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16 :Of sky and stars to prisoned 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 fields of balm,
 * Blew o’er the Haytian 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;