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’s, 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
      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