Afric's sons should undergo,
Where his WHIRLWINDS answer-NO.
6 By our blood in Afric wasted,
Ere our necks received the chain;
Crossing in your barks the main;
To the man-degrading mart;
Only by a broken heart;
Till some reason ye shall find
* Firm voice.
Worthier of regard, and stronger
Than the colour of our kind.
Tarnish all your boasted powers,
Ere you proudly question ours !
Marco Bozzaris, the Epaminondas of Modern Greece. [He fell in an attack upon the Turkish Camp, at Laspi, the site of the ancient Platæa, August 20, 1823, and expired in the moment of victory. His last words were—“ To die for liberty is a pleasure, and not a pain.”] 1 At midnight, in his guarded tent,
The Turk was dreaming of the hour,
Should tremble at his power;
In dreams, his song of triumph heard;
As Eden's garden bird.
That bright dream was his last;
Bozzaris cheer his band.
native land. 3 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
And the red field was won;
Like flowers at set of sun.
4 6 Come to the bridal chamber, Death!
Come to the mother, when she feels,
Come when the blessed seals,
With banquet-song, and dance, and wine,
Of agony, are thine.
5 But to the hero, when his sword
Has won the battle for the free,
The thanks of millions yet to be.
Greece nurtured in her glory's time,
Even in her own proud clime.
That were not born to die.
(.) Now when fair morn orient in Heaven appear'd Up rose the victor Angels, and to arms