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And freedom the mere numbness of his | And trample on each other to obtain

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Our strength away in wrestling with the air; For 'tis our nature strikes us down: the beasts

Slaughter'd in hourly hecatombs for feasts Are of as high an order-they must go Even where their driver goads them, though to slaughter. Ye men, who pour your blood for kings as water,

What have they given your children in return?

A heritage of servitude and woes, A blindfold bondage where your hire is blows.

What! do not yet the red-hot ploughshares burn,

O'er which you stumble in a false ordeal, And deem this proof of loyalty the real; Kissing the hand that guides you to your

scars,

And glorying as you tread the glowing bars? All that your sires have left you, all that Time

Bequeaths of free, and History of sublime, Spring from a different theme!- Ye see and

read,

Admire and sigh, and then succumb and

bleed!

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The league of mightiest nations, in those hours

When Venice was an envy, might abate, But did not quench, her spirit - in her fate All were enwrapp'd: the feasted monarchs knew

And loved their hostess, nor could learn to hate, Although they humbled—with the kingly few

The many felt,for from all days and climes She was the voyager's worship; —even her crimes

Were of the softer order-born of Love, She drank no blood, nor fatten'd on the dead, But gladden'd where her harmless conquests spread;

For these restored the Cross, that from above Hallow'd her sheltering banners, which incessant

Flew between earth and the unholy Crescent, Which, if it waned and dwindled, Earth may thank

The city it has clothed in chains,which clank Now, creaking in the ears of those who owe The name of Freedom to her glorious struggles;

Yet she but shares with them a common woe, And call'd the “kingdom” of a conquering foe,

Save the few spirits, who, despite of all,
And worse than all, the sudden crimes |But knows what all—and, most of all, we

engender'd

know -

By the down-thundering of the prison-wall, With what set gilded terms a tyrant juggles! And thirst to swallow the sweet waters

Gushing from Freedom's fountains-when

tender'd,

the crowd,

The name of Commonwealth is past and

gone

Madden'd with centuries of drought, are O'er the three fractions of the groaning

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Venice is crush'd, and Holland deigns to own
A sceptre, and endures the purple robe;
If the free Switzer yet bestrides alone
His chainless mountains, 'tis but for a time,
For tyranny of late is cunning grown,
And in its own good season tramples down
The sparkles of our ashes. One great clime,
Whose vigorous offspring by dividing ocean
Are kept apart and nursed in the devotion
Of Freedom, which their fathers fought
for, and

Thy storms have awaken'd their sleep, They groan from the place of their rest, And wrathfully murmur, and sullenly weep,

To see the foul stain on thy breast; For where is the glory they left thee in trust? 'Tis scatter'd in darkness, 'tis trampled in dust!

Go look through the kingdoms of earth, From Indus all round to the pole,

Bequeath'd-a heritage of heart and hand,
And proud distinction from each other land, | And something of goodness, of honour,
Whose sons must bow them at a monarch's

motion,

As if his senseless sceptre were a wand Full of the magic of exploded scienceStill one great clime, in full and free defiance,

Yet rears her crest,unconquer'd and sublime, Above the far Atlantic!-She has taught Her Esau - brethren that the haughty flag, The floating fence of Albion's feebler crag, May strike to those whose red right hands have bought

Rights cheaply earn'd with blood. Still, still, for ever Better, though each man's life-blood were a river, That it should flow, and overflow, than creep Through thousand lazy channels in our veins,

Damm'd like the dull canal with locks and chains,

And moving, as a sick man in his sleep, Three paces, and then faltering:- better be Where the extinguish'd Spartans still are free,

In their proud charnel of Thermopylæ, Than stagnate in our marsh,—or o'er the deep Fly, and one current to the ocean add, One spirit to the souls our fathers had, One freeman more, America, to thee!

ODE.

Оn, shame to thee, Land of the Gaul! Oh, shame to thy children and thee! Unwise in thy glory, and base in thy fall,

How wretched thy portion shall be! Derision shall strike thee forlorn, A mockery that never shall die; The curses of hate, and the hisses of scorn, Shall burden the winds of thy sky; And proud o'er thy ruin for ever be hurl'd The laughter of triumph, the jeers of the world!

Oh, where is thy spirit of yore, The spirit that breathed in thy dead, When gallantry's star was the beacon before, And honour the passion that led?

and worth,

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Their hero has rush'd to the field;

His laurels are cover'd with shade But where is the spirit that never should yield,

The loyalty never to fade?

In a moment desertion and guile
Abandon'd him up to the foe;

ΤΟ

On Lady! when I left the shore,
I hardly thought to grieve once more,
The distant shore which gave me birth

To quit another spot on earth:
Yet here, amidst this barren isle,
Where panting Nature droops the head
Where only thou art seen to smile,

I view my parting hour with dread. Though far from Albin's craggy shore, Divided by the dark blue main; A few, brief, rolling seasons o'er, Perchance I view her cliffs again:

The dastards that flourish'd and grew in But wheresoe'er I now may roam,

his smile,

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Through scorching clime and varied sea, Though time restore me to my home,

I ne'er shall bend mine eyes on thee: On thee, in whom at once conspire All charms which heedless hearts can move, Whom but to see is to admire,

And, oh! forgive the word-to love.
Forgive the word, in one who ne'er

And since thy heart I cannot share,
Believe me, what I am, thy friend.
And who so cold as look on thee,

With snch a word can more offend;

Thou lovely wanderer, and be less? Nor be, what man should ever be,

The friend of Beauty in distress?
Ah! who would think that form had past
Through Danger's most destructive path,
Had braved the death-wing'd tempest's blast,
And 'scaped a tyrant's fiercer wrath?
Lady! when I shall view the walls
Where free Byzantium once arose,
And Stamboul's Oriental halls

The Turkish tyrants now enclose ;
Though mightiest in the lists of fame,
That glorious city still shall be;
On me 'twill hold a dearer claim,
As spot of thy nativity:

And though I bid thee now farewell,

When I behold that wonderous scene, Since where thou art I may not dwell, "Twill soothe to be, where thou hast been. September, 1809,

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STANZAS.

WRITTEN IN PASSING THE AMBRACIAN GULPH, NOVEMBER 14, 1809.

THROUGH cloudless skies, in silvery sheen, Full beams the moon on Actium's coast: And on these waves, for Egypt's queen, The ancient world was won and lost.

And now upon the scene I look,

The azure grave of many a Roman; Where stern Ambition once forsook

His wavering crown to follow woman.

Florence! whom I will love as well

As ever yet was said or sung, (Since Orpheus sang his spouse from hell) Whilst thou art fair and I am young;

Sweet Florence! those were pleasant times, When worlds were staked for ladies' eyes: Had bards as many realms as rhymes, Thy charms might raise new Anthonies.

Though Fate forbids such things to be, Yet, by thine eyes and ringlets curl'd! I cannot lose a world for thee,

But would not lose thee for a world.

STANZAS.

Composed October 11th, 1809, during the night, in a thunderstorm, when the guides had lost the road to Zitza, near the range of mountains formerly called Pindus, in Albania.

CHILL and mirk is the nightly blast,
Where Pindus' mountains rise,
And angry clouds are pouring fast
The vengeance of the skies.

Our guides are gone, our hope is lost,
And lightnings, as they play,
But show where rocks our path have crost,
Or gild the torrent's spray.

Is yon a cot I saw, though low?

When lightning broke the gloom— How welcome were its shade!-ah, no! 'Tis but a Turkish tomb.

Through sounds of foaming waterfalls,
I hear a voice exclaim-
My way-worn countryman, who calls
On distant England's name.

A shot is fired-by foe or friend?
Another-'tis to tell
The mountain-peasants to descend,
And lead us where they dwell.

Oh! who in such a night will dare To tempt the wilderness?

And who 'mid thunder-peals can hear Our signal of distress?

And who that heard our shouts would rise
To try the dubious road?
Nor rather deem from nightly cries
That outlaws were abroad.

Clouds burst, skies flash, oh, dreadful hour!
More fiercely pours the storm!
Yet here one thought has still the power
To keep my bosom warm.

While wand'ring through each broken path,
O'er brake and craggy brow;
While elements exhaust their wrath,
Sweet Florence, where art thou?

Not on the sea, not on the sea,

Thy bark hath long been gone! Oh, may the storm that pours on me, Bow down my head alone!

Full swiftly blew the swift Siroc,
When last I press'd thy lip;
And long ere now, with foaming shock,
Impell'd thy gallant ship.

Now thou art safe; nay, long cre now
Hast trod the shore of Spain:
'Twere hard if ought so fair as thou
Should linger on the main.

And since I now remember thee
In darkness and in dread,
As in those hours of revelry

Which mirth and music sped

Do thou amidst the fair white walls, If Cadiz yet be free,

At times from out her latticed halls Look o'er the dark blue sea;

Then think upon Calypso's isles,
Endear'd by days gone by;
To others give a thousand smiles,
To me a single sigh.

And when the admiring circle mark
The paleness of thy face,

A half-form'd tear, a transient spark Of melancholy grace,

Again thou❜lt smile, and blushing shun Some coxcomb's raillery;

Nor own for once thou thoughtst of one, Who ever thinks on thee.

Though smile and sigh alike are vain, When sever'd hearts repine,

My spirit flies o'er mount and main, And mourns in search of thine.

WRITTEN AT ATHENS.

JANUARY 16, 1810.

THE spell is broke, the charm is flown!
Thus is it with life's fitful fever:
We madly smile when we should groan;
Delirium is our best deceiver.

Each lucid interval of thought

Recals the woes of Nature's charter, And he that acts as wise men ought,

But lives, as saints have died, a martyr.

WRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING FROM SESTOS TO ABYDOS.

MAY 9, 1810.

Ir, in the month of dark December,
Leander, who was nightly wont
(What maid will not the tale remember?)
To cross thy stream, broad Hellespont!

If, when the wintry tempest roar'd,
He sped to Hero, nothing loth,
And thus of old thy current pour'd,
Fair Venus! how I pity both!

For me, degenerate modern wretch,
Though in the genial month of May,
My dripping limbs I faintly stretch,

And think I've done a feat to-day.

But since he cross'd the rapid tide,
According to the doubtful story,
To woo,-and-Lord knows what beside,
And swam for Love, as I for Glory;

Twere hard to say who fared the best:
Sad mortals! thus theGods still plague you!
He lost his labour, I my jest:

For he was drown'd, and I've the ague.

SONG.

Ζώη μου, σάς ἀγαπῶ.

ATHENS, 1810.

heart!

MAID of Athens, ere we part,
Give, oh, give me back my.
Or, since that has left my breast,
Keep it now, and take the rest!
Hear my vow before I go,

- Ζώη μου, σάς ἀγαπῶ.

By those tresses unconfined,
Woo'd by each Ægean wind;
By those lids whose jetty fringe
Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge;
By those wild eyes like the roe,
Ζώη μου, σας αγαπώ.

By that lip I long to taste;
By that zone-encircled waist;
By all the token-flowers that tell
What words can never speak so well;
By Love's alternate joy and woe,
Ζώη μου, σας αγαπώ.

Maid of Athens! I am gone:
Think of me, sweet! when alone.-
Though I fly to Istambol,
Athens holds my heart and soul:
Can I cease to love thee? No!
- Ζώη μου, σας αγαπώ.

TRANSLATION OF THE FAMOUS
GREEK WAR SONG

Δεῦτε παῖδες τῶν ̔Ελλήνων

Written by Riga, who perished in the attempt to revolutionize Greece. The following translation is as literal as the author could make it in verse; it is of the same measure as that of the original.

SONS of the Greeks, arise!

The glorious hour's gone forth,
And, worthy of such ties,
Display who gave us birth.
CHORUS.

Sons of Greeks! let us go

In arms against the foe,
Till their hated blood shall flow
In a river past our feet.

Then manfully despising
The Turkish tyrant's yoke,
Let your country see you rising,
And all her chains are broke.
Brave shades of chiefs, and sages,
Behold the coming strife!
Hellenes of past ages,

Oh, start again to life!

At the sound of my trumpet, breaking
Your sleep, oh, join with me!
And the seven-hill'd city seeking,
Fight, conquer, till we're free.

Sons of Greeks, etc.

Sparta, Sparta, why in slumbers
Lethargic dost thou lie?
Awake, and join thy numbers
With Athens, old ally!
Leonidas recalling,

That chief of ancient song,
Who saved ye once from falling,
The terrible! the strong!

Who made that bold diversion
In old Thermopylæ,

And warring with the Persian
To keep his country free;
With his three hundred waging
The battle, long he stood,
And like a lion raging,
Expired in seas of blood.

Sons of Greeks, etc.

WRITTEN BENEATH A PICTURE. DEAR object of defeated care!

Though now of Love and thee bereft, To reconcile me with despair

Thine image and my tears are left.

"Tis said with Sorrow Time can cope ; But this I feel can ne'er be true: For by the death-blow of my Hope My Memory immortal grew.

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