On thee, in whom at once conspire

All charms which heedless hearts can move, Whom but to see is to admire,

And, oh! forgive the word to love.

Forgive the word, in one who ne'er
With such a word can more offend;
And since thy heart I cannot share,
Believe me, what I am, thy friend.

And who so cold as look on thee,

Thou lovely wanderer, and be less? Nor be, what man should ever be,

The friend of Beauty in distress?

Ah! who would think that form had past
Through Danger's most destructive path,
Hath braved the Death-winged tempest's blast,
And 'scaped a tyrant's fiercer wrath?

Lady! when I shall view the walls
Where free Byzantium once arose;
And Stamboul's Oriental halls

The Turkish tyrants now enclose;

Thou mightiest in the lists of fame,
That glorious city still shall be;
On me 't will hold a dearer claim,
As spots of thy nativity:

And though I bid thee now farewell,
When I behold that wond'rous scene,
Since where thou art I may not dwell,
"T will sooth to be, where thou hast been.

GREEK SONG.

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 Blessed."

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 sate on the rocky brow

Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis,

And ships, which 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 blessed?
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 Thermopyla.

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?

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.

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore,
Exists the remnant of a line

Such as the Duric 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 steepWhere nothing, save the waves and 1, 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!

PROMETHEUS.

TITAN! to whose immortal eyes

The sufferings of mortality,

Seen in their sad reality,

Were not as things that gods despise ;
What was thy pity's recompense?

A silent suffering, and intense;

The rock, the vulture, and the chain,
All that the proud can feel of pain,

The agony they do not show,
The suffocating sense of woe,