GREECE. (THE CORSAIR, Canto iii.) SLOW sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright, O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he throws, On such an eve his palest beam he cast When, Athens! here thy wisest look'd his last. How watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray, That closed their murder'd sage's latest day! Not yet- not yet Sol pauses on the hill, The precious hour of parting lingers still; 77 But sad his light to agonizing eyes, And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes; But, lo! from high Hymettus to the plain The queen of night asserts her silent reign; No murky vapor, herald of the storm, Hides her fair face, or girds her glowing form. The groves of olive scatter'd dark and wide, Near Theseus' fane, yon solitary palm; All, tinged with varied hues, arrest the eye; And dull were his that pass'd them heedless by. Again the Ægean, heard no more afar, Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war; Again his waves in milder tints unfold Their long expanse of sapphire and of gold, Mix'd with the shades of many a distant isle, That frown, where gentler ocean deigns to smile. THE SAME. (From THE GIAOUR.) FAIR clime! where every season smiles Benignant o'er those blessed isles, Which, seen from far Colonna's height, Make glad the heart that hails the sight, And lend to loneliness delight. There mildly dimpling, Ocean's cheek Reflects the tints of many a peak Caught by the laughing tides that lave These Edens of the eastern wave: And if at times a transient breeze Break the blue crystal of the seas, Or sweep one blossom from the trees, How welcome is each gentle air That wakes and wafts the odors there! For there- the Rose o'er crag or vale, Sultana of the Nightingale, The maid for whom his melody, His thousand songs are heard on high, Blooms blushing to her lover's tale: His queen, the garden queen, his Rose, Unbent by winds, unchill'd by snows, Far from the winters of the west, By every breeze and season blest, Returns the sweets by nature given In softest incense back to heaven; And grateful yields that smiling sky Her fairest hue and fragrant sigh. And many a summer flower is there, Is heard, and seen the evening star; Strange that where Nature loved to trace, As if for Gods, a dwelling place, And every charm and grace hath mix't There man, enamour'd of distress, And trample, brute-like, o'er each flower To bloom along the fairy land, And, fix'd on heavenly thrones, should dwell |