Farewell to thee, France! when thy diadem crown'd me,
I made thee the gem and the wonder of earth, -
But thy weakness decrees I should leave as I found thee,
Decay'd in thy glory, and sunk in thy worth.
Oh! for the veteran hearts that were wasted

In strife with the storm, when their battles were won Then the Eagle, whose gaze in that moment was blasted, Had still soar'd with eyes fix'd on victory's sun!

Farewell to thee, France!

-but when Liberty rallies

Once more in thy regions, remember me then.
The violet still grows in the depth of thy valleys;
Though wither'd, thy tear will unfold it again.
Yet, yet, I may baffle the hosts that surround us,
And yet may thy heart leap awake to my voice-
There are links which must break in the chain that has

bound us,

Then turn thee and call on the Chief of thy choice!

LAMENT OF TASSO.

LONG years!

It tries the thrilling frame to bear

And eagle-spirit of a Child of Song

Long years of outrage, calumny, and wrong;
Imputed madness, prison'd solitude,

And the mind's canker in its savage mood,
When the impatient thirst of light and air
Parches the heart; and the abhorred grate,
Marring the sunbeams with its hideous shade,
Works through the throbbing eyeball to the brain

With a hot sense of heaviness and pain;

And bare, at once, Captivity display'd

Stands scoffing through the never-open'd gate,

Which nothing through its bars admits, save day,

And tasteless food, which I have eat alone

Till its unsocial bitterness is gone;

And I can banquet like a beast of prey,
Sullen and lonely, couching in the cave

Which is my lair, and—it may be — my grave.
All this hath somewhat worn me, and may wear,
But must be borne. I stoop not to despair;
For I have battled with mine agony,
And made me wings wherewith to overfly
The narrow circus of my dungeon wall,
And freed the Holy Sepulchre from thrall;
And revell'd among men and things divine,
And pour'd my spirit over Palestine,
In honor of the sacred war for Him,

The God who was on earth and is in heaven,
For he hath strengthen'd me in heart and limb.
That through this sufferance I might be forgiven,
I have employ'd my penance to record

How Salem's shrine was won, and how adored.

But this is o'er - my pleasant task is done:
My long-sustaining friend of many years!
If I do blot thy final page with tears,

Know, that my sorrows have wrung from me none.
But thou, my young creation! my soul's child!
Which ever playing round me came and smiled
And woo'd me from myself with that sweet sight,

Thou too art gone and so is my delight:
And therefore do I weep and inly bleed
With this last bruise upon a broken reed.

DANTE IN EXILE.

(PROPHECY OF DANTE, Canto i.)

ALAS! with what a weight upon my brow

The sense of earth and earthly things come back
Corrosive passions, feelings dull and low,

The heart's quick throb upon the mental rack,
Long day, and dreary night; the retrospect
Of half a century bloody and black,

And the frail few years I may yet expect

Hoary and hopeless, but less hard to bear,
For I have been too long and deeply wreck'd

On the lone rock of desolate Despair

To lift my eyes more to the passing sail

Which shuns that reef so horrible and bare;

Nor raise my voice for who would heed my wail? I am not of this people, nor this age,

And yet my harpings will unfold a tale

Which shall preserve these times when not a page

Of their perturbèd annals could attract

An eye to gaze upon their civil rage,

Did not my verse embalm full many an act

Worthless as they who wrought it: 't is the doom Of spirits of my order to be rack'd

In life, to wear their hearts out, and consume
Their days in endless strife, and die alone;
Then future thousands crowd around their tomb,
And pilgrims come from climes where they have known
The name of him who now is but a name,

And wasting homage o'er the sullen stone,

Spread his by him unheard, unheeded — fame;

And mine at least hath cost me dear: to die
Is nothing; but to wither thus — to tame
My mind down from its own infinity —

To live in narrow ways with little men,
A common sight to every common eye,

A wanderer, while even wolves can find a den,

Ripp'd from all kindred, from all home, all things That make communion sweet, and soften pain –

To feel me in the solitude of kings

Without the power that makes them bear a crown— To envy every dove his nest and wings Which waft him where the Apennine looks down On Arno, till he perches, it may be,

Within my all inexorable town,

Where yet my boys are, and that fatal she,

Their mother, the cold partner who hath brought
Destruction for a dowry- this to see

And feel, and know without repair, hath taught
A bitter lesson; but it leaves me free:
I have not vilely found, nor basely sought,
They made an Exile - not a slave of me.

THE ISLES OF GREECE.

(SONG OF A GREEK.)

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

The Scian and the Teian muse,

The hero'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 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

And when the sun set where were they?