SONG OF THE GREEK POET.

LORD BYRON.

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 Phoebus sprung!
Eternal summer gilds them yet,
But all, except their sun, is set.

The Scian and the Teian muse,
The hero's harp, the lover's 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 dreamed that Greece might still be free
For standing on the Persians' grave,
I could not deem myself a slave.

A king sat on the rocky brow

Which looks o'er 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 linked among a fettered 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!
Earth, render back from out thy breast
A remnant of our Spartan dead!
Of the three hundred, grant but three
To make a new Thermopyla.

What! silent still? and silent all?

Ah, no! The voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent's fall,

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;
Fill high the cup with Samian wine!
Leave battle to the Turkish hordes,

And shed the blood of Scio's 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 earlier, and the nobler one?
You have the letters Cadmus gave-
Think you he meant them for a slave?

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
We will not think of themes like these!

It made Anacreon's song divine;

He served - but served Polycrates. A tyrant;-but our masters then Were still, at least, our countrymen.

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!
On Suli's rock and Parga's shore
Exists the remnant of a line

Such as the Doric mothers bore;
And there perhaps some seed is sown
That 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 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 mine -
Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!

SPEECH OF PERICLES.

THUCYDIDES. TRANSLATION OF B. JOWETT.

I HAVE summoned an assembly that I may remind you of your resolutions, and reprove you for your inconsiderate anger against me, and want of fortitude in misfortune. In my judgment it would be better for individuals themselves that the citizens should suffer

and the State flourish, than that the citizens should flourish and the State suffer. A private man, however successful in his own dealing, if his country perish is involved in her destruction; but if he be an unprosperous citizen of a prosperous city, he is much more likely to recover. Seeing, then, that States can bear the misfortunes of individuals, but individuals cannot bear the misfortunes of States, let us all stand by our country; and not do what you are doing now, who, because you are stunned by your private calamities, are letting go the common hope of safety, and condemning not only me who advised, but yourselves who consented to the war.

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.

LORD BYRON.

THE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,
That host, with their banners, at sunset were seen;
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,
That host, on the morrow, lay withered and strewn.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew