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HAS SORROW THY YOUNG DAYS SHADED ?
Has sorrow thy young days shaded,
As clouds o'er the morning fleet ?
That even in sorrow were sweet!
Each feeling that once was dear?
I'll weep with thee, tear for tear.
Has love to that soul so tender
Been like our Lagenian mine,
All over the surface shine ?
Allured by the gleam that shone,
Like love, the bright one is gone.
Has hope, like the bird in the story,
That flitted from tree to tree
On branch after branch alighting,
The gem did she still display,
Then waft the fair gem away?
If thus the sweet hours have fleeted
When sorrow herself looked bright;
That led thee along so light:
Each feeling that once was dear,
I'll weep with thee tear for tear.
Then whilst on the waters I mutely gaze,
'Tis then we encourage the fond belief,
THE ISLES OF GREECE.
The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece !
Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
the arts of war and peace,-
The Scian and the Teian muse,
The heroe'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 dreamed that Greece might still be free, For standing on the Persians' grave, I could not deem myself a slave.
A King sat on the lofty 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 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
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 Thermopylae !
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?