THE ISLES OF GREECE. 271 THE ISLES OF GREECE. - Byron. THE isles of Greece! the isles of Greeće! The Scian and the Teian Muse, The mountains look on Marathon, 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 sat on the rocky brow Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; And where are they? and where art thou, The heroic bosom beats no more! 272 THE ISLES OF GREECE. And must thy lyre, so long divine, 'T is something, in the dearth of fame, Even as I sing, suffuse my face; For Greeks a blush,— for Greece a tear. Must we but weep o'er days more blest? What, silent still? and silent all? In vain, in vain; strike other chords; And shed the blood of Scio's vine! You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, Of two such lessons, why forget The nobler and the manlier one? THE ISLES OF GREECE. You have the letters Cadmus gave, Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! 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! O, 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! Such as the Doric mothers bore; Trust not for freedom to the Franks, The only hope of courage dwells; Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! 273 274 EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY. Place me on Sunium's marbled steep, There, swan-like, let me sing and die. EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY. - Wordsworth. "WHY, William, on that old gray stone, "Where are your books? that light bequeathed To beings else forlorn and blind! Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed "You look round on your mother earth, One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake, "The eye, it cannot choose but see; THE TABLES TURNED. "Nor less I deem that there are Powers Which of themselves our minds impress; That we can feel this mind of ours In a wise passiveness. “Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum Of things for ever speaking, That nothing of itself will come, But we must still be seeking? "Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, I sit upon this old gray stone, THE TABLES TURNED. — Wordsworth. AN EVENING SCENE ON THE SAME SUBJECT. UP! up! my friend, and quit your books; The sun, above the mountain's head, Through all the long green fields has spread, Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it. T 275 |