MIA OL

THE ISLES OF GREECE.

[The lines of Lord Byron are printed, on account of the similarity of some passages in the Greek.]

The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece,
Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
Where grew the arts of war and peace,-
Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung!

Eternal summer gilds them yet,

But all, except their sun, is set.

The Scian and the Teian muse,

The hero's harp, the lover's lute,

Have found the fame your shores refuse;
Their place of birth alone is mute

To sounds which echo further west

THE ISLES OF GREECE.

[This Ode obtained the Gold Medal in the University of Cambridge. A few alterations have been made in it since.]

Εἴθε τις κούφαις πτερύγεσσιν ἄρας
τῆλ ̓ ἐπ ̓ ἀκτὰν Λεσβίδ ̓ ἀναρπάσαι με
τᾶς γὰρ ἱμείρω χερὶ συλλαβεῖν φόρ-
μιγγα λιγείαν,

ἅ ποτ' εἰς ἔρωτα καὶ ἡδονὰν κῆρ
ἐξέγειρεν Ἑλλάδος ὦ, πόθεν μοι
φίλτρα τ' ἔλθοι καὶ μελίγαρυς ὀμφὰ
οἷς ἐλέλισσε

χαρμονὰν ἅβαν τε πνέοισα χορδάς
πολλὰ μούνα μειλιχιᾶν ὑπ ̓ αἰγλᾶν
ἑσπέρας ἀκύμονα πρὸς θάλασσαν
στᾶσ ̓ ἐπὶ πρωνὸς

καρδίας θρήνον δυσέρωτ ̓ ἐφώνει·
ἔκλυον δρυμοί θ ̓ ἁλίαι τε πέτραι,
πενθέων τ ̓ οἴκτῳ γλυκερῶν ἀοιδᾶς
λάθετ ̓ ἀηδών

The Mountains look on Marathon

And Marathon looks on the sea;

And musing there an hour alone,

I dream'd that Greece might still be free; For standing on the Persians' grave,

I could not deem myself a slave.

A king sate on the rocky brow

Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis;

And ships, by thousands, lay below,

And men in nations :—all were his!

He counted them at break of day-
And when the sun set where were they?

And where are they? and where art thou, My country? On thy voiceless shore The heroic lay is tuneless now

The heroic bosom beats no more And must thy lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine?

τᾶς δὲ κηληθμοῖς ὁ σιδαροχάρμας θελγεθ ̓ ὑμνατὴρ, καὶ ἄρειον ὁρμὰν ἔσχε, καὶ τερπναῖς μανίαισι πάντα θυμὸν ἔδωκεν.

ἦν τάδ'· Αἰγαίας χέλυος πέπαυται φθόγγος ὑμνατῶν χάρις ἐξόλωλε κῦμα νῦν μόνον ποτὶ θῖν ̓ ἐρήμαν πένθιμον ἄδει.

ἀλλ ̓ ἔμ' αδειαν ψιθυρίσματ ̓ αὐρᾶν τηλόθεν σαίνει φέρετ ̓ ὦ θεοί με νηνέμου δι' αιθέρος, ἔνθα ναίει ἄμβροτον εἴαρ,

καὶ φλέγει μειδήμασιν Αφροδίτας γὰ τε καὶ πόντος φέρετ ̓ ἔνθα νᾶσοι κάλλεϊ στέφουσιν ἀνάριθμοι κρυστ τάλλινον οίδμα

θέσκελαι νᾶσοι, παρὰ ταῖσι καλὰ πάντα, πλὴν ἀνδρῶν γενεῶς, τέθαλε βοτρύων ἐκεῖ γάνος, ἁλίω χρυ

σολο γένεθλον,

'Tis something, in the dearth of fame,

Though link'd among a fetter'd race,

To feel at least a patriot's shame,

Even as I sing, suffuse my face;

For what is left the poet here?

For Greeks a blush-for Greece a tear.

Must we but weep o'er days

o'er days more bless'd?

Must we but blush ?-Our fathers bled.

Earth! render back from out thy breast

A remnant of our Spartan dead! Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopyla!

What, silent still? and silent all?

Ah! no;-the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent's fall,

And answer, "Let one living head, But one arise-we come, we come!" 'Tis but the living who are dumb.