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SONG OF A GREEK.

167

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 ships by thousands lay below,

And men in nations :-all were his!
He counted them at break of day-
But 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?

THE SAME CONTINUED.

'Tis something, in the dearth of fame,

Though link'd among a fetter'd 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 Thermopylæ !

168

SONG OF A GREEK.

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 ?

THE SAME CONTINUED.

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!

We will not think of themes like these :
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 would lend
Another despot of the kind !
Such chains as his were sure to bind.

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Fill high the bowl with Samian wine !

On Suli's rock and Parga's shore Exists the remnant 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 Sunium'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 mineDash down yon cup of Samian wine!

Byron.

GRATITUDE,

WHEN all thy mercies, O my God,

My rising soul surveys; Transported with the view, I'm lost

In wonder, love, and praise :

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O how shall words with equal warmth

The gratitude declare,
That glows within my ravish'd heart!

But Thou canst read it there.
Thy providence my life sustain'd,

And all my wants redrest,
When in the silent womb I lay,

And hung upon the breast.
To all my weak complaints and cries

Thy mercy lent an ear,
Eryet my feeble thoughts had learn'd

To form themselves in prayer.
Unnumber'd comforts to my soul

Thy tender care bestow'd,
Before my infant heart conceived

From whom those comforts flow'd.

When in the slippery paths of youth

With heedless steps I ran,
Thine arm unseen convey'd me safe,

And led me up to man;
Through hidden dangers, toils, and death,

It gently clear'd my way,
And through the pleasing snares of vice,

More to be fear'd than they.

When worn with sickness, oft hast Thou

With health renew'd my face,
And when in sins and sorrows sunk,

Revived my soul with grace.

Thy bounteous hand with worldly bliss
Has made

my cup run o'er,
And in a kind and faithful friend

Has doubled all my store.

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Ten thousand thousand precious gifts

My daily thanks employ,
Nor is the least a cheerful heart,

That tastes those gifts with joy.

Through every period of my life

Thy goodness I'll pursue,
And after death in distant worlds

The glorious theme renew.

When nature fails, and day and night

Divide thy works no more, My ever-grateful heart, O Lord,

Thy mercy shall adore.
Through all eternity to Thee

A joyful song I'll raise,
But oh! Eternity's too short
To utter all thy praise,

Addison,

THERMOPYLÆ.

They fell devoted, but undying;
The very gale their names seemed sighing;
The waters murmured of their name,
The woods were peopled with their fame;
The silent pillar, lone and grey,
Claimed kindred with their sacred clay,
Their spirits wrapped the dusky mountain,
Their memory sparkled o'er the fountain,
The meanest rill, the mightiest river,
Rolls mingling with their fame for ever.

Byron.

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