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.
Hast thou, my child, forgot, ere this,
A mother's face, a mother's tongue ?
She'll ne'er forget your parting kiss,
Nor round her neck how fast you clung;
Nor how with her you sued to stay;
Nor how that suit your sire forbade ;
Nor how I'll drive such thoughts away;
They'll make me mad, they'll make me mad.
His rosy lips, how sweet they smiled!
His mild blue eyes, how bright they shone!
None ever bore a lovelier child:
And art thou now for ever gone?
And must I never see thee more,
My pretty, pretty, pretty lad?
I will be free! unbar the door!
I am not mad; I am not mad.
Oh! hark! what mean those yells and cries? His chain some furious madman breaks; He comes, I see his glaring eyes;
Now, now, my dungeon-grate he shakes.
Help! help!-He's gone!-Oh! fearful wo,
Such screams to hear, such sights to see!
My brain, my brain,—I know, I know,
I am not mad, but soon shall be.
Yes, soon ;-for, lo you !-while I speak-
Mark how yon demon's eyeballs glare!
He sees me; now, with dreadful shriek,
He whirls a serpent high in air.
Horror!-the reptile strikes his tooth
Deep in my heart, so crushed and sad;
Ay, laugh, ye fiends;-I feel the truth;
Your task is done-I'm mad! I'm mad!
40. THE FATHERLESS.-Bayly.
"Come hither, 'tis thy father, boy!
Receive him with a kiss."
'Oh, mother, mother! do not jest
On such a theme as this.
Though I was but a little child,
How bitterly I cried,
And clung to thee in agony,
When my poor father died."
“Come, child, this is no time to weep,
Partake thy mother's joy;
The husband of my choice will prove
A parent to my boy."
"Oh, mother, mother! say not so,
I cast no blame on thee,
But yon gay stranger cannot feel
A father's love for me."
"Come, boy, 'tis for thy sake I wed—” "No, mother, not for mine;
I do not ask in all the world,
One smile of love save thine.
Oh say, why is the widow's veil
So early thrown aside?
The hateful rumor is not true;
Thou wilt not be a bride!
Oh, mother, canst thou quite forget
How hand in hand we crept,
To my own honored father's bed,
To watch him as he slept;
And do you not remember still
His fond but feeble kiss ?"
"Alas! such thoughts but little suit
A day-of joy-like this."
"Of joy! oh, mother, we must part,
This is no home for me;
I cannot bear to breathe one word
Of bitterness to thee.
My father placed my hand in thine,
And bade me love thee well,
And how I love, these tears of mine
May eloquently tell.
Thou sayest yon stranger loves thy child, I see he strives to please;
But, mother, do not be his bride,
I ask it on my knees.
I used to listen to his voice
With pleasure, I confess;
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