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Darken above our bones, yet fondly deem'd Our children should obey her child, and bless'd Her and her hoped-for seed, whose promise seem'd Like stars to shepherds' eyes—'twas but a meteor beam'd.
Woe unto us, not her; for she sleeps well:
Against their blind omnipotence a weight
These might have been her destiny; but no,
Whose shock was as an earthquake's, and oppress'd The land which loved thee so that none could love thee
From Childe Harold.
A SINKING SHIP.
At half-past eight o'clock, booms, hen-coops, spars,
And all things, for a chance, had been cast loose, That still could keep afloat the struggling tars,
For yet they strove, although of no great use:
The boats put off o'ercrowded with their crews;
Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell!
Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the brave;
As eager to anticipate their grave;
And down she suck'd with her the whirling wave,
And first one universal shriek there rush'd,
Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash Of echoing thunder; and then all was hush’d,
Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash
Accompanied with a convulsive splash,
From Don Juan.
The sun set, and up rose the yellow moon:
The devil's in the moon for mischief; they Who call'd her chaste, methinks, began too soon
Their nomenclature; there is not a day, The longest, not the twenty-first of June,
Sees half the business in a wicked way On which three single hours of moonshine smile And then she looks so modest all the while. There is a dangerous silence in that hour,
A stillness which leaves room for the full soul
Of calling wholly back its self-control;
Sheds beauty and deep softness o'er the whole,
From Don Juan,
SONG OF THE GREEK BARD.
The isles of Greece! the isles of Greece!
Where burning Sappho loved and sung-
Where Delos rose and Phæbus sprung!
The hero's harp, the lover's lute,
Their place of birth alone is mute
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 men in nations;-all were his !
And where are they? and where art thou,
My country? On thy voiceless shore
The heroic bosom beats no more!
Though link'd among a fetter'd race,
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 bless’d?
Must we but blush?–Our fathers bled. Earth! render back from out thy breast
A remnant of our Spartan dead!
Ah! no;—the voices of the dead
“Let one living head, But one arise—we come, we come!” 'Tis but the living who are dumb. 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!
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? You have the letters Cadmus gaveThink ye he meant them for a slave? Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
We will not think of themes like these!
He served—but served Polycrates-
Was freedom's best and bravest friend;
Oh! that the present hour would lend
On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore,
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.
The only hope of courage dwells;
Our virgins dance beneath the shade-
But, gazing on each glowing maid,
Where nothing, save the waves and I,
There, swan-like, let me sing and die: A land of slaves shall ne'er be mineDash down yon cup of Samian wine!
From Don Juan. THE EVENING HYMN.
Ave Maria! o'er the earth and sea,
The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft
Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft, While
swung the deep bell in the distant tower, Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft, And not a breath crept through the rosy air, And yet the forest leaves seem'd stirr*d with prayer. Ave Maria! 'tis the hour of prayer!
Ave Maria! 'tis the hour of love! Ave Maria! may our spirits dare
Look up to thine and to thy Son's above ? Ave Maria! oh that face so fair!
Those downcast eyes beneath the almighty DoveWhat though 'tis but a pictured image strikeThat painting is no idol, 'tis too like.
From Don Juan,
I heard thy fate without a tear,
Thy loss with scarce a sigh;
Too loved of all to die.
The tears refuse to start;
Falls dreary on my heart.
They sink, and turn to care;
Yet, dropping, harden there.
Than feelings sunk remain,
But never melt again.