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.

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. 
  We tell 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.

Notes.—­Marco Bozzaris (b. about 1790, d. 1823) was a famous Greek patriot.  His family were Suliotes, a people inhabiting the Suli Mountains, and bitter enemies of the Turks.  Bozzaris was engaged in war against the latter nearly all his life, and finally fell in a night attack upon their camp near Carpenisi.  This poem, a fitting tribute to his memory, has been translated into modern Greek.

Plataea was the scene of a great victory of the Greeks over the Persians in the year 479 B. C.

Moslem—­The followers of Mohammed are called Moslems.

LI.  SONG OF THE GREEK BARD. (205)

George Gordon Byron, Lord Byron, 1788-1824.  This gifted poet was the son of a profligate father and of a fickle and passionate mother.  He was afflicted with lameness from his birth; and, although he succeeded to his great-uncle’s title at ten years of age, he inherited financial embarrassment with it.  These may be some of the reasons for the morbid and wayward character of the youthful genius.  It is certain that he was not lacking in affection, nor in generosity.  In his college days, at Cambridge, he was willful and careless of his studies.  “Hours of Idleness,” his first book, appeared in 1807.  It was severely treated by the “Edinburgh Review,” which called forth his “English Bards and Scotch Reviewers,” in 1809.  Soon after, he went abroad for two years; and, on his return, published the first two cantos of “Childe Harold’s Pligrimage,” a work that made him suddenly famous.  He married in 1815, but separated from his wife after one year.  Soured and bitter, he now left England, purposing never to return.  He spent most of the next seven years in Italy, where most of his poems were written.  The last year of his life was spent in Greece, aiding in her struggle for liberty against the Turks.  He died at Missolonghi.  As a man, Byron was impetuous, morbid and passionate.  He was undoubtedly dissipated and immoral, but perhaps to a less degree than has sometimes been asserted.  As a poet, he possessed noble powers, and he has written much that will last; in general, however, his poetry is not wholesome, and his fame is less than it once was. ###

The isles of Greece! the isles of Greece! 
  Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
Where grew the arts of war and peace,—­
  Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung! 
Eternal summer gilds them yet,
But all, except their sun, is set.