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CXIX

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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!

CXV

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.

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CXVI

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,

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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

and Danish.

CXVII

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CXXIII

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

Salmagundi.

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.

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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."

CXLVI
He was. a trustee of a Savings Bank,

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.

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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.

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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.

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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 !"

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Thy grasp is welcome as the hand
Of brother in a foreign land;
Thy summons welcome as the cry
That told the Indian isles were nigh

To the world-seeking Genoese.
When the land wind, from woods of palm,
And orange-groves, and fields of balm,

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,

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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.

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THE IRON GRAYS

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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,
Who, at his country's altar, breathes

The life-devoting vow,
And shall we to the Iron Grays

The meed of praise deny,
Who freely swore, in danger's days,

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.

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