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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 re. With 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 —

The heroic bosom beats no more! Stiff on his heart, and pulse and 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, And gave no sign of life, save his limbs

Even as I sing, suffuse my face;

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

Earth! render back from out thy breast

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

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Trust not for freedom to the Franks

They have a king who buys and sells : In native swords, and native ranks,

The only hope of courage dwells; But Turkish force and Latin fraud Would break your shield, however


Oh! who like him had watched thee

here? Or sadly marked thy glazing eye, In that dread hour ere death appear,

When silent sorrow fears to sigh.

Till all was past! But when no more ONE STRUGGLE MORE, AND 'Twas thine to reck of human woe,

Affection's heart-drops, gushing o'er,
Had Aowed as fast as now they ONE struggle more, and I am free

From pangs that rend my heart in

twain; Shall they not flow, when many a day

One last long sigh to love and thee, In these, to me, deserted towers,

Then back to busy life again. Ere called but for a time away,

It suits me well to mingle now Affection's mingling tears were ours?

With things that never pleased he..


Though every joy is fled below, Ours too the glance none saw beside;

What future grief can touch me more? The smile none else might under

stand; The whispered thought of hearts allied, Then bring me wine, the banquet bring!

Man was not formed to live alone; The pressure of the thrilling hand;

I'll be that light, unmeaning thing,

That smiles with all, and weeps with The kiss, so guiltless and refined, That Love each warmer wish for- It was not thus in days more dear, bore;

It never would have been, but thou Those eyes proclaimed so pure a mind, Hast fled, and left me lonely here;

Even passion blushed to plead for Thou’rt nothing — all are nothing





The tone, that taught me to rejoice, In vain my lyre would lightly breathe! When prone, unlike thee, to repine;

The smile that sorrow fain would The song, celestial from thy voice, But sweet to me from none but thine;

But mocks the woe that lurks beneath,

Like roses o'er a sepulchre. The pledge we wore - I wear it still,

Though gay companions o'er the bowl But where is thine?— Ah! where art Though pleasure fires the maddening

Dispel awhile the sense of ill; thou? Oft have I borne the weight of ill,


The heart — the heart is lonely still ! But never bent beneath till now!

On many a lone and lovely night Well hast thou left in life's best bloom It soothed to gaze upon the sky;

The cup of woe for me to drain. For then I deemed the heavenly light If rest alone be in the tomb,

Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye: I would not wish thee here again; And oft I thought at Cynthia's noon,

When sailing o'er the Ægean wave, But if in worlds more blest than this

“Now Thyrza gazes on that moon”. Thy virtues seek a fitter sphere,

Alas, it gleamed upon her grave! Impart some portion of thy bliss,

When stretched on fever's sleepless To wean me from mine anguish here.


And sickness shrunk my throbbing Teach me -- too early taught by thee !

veins, To bear, forgiving and forgiven : “ 'Tis comfort still,” I faintly said, On earth thy love was such to me,

“That Thyrza cannot know my It fain would form my hope in heaven! pains :

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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! Nor 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.

OF MEN. 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 soul 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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