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But the boy bore up long, and with a Where Delos rose, and Phæbus mild

sprung! And patient spirit held aloof his fate; Eternal summer gilds them yet, Little he said, and now and then he But all, except their sun, is set.

smiled, As if to win a heart from off the The Scian and the Teian muse, weight,

The hero's harp, the lover's lute, He saw increasing on his father's heart, Have found the fame your shores reWith the deep deadly thought that they

fuse; must part.

Their place of birth alone is mute

To sounds which echo further west And o'er him bent his sire, and never

Than your sires' “ Islands of the Blest." raised His eyes from off his face, but wiped | The mountains look on Marathon the foam

And Marathon looks on the sea; From his pale lips, and ever on him

And musing there an hour alone, gazed,

I dreamed that Greece might still be And when the wished-for shower at

free; length was come,

For standing on the Persians' grave, And the boy's eyes, which the dull film

I could not deem myself a slave. half glazed, Brightened, and for a moment seemed

A king sat on the rocky brow to roam,

Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis, He squeezed from out a rag some drops

And ships, by thousands, lay below, of rain

And men in nations; all were his! Into his dying child's mouth — but in

He counted them at break of day vain.

And when the sun set, where were The boy expired the father held the

they? clay, And looked upon it long, and when

And where are they? and where art at last

thou, Death left no doubt, and the dead bur- My country? On thy voiceless shore den lay

The heroic lay is tuneless now — Stiff on his heart, and pulse and

The heroic bosom beats no more ! hope were past,

And must thy lyre, so long divine, He watched it wistfully, until away

Degenerate into hands like mine? Twas borne by the rude wave wherein 'twas cast;

'Tis something, in the dearth of fame, Then he himself sunk down all dumb

Though linked among a fettered race, and shivering,

To feel at least a patriot's shame,

Even as I sing, suffuse my face;
And gave no sign of life, save his limbs

For what is left the poet here?
For Greeks a blush, for Greece a tear.



[Don Juan, Canto iii.] THE isles of Greece, the isles of Greece ! Where burning Sappho loved and

sung, Where grew the arts of war and


Must we but weep o'er the days more

blest? 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 Thermopylä!

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Like freedom to the time-worn slave, 'Twere sweet, my Psyche! to the last A boon 'tis idle then to give,

Thy features still serene to see: Relenting Nature vainly gave

Forgetful of its struggles past, My life, when Thyrza ceased to live! E’en Pain itself should smile on thee. My Thyrza's pledge in better days, But vain the wish — for Beauty still

When love and life alike were new! Will shrink, as shrinks the ebbing How different, now thou meet'st my

breath; gaze!

And woman's tears, produced at will, How tinged by time with sorrow's Deceive in life, unman in death.

hue! The heart that gave itself with thee Then lonely be my latest hour,

Is silent - ah, were mine as still! Without regret, without a groan; Though cold as e'en the dead can be, For thousands Death hath ceased to It feels, it sickens with the chill.


And pain been transient or Thou bitter pledge! thou mournful

known. token! Though painful, welcome to

my Ay, but to die, and go," alas ! breast !

Where all have gone, and all must go! Still, still, preserve that love unbroken, | To be the nothing that I was Or break the heart to which thou'rt Ere born to life and living woe.

pressed! Time tempers love, but not removes, Count o'er the joys thine hours have More hallowed when its hope is fled:

seen, Oh! what are thousand living loves Count o'er thy days from anguish To that which cannot quit the dead?

free, And know, whatever thou hast been,

'Tis something better not to be.


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Like common earth can rot;

One vigil o'er thy bed;
To me there needs no stone to tell, To gaze, how fondly! on thy face,
Tis Nothing that I loved so well. To fold thee in a faint embrace,

Uphold thy drooping head;
Yet did I love thee to the last

And show that love, however vain, As fervently as thou,

Nor thou nor I can feel again. Who didst not change through all the past,

Yet how much less it were to gain, And canst not alter now.

Though thou hast left me free, The love where Death has set his seal, The loveliest things that still remain, Nor age can chill, nor rival steal,

Than thus remember thee! Vor falsehood disavow:

The all of thine that cannot die
And, what were worse, thou canst not Through dark and dread Eternity

Returns again to me,
Or wrong, or change, or fault in me. And more thy buried love endears

Than aught, except its living years.
The better days of life were ours;

The worst can be but mine :
The sun that cheers, the storm that

IF SOMETIMES IN THE HAUNTS lowers, Shall never more be thine.

The silence of that dreamless sleep If sometimes in the haunts of men
I envy now too much to weep;

Thine image from my breast may Nor need I to repine

fade, That all those charms have passed | The lonely hour presents again away;

The semblance of thy gentle shade: I might have watched through long de- And now that sad and silent hour cay.

Thus much of thee can still restore,

And sorrow unobserved may pour The flower in ripened bloom unmatched

The plaint she dare not speak before. Must fall the earliest prey; Though by no hand untimely snatched, Oh, pardon that in crowds awhile The leaves must drop away:

I waste one thought I owe to thee, And yet it were a greater grief

And, self-condemned, appear to smile, To watch it withering, leaf by leaf, Unfaithful to thy memory! Than see it plucked to-day;

Nor deem that memory less dear, Since earthly eye but ill can bear

That then I seem not to repine; To trace the change to foul from fair. I would not fools should overhear

One sigh that should be wholly thine. I know not if I could have borne To see thy beauties fade;

If not the goblet pass unquaffed, The night that followed such a morn It is not drained to banish care; Had worn a deeper shade:

The cup must hold a deadlier draught, Thy day without a cloud hath passed, That brings a Lethe for despair. And thou wert lovely to the last : And could Oblivion set my so Extinguished, not decayed;

From all her troubled visions free, As stars that shoot along the sky

I'd dash to earth the sweetest bowl Shine brightest as they fall from high. That drowned a single thought of thee. As once I wept, if I could weep, For wert thou vanished from my mind, My tears might well be shed,

Where could my vacant bosom turn? To think I was not near to keep

And who would then remain behind


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