Of sky and stars to prisoned men;
  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 her 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.

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.

* * * * *

HARMOSAN.

  Now the third and fatal conflict for the Persian throne was done,
  And the Moslem’s fiery valor had the crowning victory won.

  Harmosan, the last and boldest the invader to defy,
  Captive, overborn by numbers, they were bringing forth to die.

  Then exclaimed that noble captive:  “Lo, I perish in my thirst;
  Give me but one drink of water, and let then arrive the worst!”

  In his hand he took the goblet:  but awhile the draught forbore,
  Seeming doubtfully the purpose of the foeman to explore.

  Well might then have paused the bravest—­for, around him, angry foes
  With a hedge of naked weapons did the lonely man enclose.

  “But what fear’st thou?” cried the caliph; “is it, friend, a secret blow? 
  Fear it not! our gallant Moslems no such treacherous dealing know.

  “Thou may’st quench thy thirst securely, for thou shalt not die before
  Thou hast drunk that cup of water—­this reprieve is thine—­no more!”

  Quick the satrap dashed the goblet down to earth with ready hand,
  And the liquid sank forever, lost amid the burning sand.