What does the first stanza tell? What are "the arts of war and peace"? What nation is meant by the Franks? "I could not deem myself a slave." Why? Line 19--relates to Xerxes. Lines 23, 24. Explain these lines, Explain lines 67, 70. Words and Phrases for Discussion. "Sappho" "Delos" "Phoebus" "Marathon" "Persian's grave" "Salamis" "eternal summer" "rocky brow" "voiceless shore" "heroic lay" "fettered race" "dearth of fame" "Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopylæ" * * * * * MARCO BOZZARIS 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 pressed 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 conquered there, With arms to strike, and soul to dare, 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!" 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; God--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.