Ωδή στον Μάρκο Μπότσαρη (Marco Bozzaris, by Fitz-Greene Halleck)

Το ποιητικό αριστούργημα του Fitz-Greene Halleck (1790-1867)

Η Επανάσταση του 1821 μέσα από τα μάτια του «Αμερικανού Μπάυρον»

του Δρ. Ιωάννη Χρ. Ιακωβίδη

( Επιστημονικός συνεργάτης στο Κέντρο Ανατολικών Σπουδών του Παντείου Πανεπιστημίου)

Στις 24 Μαρτίου 2014 ο Φιλολογικός Σύλλογος Παρνασσός τίμησε την Εθνική Επέτειο της 25ης Μαρτίου 1821. Τον πανηγυρικό εκφώνησε ο ομότιμος καθηγητής Συγκριτικής Πολιτικής του Παντείου Πανεπιστημίου κ. Κλεομένης Σ. Κουτσούκης, με θέμα «Ευρωπαίοι και Αμερικανοί Φιλέλληνες του 1821 – Η περίπτωση του Γερμανού αναρχικού Francis Lieber». Ο ηθοποιός – σκηνοθέτης κ. Τάσος Λέρτας απήγγειλε ποιήματα. Ανάμεσά τους ιδιαίτερη θέση είχε το ποίημα «Μάρκος Μπότσαρης» του Αμερικανού Φιλέλληνα ποιητή Fitz-Greene Halleck (1790-1867)1. Όταν δημοσιεύτηκε, τον Ιούνιο 1825, κατέστη πολύ δημοφιλές στη Νέα Υόρκη. Από τους βιογράφους του ο Halleck έχει αποκληθεί «Αμερικανός Μπάυρον». Στους Βαλκανικούς Πολέμους (1912-1913) το ποίημα ανατυπώθηκε από τον εκδοτικό οίκο W. Jacobs & Co., (Philadelphia – George) στην ειδική Σειρά – Αφιέρωμα Historic Poems and Ballads.

Προς τιμήν του Μάρκου Μπότσαρη2, ενός εκ των μεγαλυτέρων ηρώων της Εθνεγερσίας του 1821, παρατίθεται εν συνεχεία αυτό το ποιητικό αριστούργημα –σε νεοελληνική απόδοση– από την κυρία Δανάη Κωσταλία, συνάδελφο φιλόλογο του γράφοντος στις Αχαρνές, με καταγωγή από την Αίγυπτο. Σημειωτέον ότι το ποίημα δεν υπάρχει ελληνιστί στο Διαδίκτυο.

ΜΑΡΚΟΣ ΜΠΟΤΣΑΡΗΣ
του Fitz-Green Halleck
Μετάφραση: Δανάη Κωσταλία (11/3/2014)

Μεσάνυχτα, μες στην φρουρούμενη σκηνή του
Ο Τούρκος ονειρεύονταν την ώρα
Που η Ελλάδα, με λυγισμένα σε ικεσία γόνατα,
Θα τρέμει μπροστά στη δύναμή του.
Στα όνειρα, με πόλεμο και με πολιτική
Μάζευε τα τρόπαια – κατακτητής!
Στα όνειρα, άκουγε το τραγούδι του θριάμβου του.
Φόραγε το δαχτυλίδι-σφραγίδα του μονάρχη του
Και πάταγε τον θρόνο του μονάρχη-βασιλιάς!
Έτσι άγριες οι σκέψεις του φτερούγιζαν χαρούμενες
Σαν πουλί στον κήπο της Εδέμ.

Μεσάνυχτα, μες στου δάσους τις σκιές
Ο Μπότσαρης παράταξε τους Σουλιώτες του,
Αφοσιωμένους, χαλύβδινους σαν τις δοκιμασμένες τους λεπίδες,
Ήρωες στην ψυχή και στο σώμα.
Εκεί είχαν σταθεί των Περσών οι χιλιάδες,
Εκεί η ευτυχής γη είχε πιει το αίμα τους
Στις Πλαταιές μιαν αρχαία μέρα.
Και τώρα εκεί έπνεε ο ίδιος στοιχειωμένος αέρας,
Οι γιοι των προγόνων, εκείνων που νίκησαν εκεί,
Με το χέρι έτοιμο να χτυπήσει και την ψυχή να τολμήσει,
Τόσο γρήγορα, τόσο μακριά… Όπως εκείνοι.

Μια ώρα πέρασε – ο Τούρκος ξύπνησε.
Το φωτεινό όνειρο ήταν δικό του επιτέλους.
Ξύπνησε – για να ακούσει των φρουρών του την κραυγή:
«Στα όπλα! έρχονται! οι Έλληνες! οι Έλληνες!»
Ξύπνησε – για να πεθάνει μέσα στις φλόγες και τον καπνό,
Μες στις φωνές, τα βογκητά, και τα χτυπήματα με το γιαταγάνι,
Με τις θανατηφόρες βολές να πέφτουν πυκνές και γρήγορες
Σαν αστραπές από το σύννεφο στο βουνό,
Και άκουσε, με φωνή σαν τρομπέτα δυνατή,
Τον Μπότσαρη να ενθαρρύνει τον στρατό του:
«Χτυπάτε! – μέχρι να σβήσει κι ο τελευταίος οπλισμένος εχθρός.
Χτυπάτε! – υπέρ βωμών και εστιών.
Χτυπάτε! – για τους χορταριασμένους τάφους των προγόνων σας,
Τον Θεό και την πατρίδα σας!»

Πάλεψαν – σαν γενναίοι άνδρες, πολλήν ώρα και καλά.
Σώριασαν σ’ εκείνο το χώμα σφαγμένους μουσουλμάνους,
Νίκησαν – αλλά ο Μπότσαρης έπεσε
Αιμόφυρτος.
 Οι λιγοστοί του σύντροφοι που σώθηκαν
Είδαν το χαμόγελό του
όταν αντήχησαν δυνατές οι ζητωκραυγές τους,
Και το κόκκινο πεδίο κερδήθηκε.
Έπειτα είδαν στο θάνατο τα βλέφαρά του να κλείνουν,
Ήρεμα, σαν για ανάπαυση μιας νύχτας,
Όπως τα λουλούδια στο λιόγερμα.

Έλα, Θάνατε, στη νυφική κάμαρα,
Έλα στην κάμαρα της μάνας, όταν νιώθει
Πρώτη φορά την ανάσα του πρώτου της παιδιού.
Έλα, όταν οι ιερές σφραγίδες
Σπάνε κι απλώνεται η πανούκλα,
Και πολυάνθρωπες πόλεις κλαίνε στο χτύπημά της.
 Έλα στην απεχθή μορφή της αποσύνθεσης,
Της σεισμικής δόνησης, της ωκεάνιας καταιγίδας.
Έλα όταν η καρδιά χτυπά δυνατά και ζεστά
Στα συμπόσια με το τραγούδι, το χορό και το κρασί.
Γιατί είσαι φοβερός, Θάνατε – το δάκρυ,
Το βογγητό, η πένθιμη καμπάνα, το πέπλο, το φέρετρο
Και όλα όσα με αγωνία γνωρίζουμε ή ονειρευόμαστε ή φοβόμαστε
Είναι δικά σου.

Αλλά για τον ήρωα, όταν το σπαθί του
Έχει κερδίσει τη μάχη για την ελευθερία,
Η φωνή σου ακούγεται σαν προφητεία.
Και στο υπόκωφο άκουσμά της αντηχούν
Οι ευχαριστίες μύριων μελλοντικών γενεών.
Έλα, όταν θα ’χει επιτελέσει το χρέος του προς τη δόξα,
Έλα, με τα φύλλα της δάφνης, τα αγορασμένα με αίμα,
Έλα, τη στιγμή που τον στεφανώνουν – και τότε
Το απόκοσμο φως των ρουφηγμένων σου ματιών
Γι’ αυτόν θα ’ναι ευπρόσδεκτο όπως η θέα
Τ’ ουρανού με τ’ άστρα για τους φυλακισμένους.
Η αρπάγη σου θα ’ναι ευπρόσδεκτη όπως το χέρι
Του αδελφού σε μια ξένη γη.
Η κλήτευσή σου καλόδεχτη όπως η κραυγή
Που είπε στους Γενουάτες που αναζητούσαν τον κόσμο
Ότι τα ινδικά νησιά ήταν κοντά,
Όταν ο άνεμος της στεριάς, μέσα από δάση φοινικόδεντρων,
Πορτοκαλεώνες και χωράφια βαλσαμόχορτου,
Φύσηξε πάνω απ’ τις θάλασσες της Αϊτής.

Μπότσαρη! με τους χιλιοτραγουδισμένους γενναίους
που γέννησε η Ελλάδα στα χρόνια της δόξας της
Ξεκουράσου – δεν υπάρχει πιο περήφανος τάφος,
Ούτε στο αποκορύφωμα της δόξας της.
Δεν φόρεσε πένθιμο φόρεμα για σένα,
Ούτε πρόσταξε τη σκοτεινή νεκροφόρα να στολιστεί
Σαν κλαδί κομμένο από το χωρίς φύλλα δέντρο του θανάτου
Με της θλίψης την πομπή και την επίδειξη,
Την άκαρδη πολυτέλεια του τάφου.
Αλλά σε θυμάται ως έναν
πολυαγαπημένο που μίσεψε για λίγο καιρό.
Για σένα η λύρα του ποιητή της είναι στεφανωμένη,
Το μάρμαρό της λαξεύτηκε, η μουσική της γεμίζει τον αέρα.
Για σένα χτυπάει τις καμπάνες των γενεθλίων.
Για σένα τα νεογέννητα ψελλίζουν τα πρώτα τους λόγια.
Για σένα κάνει τη βραδινή της προσευχή
Σε ανάκλιντρο παλατιού ή σε κρεβάτι καλύβας.
Κάθε στρατιώτης της που πολεμάει τον εχθρό
Δίνει για χάρη σου το θανατηφόρο πλήγμα.
Η αρραβωνιαστικιά του, όταν φοβάται
Γι’ αυτόν, τη χαρά της νιότης της,
Σκέφτεται τη μοίρα σου, και παύει τα δάκρυά της.
Κι εκείνη, η μητέρα των αγοριών σου,
Αν και στα μάτια της, στα μαραμένα μάγουλά της
Διαβάζεται η θλίψη, η μνήμη της θαμμένης χαράς της,
Δεν πρόκειται να μιλήσει,
Ούτε κι η μάνα που σε γέννησε.
Κοντά στην εστία τους σαν προσκύνημα
Θα μιλάνε για τη μοίρα σου χωρίς αναστεναγμό.
Γιατί τώρα ανήκεις στην Ελευθερία και στη Δόξα,
Ένα από τα λίγα, τ’ αθάνατα ονόματα
Που δεν γεννήθηκαν για να πεθάνουν.

1. http://www.users.sch.gr-Marco Bozzaris του Αμερικανού ποιητή Halleck.
2. Βικιπαίδεια, Μάρκος Μπότσαρης: Ο Μάρκος Μπότσαρης (1790-1823) γεννήθηκε στο Σούλι. Υπήρξε στρατηγός και καπετάνιος των Σουλιωτών. Το 1814 μυήθηκε στη Φιλική Εταιρεία. Οι νικηφόρες μάχες στο Κομπότι της Άρτας (3 Ιουλίου 1821) και στην Πλάκα του εξασφάλισαν τον τίτλο του Αρχιστρατήγου της Δυτικής Στερεάς Ελλάδας. Την 21η Αυγούστου 1823, επικεφαλής τριακοσίων πενήντα Σουλιωτών, επιτέθηκε κατά των τεσσάρων χιλιάδων Τούρκων του Μουσταή Πασά της Σκόδρας, οι οποίοι είχαν στρατοπεδεύσει στο Κεφαλόβρυσο του Καρπενησίου. Παρά τον αρχικά ελαφρύ τραυματισμό, συνέχισε να πολεμά και κατόρθωσε να επικρατήσει. Όμως μία τουρκική σφαίρα τον σκότωσε.
• Ιστορία του Ελληνικού Έθνους, «Η Ελληνική Επανάσταση (1821-1832)», τόμος ΙΒ’, Εκδοτική Αθηνών, 1975. Βλ. Μάρκος Μπότσαρης, Γενικό Ευρετήριο, σελ.631.

• Ένδοξος θάνατος του Μάρκου Μπότσαρη, στο λεύκωμα Το Ηρώον του Αγώνος, Πρόλογος Σπυρίδωνος Π. Λάμπρου, Επανατύπωση ΔΗΜΟΚΡΑΤΙΚΟΣ ΤΥΠΟΣ, 2013, σελ.64-65: «(…) εν τω μέσω της φυγής και της φθοράς του εχθρού επληγώθη ο Μάρκος, αλλ’ εξηκολούθη σφάζων, ότε δευτέρα σφαίρα ευρούσα αυτόν κατά τον δεξιόν οφθαλμόν, τον έρριψεν νεκρόν (…)».

MARCO BOZZARIS

by: Fitz-Greene Halleck

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
The trophies of a conqueror;
In dreams, his song of triumph heard;
Then wore his monarch's signet-ring;
Then press'd that monarch's throne -- a king:
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,
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.
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 conquer'd there,
With arm to strike, and soul to dare,
As quick, as far, as they.

An hour pass'd on: the Turk awoke:
That bright dream was his at 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 head, with voice as trumpet loud,
Bozzaris cheer his band:
"Strike! -- till the last arm'd 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 conquer'd; -- but Bozzaris fell,
Bleeding at every vein.
His few surviving comrades saw
His smile when rang their loud 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 prison'd 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 field of balm,
Blew o'er the Haytien 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
Long loved, and for a season gone;
For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed,
Her marble wrought, her music-breathed;
For thee she rings the birthday bells;
Of thee her babes' first lisping tells;
For thine her evening prayer is said,
At palace couch and cottage bed:
Her soldier, closing with the foe,
Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow;
His plighted maiden, when she fears
For him, the joy of her young years,
Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears;
And she, the mother of thy boys,
Though in her eye and faded cheek
Is read the grief she will not speak,
The memory of her buried joys,--
And even she who gave thee birth
Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth,
Talk of thy doom without a sigh;
For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's,
One of the few, th' immortal names
That were not born to die. 

T 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

The trophies of a conqueror;

In dreams, his song of triumph heard;

Then wore his monarch's signet-ring;

Then press'd that monarch's throne -- a king:

As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,

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.

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 conquer'd there,

With arm to strike, and soul to dare,

As quick, as far, as they.

An hour pass'd on: the Turk awoke:

That bright dream was his at 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 head, with voice as trumpet loud,

Bozzaris cheer his band:

"Strike! -- till the last arm'd 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 conquer'd; -- but Bozzaris fell,

Bleeding at every vein.

His few surviving comrades saw

His smile when rang their loud 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 prison'd 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 field of balm,

Blew o'er the Haytien 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

Long loved, and for a season gone;

For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed,

Her marble wrought, her music-breathed;

For thee she rings the birthday bells;

Of thee her babes' first lisping tells;

For thine her evening prayer is said,

At palace couch and cottage bed:

Her soldier, closing with the foe,

Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow;

His plighted maiden, when she fears

For him, the joy of her young years,

Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears;

And she, the mother of thy boys,

Though in her eye and faded cheek

Is read the grief she will not speak,

The memory of her buried joys,--

And even she who gave thee birth

Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth,

Talk of thy doom without a sigh;

For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's,

One of the few, th' immortal names

That were not born to die.

Read more at http://www.poetry-archive.com/h/marco_bozzaris.html#P6uPLYTrURJ8cDeo.99

T 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

The trophies of a conqueror;

In dreams, his song of triumph heard;

Then wore his monarch's signet-ring;

Then press'd that monarch's throne -- a king:

As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,

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.

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 conquer'd there,

With arm to strike, and soul to dare,

As quick, as far, as they.

An hour pass'd on: the Turk awoke:

That bright dream was his at 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 head, with voice as trumpet loud,

Bozzaris cheer his band:

"Strike! -- till the last arm'd 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 conquer'd; -- but Bozzaris fell,

Bleeding at every vein.

His few surviving comrades saw

His smile when rang their loud 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 prison'd 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 field of balm,

Blew o'er the Haytien 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

Long loved, and for a season gone;

For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed,

Her marble wrought, her music-breathed;

For thee she rings the birthday bells;

Of thee her babes' first lisping tells;

For thine her evening prayer is said,

At palace couch and cottage bed:

Her soldier, closing with the foe,

Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow;

His plighted maiden, when she fears

For him, the joy of her young years,

Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears;

And she, the mother of thy boys,

Though in her eye and faded cheek

Is read the grief she will not speak,

The memory of her buried joys,--

And even she who gave thee birth

Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth,

Talk of thy doom without a sigh;

For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's,

One of the few, th' immortal names

That were not born to die.

Read more at http://www.poetry-archive.com/h/marco_bozzaris.html#P6uPLYTrURJ8cDeo.99

"Marco Bozzaris" is reprinted from Historic Poems and Ballads. Ed. Rupert S. Holland. Philadelphia: George W. Jacobs & Co., 1912.
Read more at http://www.poetry-archive.com/h/marco_bozzaris.html#P6uPLYTrURJ8cDeo.99

"Marco Bozzaris" is reprinted from Historic Poems and Ballads. Ed. Rupert S. Holland. Philadelphia: George W. Jacobs & Co., 1912.
Read more at http://www.poetry-archive.com/h/marco_bozzaris.html#P6uPLYTrURJ8cDeo.99

T 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

The trophies of a conqueror;

In dreams, his song of triumph heard;

Then wore his monarch's signet-ring;

Then press'd that monarch's throne -- a king:

As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,

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.

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 conquer'd there,

With arm to strike, and soul to dare,

As quick, as far, as they.

An hour pass'd on: the Turk awoke:

That bright dream was his at 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 head, with voice as trumpet loud,

Bozzaris cheer his band:

"Strike! -- till the last arm'd 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 conquer'd; -- but Bozzaris fell,

Bleeding at every vein.

His few surviving comrades saw

His smile when rang their loud 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 prison'd 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 field of balm,

Blew o'er the Haytien 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

Long loved, and for a season gone;

For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed,

Her marble wrought, her music-breathed;

For thee she rings the birthday bells;

Of thee her babes' first lisping tells;

For thine her evening prayer is said,

At palace couch and cottage bed:

Her soldier, closing with the foe,

Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow;

His plighted maiden, when she fears

For him, the joy of her young years,

Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears;

And she, the mother of thy boys,

Though in her eye and faded cheek

Is read the grief she will not speak,

The memory of her buried joys,--

And even she who gave thee birth

Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth,

Talk of thy doom without a sigh;

For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's,

One of the few, th' immortal names

That were not born to die.

Read more at http://www.poetry-archive.com/h/marco_bozzaris.html#P6uPLYTrURJ8cDeo.99

T 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

The trophies of a conqueror;

In dreams, his song of triumph heard;

Then wore his monarch's signet-ring;

Then press'd that monarch's throne -- a king:

As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,

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.

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 conquer'd there,

With arm to strike, and soul to dare,

As quick, as far, as they.




An hour pass'd on: the Turk awoke:

That bright dream was his at 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 head, with voice as trumpet loud,

Bozzaris cheer his band:

"Strike! -- till the last arm'd 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 conquer'd; -- but Bozzaris fell,

Bleeding at every vein.

His few surviving comrades saw

His smile when rang their loud 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 prison'd 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 field of balm,

Blew o'er the Haytien 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

Long loved, and for a season gone;

For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed,

Her marble wrought, her music-breathed;

For thee she rings the birthday bells;

Of thee her babes' first lisping tells;

For thine her evening prayer is said,

At palace couch and cottage bed:

Her soldier, closing with the foe,

Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow;

His plighted maiden, when she fears

For him, the joy of her young years,

Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears;

And she, the mother of thy boys,

Though in her eye and faded cheek

Is read the grief she will not speak,

The memory of her buried joys,--

And even she who gave thee birth

Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth,

Talk of thy doom without a sigh;

For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's,

One of the few, th' immortal names

That were not born to die.

"Marco Bozzaris" is reprinted from Historic Poems and Ballads. Ed. Rupert S. Holland. Philadelphia: George W. Jacobs & Co., 1912.

Read more at http://www.poetry-archive.com/h/marco_bozzaris.html#P6uPLYTrURJ8cDeo.99

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