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And Oh! may Heaven their simple lives prevent
From luxury's contagion, weak and vile!

Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent,

A virtuous populace may rise the while,

And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov'd Isle.

XXI

O Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide

That stream'd thro' Wallace's undaunted heart,
Who dar'd to nobly stem tyrannic pride,

Or nobly die, the second glorious part,
(The patriot's God peculiarly Thou art,
His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!)
O never, never Scotia's realm desert;
But still the patriot and the patriot-bard

In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard!

Robert Burns

BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING YOUNG CHARMS

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms,

Which I gaze on so fondly to-day,

Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms, Like fairy-gifts fading away,

Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art;

Let thy loveliness fade as it will,

And around the dear ruin each wish of

Would entwine itself verdantly still.

my

heart

It is not while beauty and youth are thine own,
And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear,

That the fervor and faith of a soul may be known,
To which time will but make thee more dear!
No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets,
But as truly loves on to the close,

As the sunflower turns to her god when he sets
The same look which she turned when he rose.

-Thomas Moore

OFT IN THE STILLY NIGHT

Oft in the stilly night,

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,

Fond Memory brings the light

Of other days around me:

The smiles, the tears,

Of boyhood's years,

The words of love then spoken;

The eyes that shone,

Now dimm'd and gone,

The cheerful hearts now broken!

Thus in the stilly night,

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,

Sad Memory brings the light

Of other days around me.

When I remember all

The friends so link'd together

I've seen around me fall

Like leaves in wintry weather,

I feel like one

Who treads alone

Some banquet-hall deserted,
Whose lights are fled

Whose garlands dead,

And all but him departed!

Thus in the stilly night,

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,

Sad Memory brings the light

Of other days around me.

MAID OF ATHENS

Ζώη μου, σὰς ἀγαπῶ

- Thomas Moore

Maid of Athens, ere we part,
Give, oh, give me back my heart!
Or, since that has left my breast,
Keep it now, and take the rest;
Hear my vow before I go,
Ζώη μοῦ, σὰς ἀγαπῶ

By those tresses unconfined,
Wooed by each Ægean wind;
By those lids whose jetty fringe
Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge;
By those wild eyes like the roe,
Ζώη μου, σὰς ἀγαπῶ

By that lip I long to taste;
By that zone-encircled waist;
By all the token-flowers that tell
What words can never speak so well;
By love's alternate joy and woe,
Ζώη μου, σὰς ἀγαπῶ

Maid of Athens! I am gone:
Think of me, sweet! when alone.
Though I fly to Istambol,

Athens holds my heart and soul:

Can I cease to love thee? No!

Ζώη μου, σὰς ἀγαπῶ

George Gordon Byron

""T IS SWEET TO HEAR..

FROM Don Juan, Canto I

CXXII

'T is sweet to hear

At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep The song and oar of Adria's gondolier,

99

By distance mellowed, o'er the waters sweep; "I is sweet to see the evening star appear;

'Tis sweet to listen as the night-winds creep From leaf to leaf; 't is sweet to view on high The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky.

CXXIII

"T is sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark Bay deep-mouthed welcome as we draw near home; 'T is sweet to know there is an eye will mark Our coming, and look brighter when we come;

'T is sweet to be awakened by the lark,

Or lulled by falling waters; sweet the hum Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds, The lisp of children, and their earliest words.

CXXIV

Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapes
In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth,
Purple and gushing: sweet are our escapes
From civic revelry to rural mirth;

Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps;

Sweet to the father is his first-born's birth;
Sweet is revenge -
especially to women —
Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen.

George Gordon Byron

STANZAS WRITTEN ON THE ROAD BETWEEN
FLORENCE AND PISA

Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story;
The days of our youth are the days of our glory;
And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty
Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.

What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled?
'T is but as a dead-flower with May-dew besprinkled:
Then away with all such from the head that is hoary
What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory?

O Fame! if I e'er took delight in thy praises,

'T was less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases,
Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover
She thought that I was not unworthy to love her.

There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee;
Her glance was the best of the rays that surro, nd thee;
When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story,
I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory.

George Gordon Byron

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