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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 gaveThink 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 Doric 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 shadeI 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 steep,

Where nothing, save the waves and I, 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 !

LINES TO A LADY WEEPING.

WEEP, daughter of a royal line,

A Sire's disgrace, a realm's decay ;
Ah! happy if each tear of thine

Could wash a father's fault away!

Weep-for thy tears are Virtue's tears

Auspicious to these suffering isles ;
And be each drop in future years

Repaid thee by thy people's smiles !

1 The Princess Charlotte.

DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE

(CHILDE HAROLD, Canto iv. Stanzas 167-172.)

HARK! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds,
A long low distant murmur of dread sound,
Such as arises when a nation bleeds
With some deep and immedicable wound;
Through storm and darkness yawns the rending ground,
The gulf is thick with phantoms, but the chief
Seems royal still, though with her head discrown'd,

And pale, but lovely, with maternal grief
She clasps a babe, to whom her breast yields no relief.

Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou ?
Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead ?
Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low
Some less majestic, less beloved head ?
In the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled,
The mother of a moment, o'er thy boy,
Death hush'd that pang for ever : with thee fled

The present happiness and promised joy
Which fill’d the imperial isles so full it seem'd to cloy.

Peasants bring forth in safety.---Can it be,
Oh thou that wert so happy, so adored !
Those who weep not for kings shall weep for thee,
And Freedom's heart, grown heavy, cease to hoard
Her many griefs for ONE; for she had pour'd
Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy head
Beheld her Iris.—Thou, too, lonely lord,

And desolate consort—vainly wert thou wed !
The husband of a year! the father of the dead !

Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made;
Thy bridal's fruit is ashes : in the dust
The fair-hair'd Daughter of the Isles is laid,
The love of millions ! How did we intrust
Futurity to her! and, though it must
Darken above our bones, yet fondly deem'd
Our children should obey her child, and bless'd

Her and her hoped-for seed, whose promise seem'd Like stars to shepherds' eyes :-'twas but a meteor

beam'd.

Woe unto us, not her; for she sleeps well :
The fickle reek of popular breath, the tongue
Of hollow counsel, the false oracle,
Which from the birth of monarchy hath rung
Its knell in princely ears, 'till the o’erstung
Nations have arm'd in madness, the strange fate
Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns, and hath flung

Against their blind omnipotence a weight
Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon or late, -

These might have been her destiny ; but no,
Our hearts deny it: and so young, so fair,
Good without effort, great without a foe,
But now a bride and mother and now there!
How many ties did that stern moment tear !
From thy Sire's to his humblest subject's breast
Is link'd the chain of that despair,

Whose shock was as an earthquake's, and opprest
The land which loved thee so that none could love thee

best.

IMMORTALITY.

(CHILDE HAROLD, Canto ii. Stanzas 7, 8.)

Well didst thou speak, Athena's wisest son ! “ All that we know is, nothing can be known.”

Why should we shrink from what we cannot shun?
Each hath his pang, but feeble sufferers groan
With brain-born dreams of evil all their own.
Pursue what Chance or Fate proclaimeth best ;
Peace waits us on the shores of Acheron :

There no forced banquet claims the sated guest,
But Silence spreads the couch of ever welcome rest.

Yet if, as holiest men have deem'd, there be
A land of souls beyond that sable shore,
To shame the doctrine of the Sadducee
And sophists, madly vain of dubious lore;
How sweet it were in concert to adore
With those who made our mortal labours light !
To hear each voice we fear'd to hear no more !

Behold each mighty shade reveal’d to sight,
The Bactrian, Samian sage, and all who taught the right!

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