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.

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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;

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Of thee her babes' 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.

EDWARD COATE PINKNEY

A HEALTH

I fill this cup to one made up of loveliness alone,

A woman, of her gentle sex the seeming paragon;

To whom the better elements and kindly stars have given

A form so fair, that, like the air, 't is less of earth than heaven.

Her every tone is music's own, like those of morning birds,
And something more than melody dwells ever in her words:
The coinage of her heart are they, and from her lips each flows
As one may see the burthened bee forth issue from the rose.

Affections are as thoughts to her, the measures of her hours;

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Her feelings have the fragrancy, the freshness, of young flowers; 10 And lovely passions, changing oft, so fill her she appears

The image of themselves by turns, the idol of past years!

Of her bright face one glance will trace a picture on the brain,
And of her voice in echoing hearts a sound must long remain;
But memory such as mine of her so very much endears,
When death is nigh my latest sigh will not be life's but hers.

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I filled this cup to one made up of loveliness alone,

A woman, of her gentle sex, the seeming paragon.

Her health! and would on earth there stood, some more of

such a frame,

That life might be all poetry, and weariness a name.

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1825.

NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS

ROARING BROOK

It was a mountain stream that with the leap
Of its impatient waters had worn out
A channel in the rock, and wash'd away
The earth that had upheld the tall old trees
Till it was darken'd with the shadowy arch
Of the o'er-leaning branches. Here and there
It loiter'd in a broad and limpid pool
That circled round demurely; and anon
Sprung violently over where the rock
Fell suddenly, and bore its bubbles on

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Till they were broken by the hanging moss,

As anger with a gentle word grows calm.

In spring-time, when the snows were coming down,

Pleasant have been such hours; and tho' the wise
Have said that I was indolent, and they

Who taught me have reprov'd me that I play'd

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Now walking there was one more fair

A slight girl, lily-pale;

And she had unseen company

To make the spirit quail:

"T wixt Want and Scorn she walk'd forlorn,

And nothing could avail.

No mercy now can clear her brow

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For this world's peace to pray;

For as love's wild prayer dissolved in air,
Her woman's heart gave way!—

But the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven

By man is cursed alway!

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