THE ISLES OF GREECE.

well as the ancient caves of the Crimea, are well worth a visit. The English have left there two monuments of their nationality-a splendid macadamized road from Balaklava to Sebastopol, the only one in the country, and an immense pyramid of broken porter-bottles, solidified in such a manner by the weather that its perpetuity is likely to rival the Pyramids of Egypt.

From Constantinople to Genoa, viâ Athens, the time is eight days. Fare, 500 fr. = $100. To Athens, 41 hours: this fare varies considerably.

THE ISLES OF GREECE.

After passing through the Dardanelles, or Hellespont, we are again among the "Isles of Greece," so beautifully described by Byron in the following verses, which we quote in full, as no description we could give would so well while away the hours as we pass between them:

"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 farther west
Than your sires' Islands of the Blest.'
"The mountains look on Marathon,

And Marathon looks on the sea;
And, musing there an hour alone,

I dreamt that Greece might still be free;
For, standing on the Persian's grave,
I could not deem myself a slave.
"A king sat 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?
"Tis 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 Mush? Our fathers bled.

PIRÆUS.

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.'
"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 gave-
Think ye he meant them for a slave?
"Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!

We will not think of themes like there!
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!

Oh! that the present hour could lend
Another despot of the kind!

Such chains as his were sure to bind.
"Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
On Suli's rock and Perga's shore,
Exists the remnants 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 Suniam'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!" The French steamers remain generally at Piræus, the sea-port of Athens, four or five hours-sufficient time to examine the ruins of the Acropolis. There is little elsc to be seen at Athens. If you have time, you can remain one week, until the next boat arrives.