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 :- DANTE IN EXILE. (PROPHECY OF DANTE, Canto i.) ALAS! with what a weight upon my brow The heart's quick throb upon the mental rack, And the frail few years I may yet expect Hoary and hopeless, but less hard to bear, On the lone rock of desolate Despair To lift my eyes more to the passing sail Nor raise my voice-for who would heed my wail? And yet my harpings will unfold a tale Which shall preserve these times when not a page Of their perturbed 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: 'tis the doom In life, to wear their hearts out, and consume To live in narrow ways with little men, Ripp'd from all kindred, from all home, all things To feel me in the solitude of kings Without the power that makes them bear a crown- Which waft him where the Apennine looks down Where yet my boys are, and that fatal she, Their mother, the cold partner who hath brought And feel, and know without repair, hath taught THE ISLES OF GREECE. (SONG OF A GREEK.) THE isles of Greece, the isles of Greece ! The Scian and the Teian muse, The hero's harp, the lover's lute, To sounds which echo further west The mountains look on Marathon- I dream'd that Greece might still be free; For standing on the Persians' grave, A king sate on the rocky brow Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; And ships, by thousands, lay below, He counted them at break of day— F 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, Even as I sing, suffuse my face; Must we but weep o'er days more blest? What, silent still? and silent all? And answer, 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 callHow answers each bold Bacchanal ! You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, The nobler and the manlier one? 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 ! 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! Such as the Doric mothers bore; Trust not for freedom to the Franks- |