CLXXXIV.

And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy
I wanton'd with thy breakers -they to me

Were a delight; and if the freshening sea
Made them a terror- 'twas a pleasing fear,
For I was as it were a child of thee,
And trusted to thy billows far and near,
And laid my hand upon thy mane

- as I do here.

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60

CLXXXV.

My task is done my song hath ceased
Has died into an echo; it is fit

- my theme

65

The spell should break of this protracted dream.
The torch shall be extinguish'd which hath lit
My midnight lamp and what is writ is writ-
Would it were worthier! but I am not now
That which I have been—and my visions flit
Less palpably before me and the glow

Which in my spirit dwelt is fluttering, faint, and low.

70

CLXXXVI.

Farewell! a word that must be, and hath been

A sound which makes us linger ; — yet — farewell!
Ye! who have traced the Pilgrim to the scene
Which is his last, if in your memories dwell
A thought which once was his, if on ye swell
A single recollection, not in vain

He wore his sandal-shoon and scallop-shell;
Farewell! with him alone may rest the pain,
If such there were with you, the moral of his strain.

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80

[THE ISLES OF GREECE.]

DON JUAN, CANTO III.,

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.

5

The Scian and the Teian muse,

The hero's harp, the lover's lute,

Have found the fame your shores refuse;
Their place of birth alone is mute

10

To sounds which echo further west

Than your sires' "Islands of the Blest."

The mountains look on Marathon

And Marathon looks on the sea;

And musing there an hour alone,

I dream'd that Greece might still be free;

For standing on the Persians' grave,

I could not deem myself a slave

A king sat on the rocky brow

Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis;
And ships, by thousands, lay below,
And men in nations; all were his!
He counted them at break of day
And when the sun set, where were they?

And where are they? and where art thou,
My country? On thy voiceless shore

The heroic lay is tuneless now

The heroic bosom beats no more! And must thy lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine?

30

'Tis something, in the dearth of fame, Though link'd among a fetter'd 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 blest?
Must we but blush? - Our fathers bled.
Earth! render back from out thy breast

A remnant of our Spartan dead
Of the three hundred grant but three,
To make a new Thermopyla!

What, silent still? and silent all?

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40

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 shade-
I 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 mine -
Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!

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85

89

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79

SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY.

SHE walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies:
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace,
Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,

How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent!

5

IO

15

SONG OF SAUL BEFORE HIS LAST BATtle.

WARRIORS and chiefs! should the shaft or the sword

Pierce me in leading the host of the Lord,

Heed not the corse, though a king's, in your path:
Bury your steel in the bosoms of Gath!

Thou who art bearing my buckler and bow,

5

Should the soldiers of Saul look away from the foe,
Stretch me that moment in blood at thy feet!
Mine be the doom which they dared not to meet.

Farewell to others, but never we part,

Heir to my royalty, son of my heart!

Bright is the diadem, boundless the sway,

Or kingly the death, which awaits us to-day!

IO