"Speak, father!" once again he cried, "If I may yet be gone!" And but the booming shots replied, And fast the flames rolled on. Upon his brow he felt their breath, And in his waving hair, And looked from that lone post of death And shouted but once more aloud, "My father! must I stay?" A king sat on the rocky brow And men in nations-all were his! And where are they? and where art thou While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, And must thy lyre, so long divine, The wreathing fires made way. They wrapt the ship in splendor wild, They caught the flag on high, There came a burst of thunder sound- With fragments strewed the sea!— FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS. SONG OF THE GREEK POET. THE isles of Greece, the isles of Greece! Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung! The Scian and the Teian muse, The hero's harp, the lover's lute, The mountains look on Marathon, I dreamed that Greece might still be free; For standing on the Persians' grave, I could not deem myself a slave. Degenerate into hands like mine? 'Tis something, in the dearth of fame, Even as I sing, suffuse my face; What! silent still? and silent all? And answer, "Let one living head, But one, arise-we come, we come!" 'Tis but the living who are duinb. In vain—in vain; strike other chords; And shed the blood of Scio's vine! You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, The nobler and the manlier one? Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! He served--but served Polycrates A tyrant; but our masters then Were still at least our countrymen. The tyrant of the Chersonese MARCO BOZZARIS. 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; 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. At midnight, in the forest shades, Bozzaris ranged his Suliote bandTrue as the steel of their tried blades, Heroes in heart and hand. 389 There had the Persian's thousands stood, And now there breathed that haunted air An hour passed on-the Turk awoke: "To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!" He woke to die midst flame, and smoke. And death-shots falling thick and fast "Strike-till the last armed foe expires; Strike-for your altars and your fires; Strike-for the green graves of your sires; God-and your native land!" They fought-like brave men, long and well; His few surviving comrades saw Then saw in death his eyelids close Like flowers at set of sun. Come to the bridal chamber, death, Come to the mother's, when she feels. For the first time, her first-born's breath; Come when the blessed seals That close the pestilence are broke, And crowded cities wail its stroke; Come in consumption's ghastly form, The earthquake-shock, the ocean-storm: Come when the heart beats high and warm, With banquet-song, and dance, and wine; And thou art terrible-the tear, The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier; But to the hero, wher his sword Has won the battle for the free, Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word; And in its hollow tones are heard The thanks of millions yet to be. Of sky and stars to prisoned men ; To the world-seeking Genoese, Bozzaris! with the storied brave Greece nurtured in her glory's time, Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume, Like torn branch from death's leafless tree, In sorrow's pomp and pageantry, The heartless luxury of the tomb. But she remembers thee as one Long loved, and for a season gone. For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed, Her marble wrought, her music breathed; For thee she rings the birth-day bells; Of thee her babes' first lisping tells; For thine her evening prayer is said At palace couch, and cottage bed; Her soldier, closing with the foe, Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow; His plighted maiden, when she fears For him, the joy of her young years, Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears. And she, the mother of thy boys, Though in her eye and faded cheek Is read the grief' she will not speak, The memory of her buried joys— And even she who gave thee birth, Will, by her pilgrim-circled hearth, Talk of thy doom without a sigh; For thou art freedom's now, and fame'sOne of the few, the immortal names That were not born to die. FITZ-GREENE HALLEON THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD. WHO fears to speak of Ninety-eight? Who blushes at the name? When cowards mock the patriot's fate, Who hangs his head for shame? He's all a knave, or half a slave, Who slights his country thus; But a true man, like you, man, Will fill your glass with us. We drink the memory of the brave, Some sleep in Ireland, too; The fame of those who died— All true men, like you, men, Remember them with pride. Some on the shores of distant lands Their weary hearts have laid, And by the stranger's heedless hands Their lonely graves were made; But, though their clay be far away Beyond the Atlantic foamIn true men, like you, men, Their spirit's still at home. The dust of some is Irish earth; Among their own they rest; And the same land that gave them birth Has caught them to her breast; And we will pray that from their clay Full many a race may start Of true men, like you, men. To act as brave a part. They rose in dark and evil days To right their native land; They kindled here a living blaze That nothing shall withstand. Alas! that might can vanquish right— They fell and passed away; But true men, like you, men, Are plenty here to-day. Then here's their memory-may it be For us a guiding light, To cheer our strife for liberty, And teach us to unite. Through good and ill, be Ireland's still, Though sad as theirs your fate; And true men, be you, men, Like those of Ninety-eight! JOHN KELLS INGRAM. AN ODE. WHAT constitutes a state? Not high raised battlement or labored mound, Thick wall or moated gate; Not cities proud with spires and turrets crowned; Not bays and broad-armed ports, Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride; Not starred and spangled courts, Where low-browed baseness wafts perfume to pride. No:-men, high-minded men, Such was this heaven-loved isle, Shall Britons languish, and be men no more? Those sweet rewards which decorate the brave 'Tis folly to decline, And steal inglorious to the silent grave. SONNETS. LONDON, 1802. MILTON! thou shouldst be living at this hour; sea; Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, So didst thou travel on life's common way In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart The lowliest duties on herself did lay. TO TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE. TOUSSAINT, the most unhappy man of men! With powers as far above dull brutes endued Whether the whistling rustic tend his plough In forest, brake, or den, Within thy hearing, or thy head be now As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude- Pillowed in some deep dungeon's earless denMen who their duties know, O miserable chieftain! where and when But know their rights, and, knowing, dare Wilt thou find patience? Yet die not; de maintain, Prevent the long-aimed blow, thou Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow. And crush the tyrant while they rend the Though fallen thyself, never to rise again, Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left be hind chain; These constitute a state; And sovereign law, that state's collected will, Powers that will work for thee-air, earth. O'er thrones and globes elate, Sits empress, crowning good, repressing ill. Smit by her sacred frown, The fiend, dissension, like a vapor sinks; And e'en the all-dazzling crown Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks. and skies. There's not a breathing of the common wind WILLIAM WORDSWORTH ON A BUST OF DANTE. SEE, from this counterfeit of him Whom Arno shall remember long, How stern of lineament, how grim, The father was of Tuscan song! There but the burning sense of wrong, Perpetual care, and scorn, abideSmall friendship for the lordly throng, Distrust of all the world beside. Faithful if this wan image be, A lover in that anchorite? To that cold Ghibeline's gloomy sight The lips as Cuma's cavern close, Not wholly such his haggard look When wandering once, forlorn, he strayed, Peace dwells not here-this rugged face The sullen warrior sole we trace, War to the last he waged with all He used Rome's harlot for his mirth; O time! whose verdicts mock our own, ON A SERMON AGAINST GLORY Is it an offence to own Toward immortal glory's throne? So conciliate reason's choice, As one approving word of her impartial voice Be the passport to thy heaven, No such law to me was given; EXCELSIOR. MARK AKENSIDE. THE shades of night were falling fast, His brow was sad; his eye beneath Flashed like a faulchion from its sheath; And like a silver clarion rung The accents of that unknown tongueExcelsior! |