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Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned,

From wandering on a foreign strand?
If such there breathe, go, mark him well!
For him no minstrel's raptures swell.
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim,
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch concentered all in self,
Living shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down

To the vile dust from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.

GREECE.

CLIME of the unforgotten brave!
Whose land from plain to mountain-cave
Was freedom's home, or glory's grave!
Shrine of the mighty! can it be,
That this is all remains of thee?
Approach, thou craven, crouching slave,
Say, is not this Thermopyla?

These waters blue that round you lave,
O servile offspring of the free
Pronounce what sea, what shore is this:
The gulf, the rock, of Salamis !
These scenes, their story not unknown,
Arise, and make again your own :
Snatch from the ashes of your sires
The embers of their former fires;
And he who in the strife expires
Will add to theirs a name of fear,
That tyranny shall quake to hear,
And leave his sons a hope, a fame,
They too will rather die than shame;
For freedom's battle, once begun,
Bequeathed by bleeding sire to son,
Though baffled oft, is ever won.
Bear witness, Greece, thy living page!
Attest it, many a deathless age!
While kings, in dusty darkness hid,

SCOTT.

Have left a nameless pyramid,

Thy heroes, though the general doom
Hath swept the column from their tomb,
A mightier monument command
The mountains of their native land!
There points thy muse, to stranger's eye,
The graves of those that cannot die!
'T were long to tell, and sad to trace,
Each step from splendor to disgrace:
Enough, no foreign foe could quell
Thy soul, till from itself it fell.
Yes! self-abasement paved the
To villain bonds and despot sway.

way

THE ISLES OF GREECE.

THE isles of Greece! the isles of Greece !
Where burning Sappho loved and sung, -
Where grew the arts of war and

peace,
Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung!
Eternal summer gilds them yet;
But all, except their sun, is set.

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The mountains look on Marathon
And Marathon looks on the sea;
And musing there an hour alone,

I dreamed that Greece might still be free;
For, standing on the Persians' grave,
I could not deem myself a slave.

"T is something, in the dearth of fame,
Though linked among a fettered race,
To feel at least a patriot's shame,
Even as I sing, suffuse my face;
For what is left the poet here?

For Greeks a blush for Greece a tear.

Must we but weep o'er days more blessed?
Must we but blush ?-Our fathers bled
Carth! render back from out thy breast
A remnant of our Spartan dead!
Of the three hundred grant but three,
To make a new Thermopyla.

BYRON

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The tyrant of the Chersonese

Was freedom's best and bravest friend :

That tyrant was Miltiades!

O that the present hour would lend
Another despot of the kind!

Such chains as his were sure to bind.

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.

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 mine:
Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!

BYRON

THE RAISING OF SAMUEL.

"THOU, whose spell can raise the dead,
Bid the prophet's form appear."
"Samuel, raise thy buried head!

King, behold the phantom seer!"

Earth yawned, he stood the center of a cloud,
Light changed its hue, retiring from his shroud:

Death stood all glassy in his fixéd eye;
His hand was withered and his veins were dry;
His foot, in bony whitenss, glittered there,
Shrunken, and sinewless, and ghastly bare:
From lips that moved not and unbreathing frame,
Like caverned winds the hollow accents came.
Saul saw, and fell to earth, as falls the oak,
At once, and blasted by the thunder stroke.

"Why is my sleep disquieted?
Who is he that calls the dead!
Is it thou! O king? Behold,
Bloodless are these limbs, and cold:
Such are mine; and such shall be
Thine, to-morrow, when with me,
Ere the coming day is done,
Such shall thou be, such thy son.

"Fare thee well, but for a day;
Then we mix our moldering clay;
Thou, thy race, lie pale and low,
Pierced by shafts of many a bow;
And the falchion by thy side
To thy heart, thy hand shall guide,
Crownless, breathless, headless fall,
Son and sire, the house of Saul!"

BYRON

THE SERPENT OF THE STILL.

THEY tell me of the Egyptian asp,
The bite of which is death;
The victim yielding with a gasp
His hot and hurried breath.
The Egyptian queen, says history,
The reptile vile applied;
And in the arms of agony
Victoriously died.

They tell me that, in Italy,
There is a reptile dread,
The sting of which is agony,

And dooms the victim dead.

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STRAIGHTWAY Virginius led the maid a little pace aside, To where the reeking shambles stood, piled up with horn and hide, Close to yon low dark archway, where, in a crimson flood, Leaps down to the great sewer the gurgling stream of blood. Hard by, a flesher on a block had laid his whittle down ș Virginius caught the whittle up, and hid it in his gown.

And then his eyes grew very dim, and his throat began to swell, And in a hoarse, changed voice he spake, "Farewell, sweet child Farewell!

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