The dance of sacrifice! the funeral song! The clarion's stirring breath Lifts their thin robes in every flowing fold, That on the agitated air Trembles, and glitters to the torches' glare. Who raised his fatal hand at Arvalan? Then were all hearts of all the throng deploring, Was one who loved the dead; for who could know What aggravated wrong Provoked the desperate blow! Far, far behind, beyond all reach of sight, Rolls on the undistinguishable clamor, Of streams which down the wintry mountain pour, Of stormy billows on a rocky shore, And now toward the bank they go, With myrrh and ambergris bestrewed, And built of precious sandal wood. They cease their music, and their outcry here; Gently they rest the bier : They wet the face of Arvalan, No sign of life the sprinkled drops excite; For not with feeble, nor with erring hand, Woe! woe! for Azla takes her seat Calmly the whole terrific pomp surveyed The lifeless head of Arvalan was laid. Woe! woe! Nealling, They strip her ornaments away, Bracelet and anklet, ring, and chain, and zones Around her neck they leave The marriage knot alone,That marriage band, which when Yon waning moon was young, Around her virgin neck With bridal joy was hung. Then with white flowers, the coronal of death, Her jetty locks they crown. O sight of misery! You cannot hear her cries,-all other sound See in her swelling throat the desperate strength Towards the crowd in vain for pity spread,— Circling the Pile, the ministering Bramins stand, At once on every side, Then hand in hand the victim band Float inward to the fire. In drunken whirl they wheel around, While round and round, in giddy wheel, Till one by one whirl'd in, they fall, Then all was still, the drums and clarions ceased; Only the roaring of the flames was heard, CXLII. CASABIANCA.—Mrs. Hemans. [Young Casabianca, a boy about thirteen years old, son to the Admiral of the Orient, remained at his post (in the battle of the Nile) after the ship had taken fire, and all the guns had been abandoned, and perished in the explosion of the vessel, when the flames had reached tho powder.] The boy stood on the burning deck Yet beautiful and bright he stood, The flames roll'd on-he would not go, He called aloud :-" Say, Father, say He knew not that the chieftain lay "Speak, Father!"—once again he cried, And fast the flames rolled on. Upon his brow he felt their breath, And in his waving hair, And looked from that lone post of death, In still, yet brave despair. And shouted but once more aloud, "My Father! must I stay?" While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, The wreathing fires made way. They wrapt the ship in splendor wild, There came a burst of thunder sound- With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, CXLIII. MARCO BOZZARIS, THE EPAMINONDAS OF MODERN GREECE.-Halleck. [He fell in an attack upon the Turkish Camp at Laspi, the site of the ancient Platæa, August 20, 1823, and expired in the moment of victory. His last words were-"To die for liberty is a pleasure and not a pain."] At midnight in his guarded tent, The Turk was dreaming of the hour, In dreams, through camp and court, he bore In dreams his song of triumph heard; As Eden's garden bird. At midnight in the forest shades, Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band, Heroes in heart and hand. There had the Persian's thousands stood, |