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He called his child ; no voice replied ;
He searched with terror wild :
But no where found the child.
“Hell-hound ! my child by thee's devoured,"
He plunged in Gelert's side!
Aroused by Gelert's dying yell,
Some slumberer wakened nigh-
He hears his infant cry!
Nor scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread,
But the same couch beneath
Tremendous still in death!
Ah! what was then Llewellyn's pain ?
For now the truth was clear,
To save Llewellyn's heir.
38. MARCO BOZZARIS, THE EPAMINONDAS OF MODERN
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,
Should tremble at his power.
In dreams his song of triumph heard ;
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,
And death-shots falling thick and fast
Bozzaris cheer his band :“ Strike—till the last armed foe expires, Strike-for
altars and your fires, Strike-for the green graves
native land !" They fought-like brave men, long and well,
They piled that ground with Moslem slain;
Bleeding at every vein.
And the red field was won;
Like flowers at set of sun.
Come to the mother when she feels
Come when the blessed seals
With banquet-song, and dance, and wine,
Of agony, are thine.
Has won the battle for the free,
The thanks of millions yet to be.
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;
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.
Which chains me in this dismal cell ;
Oh! jailer, haste that fate to tell : Oh! haste my father's heart to cheer:
His heart at once 'twill grieve and glad
I am not mad, I am not mad.
He quits the grate ; I knelt in vain;
'Tis gone! and all is gloom again. Cold, bitter cold !-No warmth ! no light!
Life, all thy comforts once I had;
Although not mad; no, no, not mad.
What! 1,—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 chung; 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.
Mark how yon demon's eyeballs glare !
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!
“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.
So early thrown aside ?
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 ;
Of bitterness to thee.
And bade me love thee well,
May eloquently tell.
Thou sayest yon stranger loves thy child,
I see he strives to please ;
I ask it on my knees.
With pleasure, I confess;