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Thinkest thou it was God, who our green hills defended,

And nerved to the battle the heroes who bled ?
Ah! red were our fields ere the battle was ended,
Ah! white are our plains with the bones of the dead.

All bloody and pale, with his war-clothes around him,

My father I saw, in his pillared halls laid;
Cold and dead was my brother-at evening I found him,
But the God of good children ne'er made me afraid.

And where is thy mother, boy ? lives she to bless thee?

Where is thy bower of the jessamin wild?
Thou livest in the stranger-land, strangers caress thee,
Where is the home of thy boyhood, fair child ?

Oh! my mother is dead—three long summers have ended

Since her kind and last kiss on my cheek she impressed An orphan she left me—alone, unbefriended,

But the God of the orphan--the Greek orphan blessed, For here, in the stranger-land green hills are round me, Home, father, and mother, and brothers have found me!




First Voice.
How frightful the grave! how deserted and drear!
With the howls of the storm-wind—the creaks of the bier,
And the white bones all clattering together!

Second Voice.
How peaceful the grave! its quiet how deep:
Its zephyrs breathe calmly, and soft is its sleep,
And flowerets perfume it with ether.

First Voice.
There riots the blood-crested worm on the dead,
And the yellow skull serves the foul toad for a bed,
And snakes in its nettle-weeds hiss.

Second Voice. How lovely, how sweet the repose of the tomb : No tempests are there :--but the nightingales come And sing their sweet chorus of bliss.

First Voice. The ravens of night flap their wings o'er the grave: 'Tis the vulture's abode :-'tis the wolf's dreary cave, Where they tear up the earth with their fangs.

Second Voice. There the rabbit at evening disports with his love, Or rests on the sod;—while the turtles above, Repose on the bough that o'erhangs.

First Voice.
There darkness and dampness with poisonous breath
And lothsome decay fill the dwelling of death ;
And trees are all barren and bare !

Second Voice.
Oh, soft are the breezes that play round the tomb,
And sweet with the violet's wafted perfume,
With lilies and jessamin fair.

First Voice.
The pilgrim who reaches this valley of tears,
Would fain hurry by, and with trembling and fears,
He is lanched on the wreck-covered river !

Second Voice. The traveler, outworn with life's pilgrimage dreary, Lays down his rude staff, like one that is weary,

And sweetly reposes for ever.



Why wouldst thou leave me, oh! gentle child ?
Thy home on the mountain is bleak and wild,
A straw-roofed cabin with lowly wall-

Mine is a fair and a pillared hall,
Where many an image of marble gleams,
And the sunshine of picture for ever streams.

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Oh! green is the turf where my brothers play,
Through the long bright hours of the summer-day
They find the red cup-moss where they climb,
And they chase the bee o'er the scented thyme,
And the rocks where the heath-flower blooms they know-
Stranger! kind stranger! oh! let me go.

Content thee, boy! in my bower to dwell,
Here are sweet sounds which thou lovest well;
Flutes on the air in the stilly noon,
Harps which the wandering breezes tune;
And the silvery wood-note of many a bird,
Whose voice was ne'er in thy mountains heard.

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Oh! my mother sings at the twilight's fall,
A song of the hills far more sweet than all;
She sings it under our pwn green tree,
To the babe half-slumbering on her knee;
I dreamt last night of that music low-
Stranger! kind stranger! oh! let me go.

Thy mother is gone from her cares to rest,
She hath taken the babe on her quiet breast;
Thou wouldst meet her footstep, my boy, no more,
Nor hear her song at the cabin door.
Come thou with me to the vineyards nigh,
And we'll pluck the grapes of the richest dye.

my mother

Child. Is


from her home away?-
But I know that my brothers are there at play.
I know they are gathering the fox-glove's bell,
Or the long fern-leaves by the sparkling well,
Or they lanch their boats where the bright streams flow,-
Stranger! kind stranger! oh! let me go.

Fair child, thy brothers are wanderers now,
They sport no more on the mountain's brow,
They have left the fern by the spring's green side,
And the streams where the fairy barks were tried.

Be thou at peace in thy brighter lot,
For thy cabin-home is a lonely spot.

Are they gone, all gone from the sunny hill ?-
But the bird and the blue-fly rove o'er it still ;
And the red-deer bound in their gladness free,
And the heath is bent by the singing bee,
And the waters leap, and the fresh winds blow,-
Stranger! kind stranger! oh! let me go.



Procida. And dost thou still refuse to share the glory Of this our daring enterprise ?

Raimond. Oh, father!
I too, have dreamt of glory, and the word
Hath to my soul been as a trumpet's voice,
Making my nature sleepless.—But the deeds
Whereby 'twas won, the high exploits, whose tale
Bids the heart burn, were of another cast
Than such as thou requirest.

Proc. Every deed
Hath sanctity, if bearing for its aim
The freedom of our country; and the sword
Alike is honored in the patriot's hand,
Searching, ʼmidst warrior hosts the heart which gave
Oppression birth; or flashing through the gloom
of the still chamber, o'er its troubled couch,
At dead of night.

Rai. (Turning away.) There is no path but one
For noble natures.

Proc. Wouldst thou ask the man Who to the earth hath dashed a nation's chains, Rent as with heaven's own lightning, by what means The glorious end was won ?-Go, swell the acclaim! Bid the deliverer, hail! and if his path To that most bright and sovereign destiny Hath led o'er trampled thousands, be it called A stern necessity, and not a crime!

Rai, Father! my soul yet kindles at the thought Of noblor lessons, in my boyhood learned


E'en from thy voice. The high remembrances
Of other days are stirring in the heart
Where thou didst plant them; and they speak of men
Who needed no vain sophistry to gild
Acts, that would bear heaven's light. And such be mine!
Oh, father! is it yet too late to draw
The praise and blessings of all valiant hearts
On our most righteous cause ?

Proc. What wouldst thou do?
Rai. I would go forth, and rouse the indignant land

generous combat. Why should freedom strike
Mantled with darkness ?-Is there not more strength
E’en in the waving of her single arm
Than hosts can wield against her ?—I would rouse
That spirit, whose fire doth press resistless on
To its proud sphere, the stormy field of fight!

Proc. Aye! and give time and warning to the foe
To gather all his might !—It is too late.
There is a work to be this eve begun,
When rings the vesper bell! and, long before
To-morrow's sun hath reached the noonday heaven,
His throne of burning glory, every sound
of the provençal tongue within our walls,
As by one thunderstroke-you are pale, my son-
Shall be for ever silenced.

Rai. What! such sounds
As falter on the lip of infancy
In its imperfect utterance ? or are breathed
By the fond mother, as she lulls her babe?
Or in sweet hymns, upon the twilight air
Poured by the timid maid ?–Must all alike
Be stilled in death ; and wouldst thou tell


heart There is no crime in this?

Proc. Since thou dost feel
Such horror of our purpose, in thy power
Are means that might avert it.

Rai. Speak! oh speak!

Proc. How would those rescued thousands bless thy name Shouldst thou betray us !

Rai. Father! I can bear-
Aye, proudly woo—the keenest questioning
Of thy soul-gifted eye; which almost seems
To claim a part of heaven's dread royalty,
The power that searches thought!

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