Bozzaris! with the storied brave
    Greece nurtured in her glory’s time,
  Rest thee—­there is no prouder grave,
    E’en in her own proud clime. 
  Site 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 birth-day 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.

* * * * *

From “Fanny.”

=_347._= THE BROKEN MERCHANT.

  Fanny! ’twas with her name my song began;
    ’Tis proper and polite her name should end it;
  If in my story of her woes, or plan
    Or moral can be traced, ’twas not intended;
  And if I’ve wronged her, I can only tell her
  I’m sorry for it—­so is my bookseller.

* * * * *

  Her father sent to Albany a prayer
    For office, told how fortune had abused him,
  And modestly requested to be mayor—­
    The council very civilly refused him;
  Because, however much they might desire it,
  The “public good,” it seems, did not require it.

  Some evenings since, he took a lonely stroll
    Along Broadway, scene of past joys and evils;
  He felt that withering bitterness of soul,
    Quaintly denominated the “blue devils;”
  And thought of Bonaparte and Belisarius,
  Pompey, and Colonel Burr, and Caius Marius.

  And envying the loud playfulness and mirth. 
    Of those who passed him, gay in youth and hope,
  He took at Jupiter a shilling’s worth
    Of gazing, through the showman’s telescope;
  Sounds as of far-off bells came on his ears,
  He fancied ’twas the music of the spheres.

  He was mistaken, it was no such thing,
    ’Twas Yankee Doodle, played by Scudder’s band;
  He muttered, as he lingered listening,
    Something of freedom and our happy land;
  Then sketched, as to his home he hurried fast,
  This sentimental song—­his saddest and his last.