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1788-1824
WHEN we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.
The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my brow
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame:
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.
They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes oer me
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well:
Long, long shall I rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.
In secret we met
In silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?
With silence and tears.
SO, well go no more a-roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.
For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe
And love itself have rest.
Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet well go no more a-roving
By the light of the moon.
SHE walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all thats best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaird the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens oer her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and oer 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!
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 Phœbus sprung!
Eternal summer gilds them yet,
But all, except their sun, is set.
The Scian and the Teian muse,
The heros harp, the lovers lute,
Have found the fame your shores refuse:
Their place of birth alone is mute
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 dreamd that Greece might still be free;
For standing on the Persians grave,
I could not deem myself a slave.
A king sate on the rocky brow
Which looks oer 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?
Tis something in the dearth of fame,
Though linkd among a fetterd race,
To feel at least a patriots shame,
Even as I sing, suffuse my face;
For what is left the poet here?
For Greeks a blushfor Greece a tear.
Must we but weep oer 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 Thermopylæ!
What, silent still? and silent all?
Ah! no;the voices of the dead
Sound like a distant torrents fall,
And answer, Let one living head,
But one, arise,we come, we come!
Tis but the living who are dumb.
In vainin vain: strike other chords;
Fill high the cup with Samian wine!
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes,
And shed the blood of Scios vine!
Hark! rising to the ignoble call
How answers each bold Bacchanal!
You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet;
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone?
Of two such lessons, why forget
The nobler and the manlier one?
You have the letters Cadmus gave
Think ye he meant them for a slave?
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
We will not think of themes like these!
It made Anacreons song divine:
He servedbut served Polycrates
A tyrant; but our masters then
Were still, at least, our countrymen.
The tyrant of the Chersonese
Was freedoms 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.
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
On Sulis rock, and Pargas 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 Suniums 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 neer be mine
Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!
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