6

She sings the wild song of her dear native plains,
Every note which he lov'd awaking;-
Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains,
How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking!
He had liv'd for his love, for his country he died,
They were all that to life had entwin'd him, 10
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,
Nor long will his love stay behind him!

Oh! make her a grave where the sun-beams rest,
When they promise a glorious morrow;
They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from
the West,

From her own loved island of sorrow!

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35

TO THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE CRICKET (1816)

Green little vaulter in the sunny grass, Catching your heart up at the feel of June, Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon, When even the bees lag at the summoning brass: 2

And you, warm little housekeeper, who class 5 With those who think the candles come too soon,

Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune
Nick the glad silent moments as they pass;
Oh sweet and tiny cousins, that belong,
One to the fields, the other to the hearth,
Both have your sunshine; both, though small,
are strong

10

At your clear hearts; and both seem giv'n to

earth

Expression's last receding ray,

A gilded halo hovering round decay, The farewell beam of feeling past away!

100

15

Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly

birth,

I love (oh! how I love) to ride

On the fierce foaming bursting tide,

When every mad wave drowns the moon,

Or whistles aloft his tempest tune,
And tells how goeth the world below,
And why the south-west blasts do blow.

I never was on the dull tame shore,
But I lov'd the great Sea more and more,
And backwards flew to her billowy breast,
Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest;
And a mother she was, and is to me;
For I was born on the open Sea!

The waves were white, and red the morn,
In the noisy hour when I was born;
And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled,
And the dolphins bared their backs of gold;
And never was heard such an outcry wild
As welcomed to life the Ocean-child!

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30

Which gleams, but warms no more its cherished

earth!

Clime of the unforgotten brave!

20

Whose land from plain to mountain-cave Was freedom's home, or glory's grave! Shrine of the mighty! can it be,

105

That this is all remains of thee?
Approach, thou craven crouching slave
Say, is not this Thermopyla?
These waters blue that round you lave,

110

Oh servile offspring of the free-
Pronounce what sea, what shore is this?
The gulf, the rock of Salamis!
These scenes, their story not unknown,
Arise, and make again your own;
Snatch from the ashes of your sires
The embers of their former fires;
And he who in the strife expires
Will add to theirs a name of fear
That tyranny shall quake to hear,
And leave his sons a hope, a fame
They too will rather die than shame:
For freedom's battle once begun,
Bequeath'd by bleeding sire to son,
Though baffled oft, is ever won.
Bear witness, Greece, thy living page,
Attest it many a deathless age!
While kings, in dusty darkness hid,
Have left a nameless pyramid,

Thy heroes, though the general doom
Hath swept the column from their tomb,
A mightier monument command,
The mountains of their native land!
There points thy muse to stranger's eye
The graves of those that cannot die!
"Twere long to tell, and sad to trace,
Each step from splendour to disgrace;
Enough-no foreign foe could quell
Thy soul, till from itself it fell;
Yes! self-abasement paved the way
To villain-bonds and despot-sway.

What can he tell who treads thy shore?

No legend of thine olden time, No theme on which the muse might soar High as thine own in days of yore,

When man was worthy of thy clime.

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Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art, For there thy habitation is the heartThe heart which love of thee alone can bind; And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd

5

To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom,

Their country conquers with their martyrdom,

And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind.

Chillon! thy prison is a holy place,

And thy sad floor an altar-for 'twas trod, 10 Until his very steps have left a trace Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod,

By Bonnivard! May none those marks efface!

For they appeal from tyranny to God.

1 Bonnivard was the "Prisoner of Chillon," the chief figure in Byron's poem of that title. A man of republican views and of high character, he was imprisoned in the castle of Chillon about 1530, and remained there for six years

And heavy though it clank'd not; worn with pain,

Which pined although it spoke not, and grew keen,

Entering with every step he took through

many a scene.

But soon he knew himself the most unfit Of men to herd with Man; with whom he held

Little in common; untaught to submit His thoughts to others, though his soul was quell'd

In youth by his own thoughts; still uncompell'd,

1 Childe (the heir, of a noble house) is a title made familiar by the Old Ballads like Childe Waters, Childe Roland.

The first two cantos appeared in 1812, or about four years previously.

And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell:

He rush'd into the field, and, foremost fighting fell.

'A term in falconry, applied to certain hawks that soar to a place high in the air, and from thence swoop upon their prey. V. Macb. II. iv.

This stanza refers to a ball given by the Duchess of Richmond, at Brussels, on the night before the battle of Waterloo. The boom of cannon rang through the city, and the festivity was broken up by a rush to arms.

Duke Frederick William of Brunswick, who lost his life fighting at Quatre Bras, 1815.