You will proceed in pleasure, and in pride, My shame and sorrow deep in my heart's Core: The passion which still rages as before,— My breast has been all weakness, is so yet; To all, except one image, madly blind, I have no more to say, but linger still, And dare not set my seal upon this sheet, And yet I may as well the task fulfil, My misery can scarce be more complete: I had not lived till now, could sorrow kill; Death shuns the wretch who fain the blow would meet, And I must even survive this last adieu, And bear with life, to love and pray for you! FIRST LOVE. [From the same.] 'Tis sweet to hear At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep The song and oar of Adria's gondolier, By distance mellow'd, o'er the waters sweep; 'Tis sweet to see the evening star appear; 'Tis sweet to listen as the night-winds creep From leaf to leaf; 'tis sweet to view on high The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky. 'Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark Bay deep-mouth'd welcome as we draw near home; 'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark Our coming, and look brighter when we come ; 'Tis sweet to be awaken'd by the lark, Or lull'd by falling waters; sweet the hum Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapes Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps, Sweet is a legacy, and passing sweet The unexpected death of some old lady Or gentleman of seventy years complete, Who've made 'us youth' wait too-too long already For an estate, or cash, or country seat, Still breaking, but with stamina ́so steady 'Tis sweet to win, no matter how, one's laurels, Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels ; But sweeter still than this, than these, than all, Like Adam's recollection of his fall; The tree of knowledge has been pluck'd-all's known And life yields nothing further to recall Fire which Prometheus filch'd for us from heaven. THE ISLES OF GREECE. [From Don Juan. Canto III.] The isles of Greece! the isles of Greece! The Scian and the Teian muse, The hero's harp, the lover's lute, The mountains look on Marathon- I dreamed that Greece might still be free; A king sate on the rocky brow Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis ; And men in nations ;-all were his ! The heroic bosom beats no more! '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. 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? Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! It made Anacreon's song divine: He served but served Polycrates A tyrant; but our masters then 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! Such as the Doric mothers bore; 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, Would break your shield, however broad. Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! 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! |