HAS SORROW THY YOUNG DAYS SHADED ?

Has sorrow thy young days shaded,

As clouds o'er the morning fleet ?
Too fast have those young days faded

That even in sorrow were sweet!
Does time with his cold wing wither

Each feeling that once was dear?
Then child of misfortune come hither,

I'll weep with thee, tear for tear.

Has love to that soul so tender

Been like our Lagenian mine,
Where sparkles of golden splendour

All over the surface shine ?
But, if in pursuit we go deeper,

Allured by the gleam that shone,
Ah! false as the dream of the sleeper,

Like love, the bright one is gone.

Has hope, like the bird in the story,

That flitted from tree to tree
With the talisman's glittering glory,
Has hope been that bird to thee ?

On branch after branch alighting,

The gem did she still display,
And when nearest and most inviting,

Then waft the fair gem away?

If thus the sweet hours have fleeted

When sorrow herself looked bright;
If thus the fond hope has cheated,

That led thee along so light:
If thus, too, the cold world wither

Each feeling that once was dear,
Come, child of misfortune ! come hither,

I'll weep with thee tear for tear.

Moore.

SEA-SIDE REVERIE,

Then whilst on the waters I mutely gaze,
I think of the pleasures of other days;
And the faces, and forms, so sadly dear,
And the words I have heard but no more can hear;
And the tales that can never again be told,
And the pressure of hands—that now are cold.

'Tis then we encourage the fond belief,
That those whom we grieve for, behold our grief ;
That from them we receive the hope which takes
The severest pang from a heart that aches !
And when we remember that they are blest,
And that we are in sorrow-we feel 'tis best,
To follow their steps in death's awful tract !
Without one selfish wish to call them back.

Anon.

THE ISLES OF GREECE.

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 Phæbus sprung !
Eternal summer gilds them yet,
But all, except their sun, is set.

The Scian and the Teian muse,

The heroe's harp, the lover's lute,
Have found the fame your shores refuse;

Their place of birth alone is mute
To sounds which echo further 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 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 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 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?