LAMENT OF TASSO. LONG years!-It tries the thrilling frame to bear Long years of outrage, calumny, and wrong; Stands scoffing through the never-open'd gate, And tasteless food, which I have eat alone Till its unsocial bitterness is gone; And I can banquet like a beast of prey, Which is my lair, and—it may be—my grave. 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 :- Know, that my sorrows have wrung from me none. 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, The heart's quick throb upon the mental rack, And the frail few years I may yet expect 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 An eye to gaze upon their civil rage, 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, 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 painTo feel me in the solitude of kings Without the power that makes them bear a crown- Which waft him where the Apennine looks down Within my all inexorable town, 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, I could not deem myself a slave. A king sate on the rocky brow Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; 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? 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 ! |