Tore from the father's trembling arms Ex. CXII. THE ISLES OF GREECE. 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- BYRON. I dreamed that Greece might still be free: A king sat on the rocky brow Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; And men in nations;-all were his! And where are they? and where art thou, The heroic bosom beats no more! 'Tis something in the dearth of fame, Must we but weep o'er days more blest? 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 dumb. 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? 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 FranksThey 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 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 mineDash down yon cup of Samian wine! Ex. CXIII.-NAPOLEON. J. PIERPONT. His falchion flashed along the Nile; Here sleeps he now, alone! Not one Of all the kings, whose crowns he gave, Behind this sea-girt rock, the star, High is his couch;-the ocean flood, Alone he sleeps! The mountain cloud, That night hangs round him, and the breath Of morning scatters, is the shroud That wraps the conqueror's clay in death. Pause here! The far-off world, at last, Breathes free; the hand that shook its thrones, And to the earth its miters cast, Lies powerless now beneath these stones. Hark! comes there, from the pyramids, And Europe's hills, a voice that bids The only, the perpetual dirge That's heard there, is the sea-bird's cry,― The mournful murmur of the surge, The cloud's deep voice, the wind's low sigh. Ex. CXIV.-UNIVERSAL FREEDOM. HENRY WARE, JR, OPPRESSION shall not always reign: Even now, that glorious day draws near, In earth and heaven its signs appear, Its dawn has flushed the eastern sky, It flashes on the Indian isles, So long to bondage given; Their faded plains are decked in smiles, That shout, which every bosom thrills, It rings in thunder o'er our hills, The waves reply on every shore, What voice shall bid the progress stay Of truth's victorious car? What arm arrest the growing day, Or quench the solar star? What dastard soul, though stout and strong, And freedom's morning bar? The hour of triumph comes apace, The day has come, the hour draws nigh, Send forth the glad, exulting cry, From every hill, by every sea, In shouts proclaim the great decree, "All chains are burst, all men are free!" Ex. CXV.-THE PILGRIMS AND THE PEAS. A BRACE of sinners, for no good, Were ordered to the Virgin Mary's shrine, Who at Loretto dwelt, in wax, stone, wood, And in a fair white wig looked wondrous fine. Fifty long miles had those sad rogues to travel, WOLCOT. With something in their shoes much worse than gravel: |