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 5 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, 10 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. 15 There had the Persian's thousands stood, There had the glad earth drunk their blood, On old Platæa's day; And now, there breathed that haunted air The sons of sires who conquered there, With arm to strike, and soul to dare, 5 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!" 10 He woke--to die midst flame, and smoke, And shout, and groan, and saber stroke, And death shots falling thick and fast As lightning from the mountain cloud-- And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, 15 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!" 20
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 25 His smile when rang their proud huzza 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. 30
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, 5 And crowded cities wail its stroke; Come in consumption's ghastly form, The earthquake's shock, the ocean's storm; Come when the heart beats high and warm With banquet song, and dance, and wine,-- 10 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 15 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 20 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.-- 25 One of the few, the immortal names, That were not born to die!