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Why does she give her ivy-vine
If not to grant alone,
Still o'er thy temples and thy shrines,
Loved Greece! her spirit throws
Of beauty in repose :
Whilst there one wild-flower blows
Still, Egypt, tower thy sepulchres
Which hearse the thousand bones
Thy diadems and thrones !
And still Pelides owns,
They were the mighty of the world,
The demigods of earth;
And gave the battle birth;
The impress of their worth :
But thou, mild benefactor - thou,
To whom on earth were given
The sympathy for others' woe,
The charities of heaven ;-
To tell that thou hast striven,
They live not in the sepulchre
In which thy dust is hid, Though there were kindlier hands to rear
Thy simple pyramid, Than Egypt's mightiest could commandA duteous tribe, a peasant band
Who mourned the rites they did Mourned that the cold turf should confine A spirit kind and pure as thine!
They are existent in the clime
Thy pilgrim-steps have trod,
And seals his doom with blood;
The pestilent abode,
Thine was an empire o'er distress,
Thy triumphs of the mind!
The friend of human kind!
In glory shall be shrined !
I know not if there be a sense
More sweet, than to impart
Balm to the sufferer's smart,
Might grace an angel's heart;
Serene, unhurt, in wasted lands,
Amid the general doom,
Where breathes the lone simoom;
Another — all is gloom;
But deadlier than the simoom burns
The fire of Pestilence;
The passing of events :
On people and on prince!
And to the beautiful and young
Thy latest cares were given;
The messages of heaven!
Like lily-flowers at even:
As danger deeper grew and dark,
Her hopes could conscience bring;
Grew hourly brightening;
But thou art on the wing
The nodding hearse, the sable plume,
Those attributes of pride, The artificial grief or gloom
Are pageants which but hide Hearts, from the weight of anguish free: But there were many wept for thee
Who wept for none beside, And felt, thus left alone below, The full desertedness of woe!
And many mourned that thou should'st lie
Where Dnieper rolls and raves, Glad from barbaric realms to fly,
And blend with Pontic waves; A desert bleak — a barren shore, Where Mercy never trod before
A land whose sons were slaves; Crouching, and fettered to the soil By feudal chains and thankless toil !
But oft, methinks, in future years,
To raise exalted thought,
Shall be thy glorious lot!
Shall tread the holy spot,
Those roses on their languid stalk
Will fade ere fades the day,
wither in his walk
Shall memory pass away,
THE BREEZE FROM THE SHORE.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
Joy is upon the lonely seas
When Indian forests pour
Their odours from the shore;
Oh! welcome are the winds that tell
A wanderer of the deep,
And where the myrrh-trees weep! Blessed, on the sounding surge and foam, Are tidings of the citron's home!
The sailor at the helm they meet,
And Hope his bosom stirs,
The fair earth's messengers,