Strange, that where all is peace beside,
There passion riots in her pride,
And lust and rapine wildly reign
To darken o'er the fair domain.

It is as though the fiends prevailed
Against the seraphs they assailed,

And, fixed on heavenly thrones, should dwell
The freed inheritors of hell;

So soft the scene, so formed for joy,

So curst the tyrants that destroy !

He who hath bent him o'er the dead

Ere the first day of death is fled,
The first dark day of nothingness,

The last of danger and distress
(Before Decay's effacing fingers

Have swept the lines where beauty lingers),
And marked the mild, angelic air,

The rapture of repose that's there,
The fixed yet tender traits that streak
The languor of the placid cheek,
And-but for that sad shrouded eye,

That fires not, wins not, weeps not now,
And but for that chill, changeless brow,
Where cold Obstruction's apathy
Appalls the gazing mourner's heart,
As if to him it could impart

The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon;
Yes, but for these and these alone,
Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour,
He still might doubt the tyrant's power;
So fair, so calm, so softly sealed,

The first, last look by death revealed!
Such is the aspect of this shore ;
'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more!
So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,
We start, for soul is wanting there.
Hers is the loveliness in death,

That parts not quite with parting breath;
But beauty with that fearful bloom,
That hue which haunts it to the tomb,
Expression's last receding ray,

A gilded halo hovering round decay,

The farewell beam of Feeling passed away!

Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth,

Which gleams, but warms no more its cherished earth!

Lord Byron.

GRECIAN ODE.

ES, yes, 't is Greece! full many a fane

YES,

Around me gleams, as white

As when it gladdened cape or plain

The first time with its light;

And living choirs, far-eyed and virgin,

Once more through Time's old shade emerging,

With dew-brushed sandal and soft sound

Salute the dedicated ground.

Each hill of asphodel and bays

Sufficient deems its height

If steep enough its arch to raise

A temple into light.

From cape to cape, across the deep
The "winged Pines" in panic sweep,
Among their forest-sires so ran
Shy wood-nymphs in the days of Pan!

In every bay the yearning billows
Swell up, as proud as when

White Nereids slid from purple pillows

Under old Homer's ken.

Above them still the Acacia throws

The warm shower of her sun-touched snows

Profusely as when Zephyr first

Deflowered the blooms himself had nursed.

Those theatres the white cliffs gird,
Those hollows gray and wide,

With tamarisk feathered, and moss-furred,
Those blue rifts far descried,

Those sinuous streams that blushing wander
Through labyrinthine oleander,

Those crocus mounds, that wind-flower hill, Hail, ancient land! 't is Hellas still!

Range beyond range the mountains rise;
Smooth platform, and meet stage
If demigods for chariot prize

Fraternal strife should wage.

Glad clouds are launched along the wind,
As though each snowy tent enshrined
Olympian choirs borne lightly by
With sound of spheral melody.

Behold that goat yon rift beneath,
Eying those rocks pine-cloven!
Nor lacks yon mound its living wreath
Of goatherds dance-inwoven,

Now measuring forth with Attic grace
(Like figures round a sculptured vase)
The accent of some mythic song,
Now hurled, a Bacchic group, along.

That old man 'neath the palm who sits Trolls loud a merry lay;

Round him as genial fancy flits

As when his month was May. Still from the nectared air he quaffs As happy health, as gayly laughs, As when he clomb yon breeze-swept hill And see, those maidens fly him still!

Yon mighty ilex, vast and grave,
Flings far its restless shadow;

But through its trunk, a windowed cave,
Long lights divide the meadow:
Its roots all round like serpents creep,
And honey-dews its branches steep:
Thus beamed Dodona's oak afar
Fawn-haunted and oracular.

What vale was that wherein the Nine
Were used with harmony to play?
Between the juniper and vine

They roam each vale to-day!

What stream was that o'er which, flower-wreathed,

Her passion Aphrodité breathed?

Each lilied bank that stays each rill

From that wild breath is quivering still!

Yon children chasing the wild bees
Have lips as full and fair
As Plato had, or Sophocles,

When bees sought honey there.
But song of bard or sage's lore
Those fields ennoble now no more:
It is not Greece, it must not be,—

I gazed round Marathon. The plain
In peaceful sunshine slept;
Eternal Sabbath there her reign
Inviolably kept:

دو

"Is this the battle-field? I cried.

An eagle from on high replied

With shade far cast and clangor shrill

"Yes, yes, - 't is Hellas, Hellas still!"

Aubrey de Vere.

THE GREEK BOY.

YONE are the glorious Greeks of old,

G Glo nine in mien and mind;

Their bones are mingled with the mould,
Their dust is on the wind;