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,
    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 Plataea’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.

  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,
    And death-shots falling thick and fast
  As lightnings from the mountain-cloud;
  And heard, with voice as trumpet loud,
    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!”

  They fought—­like brave men, long and well;
    They piled that ground with Moslem slain: 
  They conquered—­but Bozzaris fell,
    Bleeding at every vein. 
  His few surviving comrades saw
  His smile when rang their proud hurrah,
    And the red field was won;
  Then saw in death his eyelids close
  Calmly, as to a night’s repose,
    Like flowers at set of sun.

  Come to the bridal chamber, Death,
    Come to the mother, 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.

  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 wrought;
  Come 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