The shrill cock's clarion the blue welkin fills,
The top-boughs carol with the songster's prayer;
The jovial Sun winds up the Eastern hills,

Waving sweet odours from his yellow hair.
Soft murmur pebbly rills at stilly dawn;

The nestling breezes plume their dew-bent wings; Loudly the watch-dog wakes the peopled lawn,

While stroke on stroke the woodman's echo rings. Gray mists now drizzle from the smoky rocks;

The humming bees swarm out in busy mood; The herdsman drives a-field his kine and flocks,

And matron hens cluck out their callow brood. Nature in youthful dishabille appears,

And the returning smile dispels her nightly tears.

NOON

The sweltering farmer spreads the new-mown grass
That mid-day suns may nurture it to hay;

And roguish Roger, pledging to his lass,

To tilt the tankard slyly slinks away.

The cloudless, sultry noon oft drives the swain
To court light slumbers in some cool retreat;

But if dark rising rack threats speedy rain,

The hay-cocks heap'd are hous'd with hurrying feet.

Fowls droop the wing; the herd, their feed forgot,
Restless for flies beneath the willows stand;

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Broad sheets of cloth are bleaching by the cot;
The pool with geese, a fancied fleet, is mann'd.
Nature in all her glowing beauty beams,
And as a panting bride in nuptial glory seems.

EVENING

The sun, his day-toil clos'd, to rest retires;
The watchful moon suspends her lamp of eve;
The cheery stars light up their twinkling fires,
And sombre mellow'd tints the eye relieve.
Tottering on tripods, milkmaids soothe the kine,
While rains a white shower in the foaming pail.
The clown, new-trimm'd, sneaks out his lass to join,
And con in stolen glance an amorous tale.
Mourning the sun, blue-bells have shut their cup;

The bat wheels round and round on leathern wing;

Reynard creeps out, on pilfer'd eggs to sup;

And chiming frogs their shrilly concert sing.

Nature, a pensive matron, smiles serene,

Her morning charms enveil'd, not anxious to be seen.

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ΙΟ

Then pressed that monarch's throne—a king:
As wild his thoughts and gay of wing

ΙΟ

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.

15

"To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!"

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;

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