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And must thy lyre, so long divine,
Degenerate into hands like mine?

'T is something, in the dearth of fame,
Though linked
among a fettered

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 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 Thermopylæ.

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!” 'T is but the living who are dumb.

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In vain, in vain ; strike other chords;

Fill high the cup with Samian wine !
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes,

And shed the blood of Scio's vine !
Hark! rising to the ignoble call,
How answers each bold bacchanal !

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You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet,

Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? Of two such lessons, why forget

The nobler and the manlier one?

THE ISLES OF GREECE.

27

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You have the letters Cadmus gave,
Think

ye

he meant them for a slave ?

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine !

We will not think of themes like these !
It made Anacreon's song

divine :
He served but served Polycrates -
A tyrant ; but our masters then
Were still, at least, our countrymen.
The tyrant of the Chersonese

Was freedom's best and bravest friend ;
That tyrant was Miltiades !

O, that the present hour would lend
Another despot of the kind !
Such ains as his were sure to bind.

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine !

On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore,
Exists the remnant of a line

Such as the Doric mothers bore ;
And there, perhaps, some seed is sown,
The Heracleidan blood might own.
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 broad.
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine !

Our virgins dance beneath the shade, -
I see their glorious black eyes shine ;

But, gazing on each glowing maid,
My own the burning tear-drop laves,
To think such breasts must suckle slaves.

Place me on Sunium's marbled steep,

Where nothing, save the waves and I, May hear our mutual murmurs sweep;

There, swan-like, let me sing and die. A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine, Dash down yon cup of Samian wine !

EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY. Wordsworth.

“ Why, William, on that old gray stone,

Thus for the length of half a day, Why, William, sit you thus alone,

And dream your time away?

" Where are your books ? — that light bequeathed

To beings else forlorn and blind ! Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed

From dead men to their kind.

" You look round on your mother earth,

As if she for no purpose bore you ; As if you were her first-born birth,

And none had lived before you ! ”

One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake,

When life was sweet, I knew not why, To me my good friend Matthew spake,

And thus I made reply:

66 The eye,

it cannot choose but see; We cannot bid the ear be still ; Our bodies feel, where'er they be,

Against or with our will.

THE TABLES TURNED.

29

66 Nor less I deem that there are Powers

Which of themselves our minds impress ; That we can feel this mind of ours

In a wise passiveness.

66 Think

you,

'mid all this mighty sum Of things for ever speaking, That nothing of itself will come,

But we must still be seeking?

" Then ask not wherefore, here, alone,

Conversing as I may,
I sit upon this old gray stone,

And dream my time away.

THE TABLES TURNED. - Wordsworth.

AN EVENING SCENE ON THE SAME SUBJECT.

Up! up! my friend, and quit your books;

Or surely you 'll grow double :
Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks ;

Why all this toil and trouble ?

The sun, above the mountain's head,

A freshening lustre mellow
Through all the long green fields has spread,

His first sweet evening yellow.

Books ! 'tis a dull and endless strife :

Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on

my

life, There 's more of wisdom in it.

And hark! how blithe the throstle sings !

He, too, is no mean preacher :
Come forth into the light of things,

Let Nature be your teacher.
She has a world of ready wealth,

Our minds and hearts to bless,
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,

Truth breathed by cheerfulness.
One impulse from a vernal wood

May teach you more of man,
Of moral evil and of good,

Than all the sages can.
Sweet is the lore which Nature brings ;

Our meddling intellect
Misshapes the beauteous forms of things :

We murder to dissect.
Enough of Science and of Art;
Close

up

these barren leaves ;
Come forth, and bring with you a heart

That watches and receives.

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DEAR, noble soul, wisely thy lot thou bearest ;
For, like a god toiling in earthly slavery,
Fronting thy sad fate with a joyous bravery,
Each darker day a sunnier smile thou wearest.
No grief can touch thy sweet and spiritual smile ;
No pain is keen enough that it has power
Over thy childlike love, that all the while
Upon the cold earth builds its heavenly bower ;-

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