Literary cadet, and Saturday evening bulletin. [volume] (Providence, R.I.) 1826-1827, 1826-06-03
MISCELLANY.
BYRON.

glorious attempt to restore the classical shoI
IF Greece to their original greatness in the rank
has induced US to extract the iollowi
iaes from the first canto OF his Don Juan. '
read them " many a time and oft" and viii
we revere the name of the illustrious author, III
remain sacred in our Album. We do I
think we could select an article of more interest,
pne that would be read with more pleasure by
readers, than this beautiful apostrophe to Greece
The isles O fGreece, the isles Of Greece!
Where burning sappho loved and sung,
Where grew the arts Of war aud peace
Where Delos rose, and Phebus sprung!
Eternal summer gilds them yet,
But all, except their sun, is set.
The Scian and the Teian nuse,
The hero's harp, the lover. Lutte.
Have found the fame your shores refuse,
Their place of 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 mu.ing there an hour alone,
Idream'd that Greece might still be free;
For standing on the Persian, grave,
could not deem myself a slave.
A King sat on the rocky brow
Which look, DER sea-born Salamis;
And ships, by Thousands, lay below,
And men in nations all were his.
He counted them ct break Of day-
And when the sun set where were they?
And where are they And where art thou,
My country? On thy ~voice.ess shore
The heroic lay is ~tuneless now
The heroic bosom beats no more!
And must thy Tyre, so long divine,
Degenerate into hands like mine?
IT'S something, in the dearth Of flame,
Though link'd among a fetter'd race,
To feel at least d patriots shame,
Even as | sing, ,uffuse my face;
For what is left the poet here,
For Greeks a ~bJlush-for Greece a tear.
Must we but weep DER days more blest?
Must ire but blush Our fathers bled.
Earth ! render back from out thy breast
A remnant Of our Spartan dead !
Ofthe three hundred grant but three,
To make a new Thermopyia.
What, silent still /, and silent all?
All. no the voices of the dead
Sound like a distant torrents fall,
And anwer, "Let one living head,
But one arise-we come, we come"
IT'S but the living who are dumb.
In vain-in vain: strike other chords
Fill high the cup " it'll Samian wine!
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes,
And shed the blood Of Scio's vine!
Hank! rising to the ignoble call
How answers each bold btcchanal!
You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet,
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone?
or two such lessons, why forget
The nobler and the manlier one?
You have the letters Cadmus gave
Think you he mean. them for a slave?
Fill high the bow with Sanlian wine!
We will not think of themes like these!
1t 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 freedoms 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 cfa line
Such as the Doric mothers bore;
And there, perhaps, some seed is sown,
The Neracledian 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.