And freedom the mere numbness of his | And trample on each other to obtain 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! 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, 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 Venice is crush'd, and Holland deigns to own 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, 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, 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 ΤΟ On Lady! when I left the shore, To quit another spot on earth: 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, 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. And since thy heart I cannot share, 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? The Turkish tyrants now enclose ; 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, 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, Our guides are gone, our hope is lost, 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, A shot is fired-by foe or friend? 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 Clouds burst, skies flash, oh, dreadful hour! While wand'ring through each broken path, 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, Now thou art safe; nay, long cre now And since I now remember thee 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, And when the admiring circle mark 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! 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, If, when the wintry tempest roar'd, For me, degenerate modern wretch, And think I've done a feat to-day. But since he cross'd the rapid tide, Twere hard to say who fared the best: For he was drown'd, and I've the ague. SONG. Ζώη μου, σάς ἀγαπῶ. ATHENS, 1810. heart! MAID of Athens, ere we part, - Ζώη μου, σάς ἀγαπῶ. By those tresses unconfined, By that lip I long to taste; Maid of Athens! I am gone: TRANSLATION OF THE FAMOUS 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, Sons of Greeks! let us go In arms against the foe, Then manfully despising Oh, start again to life! At the sound of my trumpet, breaking Sons of Greeks, etc. Sparta, Sparta, why in slumbers That chief of ancient song, Who made that bold diversion And warring with the Persian 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. |