Elson Grammar School Literature Part 18

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 arms to strike, and soul to dare, As quick, as far as they.

An hour pa.s.sed 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 mid flames 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; G.o.d--and your native land!"

They fought--like brave men, long and well; They piled the 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 response, Like flowers at set of sun.

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.

HELPS TO STUDY.

Biographical and Historical: Fitz-Greene Halleck was born in Connecticut, July 8, 1790, and died November 19, 1867. Of his poems, "Marco Bozzaris" is probably the best known. Marco Bozzaris, leader of the Greek revolution, was, killed August 20, 1823, in an attack upon the Turks near Missolonghi, a Greek town. His last words were: "To die for liberty is a pleasure, not a pain."

Notes and Questions.

Over whom did the Turk dream he gained a victory?

What might be the "trophies of a conqueror"?

Upon whom would a monarch confer the privilege of wearing his signet ring?

Trace the successive steps by which the Turk in his dream rises to the summit of his ambition.

What other "immortal names" do you know?

"Suliote"--natives of Suli, a mountainous district in Albania (European Turkey).

"Plataea's day" refers to the victory of the Greeks over the Persians on this field 479 B. C.

"Moslem"--Mohammedans--name given the Turks.

Words and Phrases for Discussion.

"tried blades"

"haunted air"

"storied brave"

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE

CHARLES WOLFE

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, At his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning, By the struggling moonbeams' misty light, And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin inclosed his breast, Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spike not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow.

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him; But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory.

HELPS TO STUDY.

Charles Wolfe, a British clergyman, was born at Dublin, December 14, 1791, and died at Cork, February 21, 1823. His poem, "The Burial of Sir John Moore," is the only one of his works now widely read.

Historical: Sir John Moore, an English general, was killed (January 16, 1809) in an engagement between the English and the army of Napoleon at Corunna, in Spain. In accordance with an expressed wish, he was buried at night on the battlefield. In St. Paul's Cathedral, London, a monument was erected to his memory, and a stone also marks the spot where he was buried on the ramparts, at Corunna. Note that it was from this port that the Spanish Armada sailed.

Notes and Questions.

Who tells the story of the poem?

What is the narrator's feeling for Sir John Moore? How do you know?

What impressions of Sir John Moore do you get from reading this poem?

Which stanza or stanzas do you like best? Why?

Select the lines that seem to you most beautiful and memorize them.

Which is the greater memorial, a monument of stone or bronze, or such a poem as this? Why?

Words and Phrases for Discussion.

"corse"

"upbraid"

"rampart"

"random"

"bayonets"

"sullenly"