Fitz-Greene Halleck，1790—1867，was born in Guilford，Connecticut.At the age of eighteen he entered a banking house in New York，where he remained a long time.For many years he was bookkeeper and assistant in business for John Jacob Astor.Nearly all his poems were written before he was forty years old，several of them in connection with his friend Joseph Rodman Drake.His “Young America，”however，was written but a few years before his death.Mr.Halleck's poetry is carefully finished and musical；much of it is sportive，and some satirical.No one of his poems is better known than “Marco Bozzaris.”
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 Plataea'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 flame and smoke，
And shout，and groan，and saber 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 that 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 repose，
Like flowers at set of sun.
Come to the bridal chamber，Death！
Come to the mother，when she feels
For the first time her firstborn'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's 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.
Bozzaris！with the storied brave
Greece nurtured in her glory's time，
Rest thee——here 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.
译文 TRANSLATION
费茨·格林·哈勒克（1790—1867）生于康涅狄格州吉尔福德。从18岁开始，哈勒克在纽约一家银行工作多年，他曾多年任约翰·雅各布·艾斯特的记账员和助理。他绝大部分诗都写于40岁之前，其中几首诗是和约瑟夫·罗德曼·德雷克合作的。此外，《年轻的美国》一诗作于他去世前几年。哈勒克的诗形式精美、富于音乐性，而《马可·博扎里斯》是他最优秀的作品。
午夜，在他警卫重重的帐篷里，
突厥王正梦见那一刻：
希腊在他的威势下
战栗，屈膝，哀求。
梦中，他手执征服者的凭信
踏过军营、宫廷；
梦中，回荡着他得意的歌声，
然后，他戴上有君主封印的指环，
坐在御座上——一个国王，
狂野的思绪像伊甸园中的鸟鼓荡着快乐的翅膀。
午夜，在森林幽暗的树影中，
博扎里斯埋伏下他的伙伴；
内心和身手一样强悍，
真实如磨砺过的钢刀。
那儿曾有成千上万的波斯人，
他们的血醉了这美丽的土地，
在那古老的普拉提亚时代；
而此刻那里氤氲着幽灵的气息，
先辈曾将这里征服，
今夜，他们的子孙
带着拼杀的武器，
带着反抗的灵魂来突袭。
一小时过去了——突厥王醒了。
他的美梦到了头。
他醒来——只听见哨兵的尖叫：
“快抄家伙！他们来啦！希腊人来啦！”
他醒来——只为在烈火、硝烟中毙命，
呼叫、呻吟、军刀在砍杀，
致命的枪弹像云间的闪电，
博扎里斯鼓舞着同伴，
声音像雄壮的号角：
“冲啊——直到把最后一个敌人消灭！”
“冲啊——为了圣坛与圣火！”
“冲啊——为了祖先的青冢！”
“冲啊——为了上帝和我们的祖国！”
他们，这群善战的勇士，鏖战了很久，
地面躺满突厥人的尸体。
他们胜利了——可博扎里斯却倒下了。
血从他的血管里喷涌而出，
他幸存的伙伴看见他在微笑，
当胜利在骄傲地呐喊，
当鲜血染红了大地；
他静静合上眼帘，那么安详，
像夜晚的宁谧，像日落时的花。
来吧，死神，到婚房中来吧！
来到那位母亲身边，第一次
她感到新生儿的呼吸。
来吧，当瘟疫的封印被撕破，
人头攒动的城市在哀哭；
来吧，地震和海啸，
像那形销骨立的痨病者；
来吧，当心儿和着欢歌、舞蹈和佳酿
在畅快地跳：
而你是多么可怕——你是
泪水，呻吟，丧钟的鸣响；
你是殓衣和棺木；你是
我们对于痛苦所知、所梦、所畏的一切。
但对于英雄，当他的剑为自由赢得了胜利，
你的声音就像先知的话语；
在空旷的语调里，
回荡着千万人的感谢。
博扎里斯！和希腊黄金时代养育的
那些传奇英雄一起长眠。
安息吧，博扎里斯！
在这光荣的国度，再没有更光荣的墓冢！
我们讲述着你的宿命，却没有一声叹息，
因为你的名字属于自由、荣光与不朽。
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