Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between [parted Heights which appear as lovers who have In hate, whose mining depths so intervene, That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted; Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted, Love was the very root of the fond rage Which blighted their life's bloom, and then departed; Itself expired, but leaving them an age Of years all winters-war within themselves to rage. Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his way, [stand; The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his For here, not one, but many make their play, And fling their thunderbolts from hand to hand, Flashing and cast around: of all the band, The brightest through these parted hills hath forked His lightnings, as if he did understand That in such gaps as desolation worked, There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurked. Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings! ye, [a soul With night, and clouds, and thunder, and To make these felt and feeling, well may be Things that have made me watchful; the far roll Of your departing voices is the knoll Could I embody and unbosom now That which is most within me,-could I wreak, [throw My thoughts upon expression, and thus Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong or weak, All that I would have sought, and all I seek, And that one word were Lightning, I would The morn is up again, the dewy morn, room And food for meditation, nor pass by Much that may give us pause, if pondered fittingly. GREECE. From " The Giaour." HE who hath bent him o'er the dead Have swept the lines where beauty lingers), That fires not, wins not, weeps not nowAnd but for that chill, changeless brow, Where cold Obstruction's apathy Appals the gazing mourner's heart, The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon- A gilded halo hovering round decay, Which gleams, but warms no more its Clime of the unforgotten brave! Whose land from plain to mountain cave Was Freedom's home or Glory's graveShrine of the mighty! can it be That this is all remains of thee? Approach, thou craven crouching slave. Say, is not this Thermopyla? These waters blue that round you lave, O servile offspring of the freePronounce 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, Bequeathed 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 dusky darkness hid, Have left a nameless pyramid, Thy heroes-though the general doom Hath swept the column from their tombA 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 When man was worthy of thy clime. -0 THE HELLESPONT. THE winds are high on Helle's wave, The lonely hope of Sestos' daughter. May nerve young hearts to prove as true, The winds are high, and Helle's tide Rolls darkly heaving to the main ; And Night's descending shadows hide The field with blood bedewed in vain, The desert of old Priam's pride; The tombs, sole relics of his reign, All-save immortal dreams that could be guile The blind old man of Scio's rocky isle ! Oh! yet-for there my steps have been; These feet have pressed the sacred shore, These limbs that buoyant wave hath borneMinstrel, with thee, to muse, to mourn, To trace again those fields of yore, Believing every hillock green Contains no fabled hero's ashes, Be long my lot! and cold were he The night hath closed on Helle's stream, But conscious shepherds bless it still. Of him who felt the Dardan's arrow; That mighty heap of gathered ground Which Ammon's son ran proudly round, By nations raised, by monarchs crowned, Is now a lone and nameless barrow ! Within-thy dwelling-place how narrow! Without-can only strangers breathe The name of him that was beneath; Dust long outlasts the storied stone; But thou-thy very dust is gone! DEATH OF ZULEIKA. By Helle's stream there is a voice of wail! And woman's eye is wet-man's cheek is pale! Zuleika! last of Giaffir's race, Thy destined lord is come too late; He sees not-ne'er shall see-thy face! Can he not hear The loud Wul-wulleh warn his distant ear? Thy handmaids weeping at the gate, The Koran-chanters of the hymn of fate, The silent slaves with folded arms that wait, Sighs in the hall, and shrieks upon the gale, Tell him thy tale! Thou didst not view thy Selim fall; That fearful moment when he left the cave He was thy hope-thy joy-thy love-thine [not save allAnd that last thought on him thou couldst And, oh! that pang where more than madness lies, [dies! The worm that will not sleep, and never Thought of the gloomy day and ghastly night, [the light, That dreads the darkness and yet loathes That winds around and tears the quivering heart, [part? Ah! wherefore not consume it - and deWoe to thee, rash and unrelenting chief! Vainly thou heap'st the dust upon thy head, [spread; Vainly the sackcloth o'er thy limbs doth By that same hand Abdallah-Selimbled. Now let it tear thy beard in idle grief; Thy pride of heart, thy bride for Osman's bed, She, whom thy Sultan had but seen to wed, Thy daughter's dead! [beam, Hope of thine age, thy twilight's lonely The star hath set that shone on Helle's stream. What quenched its ray?-the blood that thou hast shed! Hark! to the hurried question of Despair; "Where is my child?"-an Echo answers "Where?" Within the place of thousand tombs That shine beneath, while dark above Like early unrequited love, Its lonely lustre, meek and pale ; So white so faint-the slightest gale Might whirl the leaves on high; And yet, though storms and blight assail, And hands more rude than wintry sky May wring it from the stem-in vainTo-morrow sees it bloom again! The stalk some spirit gently rears, And waters with celestial tears; For well may maids of Helle deem That this can be no earthly flower, Which mocks the tempest's withering hour, And buds unsheltered by a bower; Nor droops, though spring refuse her Nor woos the summer beam; [shower, To it the livelong night there sings A bird unseen-but not remote: But soft as harp that Houri strings It were the Bulbul; but his throat, Though mournful, pours not such a strain, For they who listen cannot leave And yet so sweet the tears they shed, And longer yet would weep and wake, And some have been who could believe Yet harsh be they that blame), That note so piercing and profound Will shape and syllable its sound Into Zuleika's name. "Tis from her cypress' summit heard, EVENING. SLOW sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, Along Morea's hills the setting sun; Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright, Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it Though there his altars are no more divine. Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep, Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep. On such an eve, his palest beam he cast, When, Athens! here thy Wisest looked his last. [ray, How watched thy better sons his farewell That closed their murdered sage's latest day! Not yet not yet-Sol pauses on the hillThe precious hour of parting lingers still; But sad his light to agonizing eyes, And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes: [pour, Gloom o'er the lovely land he seemed to The land where Phoebus never frowned before; But ere he sank below Citharon's head, The cup of woe was quaffed-the spirit fled; The soul of him who scorned to fear or fly, Who lived and died as none can live or die! But lo! from high Hymettus to the plain, The queen of night asserts her silent reign. No murky vapour, herald of the storm, Hides her fair face, nor girds her glowing form; With cornice glimmering as the moonbeams play, There the white column greets her grateful mosque, The gleaming turret of the gay kiosk, And, dun and sombre 'mid the holy calm, Near Theseus' fane yon solitary palm, All tinged with varied hues, arrest the eyeAnd dull were his that passed them heedless by. Again the Ægean, heard no more afar, Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war; Again his waves in milder tints unfold Their long array of sapphire and of gold, Mixed with the shades of many a distant isle, That frown-where gentler ocean seems to smile. [to thee? Not now my theme-why turn my thoughts Oh! who can look along thy native sea, Nor dwell upon thy name, whate'er the tale, So much its magic must o'er all prevail? Who that beheld that sun upon thee set, Fair Athens! could thine evening face forget? [frees, Not he whose heart nor time nor distance Spell-bound within the clustering Cyclades. Nor seems this homage foreign to his strain, -His Corsair's isle was once thine own domain Would that with freedom it were thine again! CORINTH. MANY a vanished year and age, And tempest's breath, and battle's rage, Have left untouched her hoary rock, Than yon tower-capped Acropolis, |