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She was among the first and warmest
patrons of Griscom's conversaziones, where 50 In rainbow groups, our bright-eyed maids
and matrons, On science bent, assemble; to prepare Themselves for acting well, in life, their
part As wives and mothers. There she learned by heart
CXX Words, to the witches in Macbeth un
known. Hydraulics, hydrostatics, and pneumat
ics, Dioptrics, optics, katoptrics, carbon,
Chlorine, and iodine, and aerostatics; Also,—why frogs, for want of air, expire; And how to set the Tappan Sea on fire!
A little like effrontery; and yet
The lady meant no harm; her only aim Was but to be admired by all she met, And the free homage of the heart to
claim; And if she showed too plainly this in
tention, Others have done the same—'Twas not
of her invention.
She shone at every concert; where are
bought Tickets by all who wish them, for a
dollar; She patronized the Theatre, and thought That Wallack looked extremely well in
Rolla; She fell in love, as all the ladies do, With Mr. Simpson-talked as loudly, too,
CXXI In all the modern languages she was Exceedingly well-versed; and had de
voted, To their attainment, far more time than
has, By the best teachers, lately been allotted; For she had taken lessons, twice a week, For a full month in each; and she could speak
CXXII French and Italian, equally as well As Chinese, Portuguese, or German;
and What is still more surprising, she could
spell Most of our longest English words off
hand; Was quite familiar in Low Dutch and
Spanish, And thought of studying modern Greek
CXVIII And though by no means a bas bleu, she
had For literature a most becoming passion; Had skimmed the latest novels, good and
bad, And read the Croakers, when they were
in fashion ; And Dr. Chalmers' sermons of a Sunday; And Woodworth's Cabinet, and the new
She sang divinely; and in “Love's young
dream" And “Fanny dearest,” and “The sol
dier's bride"; And every song, whose dear delightful
theme, Is "Love, still love," had oft till mid
night tried Her finest, loftiest "pigeon-wings” of
sound, Waking the very watchmen far around.
CXLV He once made the Lyceum a choice pres
ent Of mussel-shells picked up at Rocka
way; And Mitchill gave a classical and pleasant Discourse about them in the streets that
day, Naming the shells, and hard to put in
verse 'twas “Testaceous coverings of bivalve molluscas."
And lectured soundly every evil-doer, Gave dinners daily to wealth, power, and rank,
69 And sixpence every Sunday to the poor; He was a wit, in the pun-making linePast fifty years of age, and five feet nine.
CXLVII But as he trod to grandeur's pinnacle, With eagle eye and step that never fal
tered, The busy tongue of scandal dared to tell That cash was scarce with him, and
credit altered; And while he stood the envy of beholders, The Bank Directors grinned, and
shrugged their shoulders.
MARCO BOZZARIS 1
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, so
As Eden's garden bird.
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 thousands 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.
1 Marco Bozzaris, one of the best and bravest of the modern Greek chieftains. He fell in night attack upon the Turkish camp at Laspi, the site of the ancient Platza, August 20, 1823, and expired in the moment of victory.
Green be the turf above thee,
Friend of my better days! None knew thee but to love thee,
Nor named thee but to praise.
An hour passed on-the Turk awoke;
That bright dream was his last; He woke to hear his sentries shriek, "To arms! they come! the Greek! the
Greek !" He woke—to die midst flame, and smoke, And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke,
Ana death-shots falling thick and fast As lightnings from the mountain-cloud; And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, 31
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 !"
Thy grasp is welcome as the hand
To the world-seeking Genoese.
Blew o'er the Haytian seas. 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: 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; 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.
The New York Review, 1823,
Come to the bridal-chamber, Death!
Come to the mother's, when she feels, For the first time, her first-born's breath;
Come when the blessed seals That 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.
THE IRON GRAYS
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. Come, when his task of fame is wroughtCome, with her laurel-leaf, blood bought
Come in her crowning hour—and then Thy sunken eye's unearthly light To him is welcome as the sight Of sky and stars to prisoned men:
We twine the wreath of honor
Around the warrior's brow,
The life-devoting vow,
The meed of praise deny,
For their native land to die? 1 During the second war with Great Britain, Mr. Halleck joined a New York infantry com. pany,
“Swarthout's gallant corps, the Iron Grays," as he afterward wrote in "Fanny," and excited their martial ardor by this spirited ode.