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Pronounce what sea, what shore is this ? The gulf, the rock of Salamis ! These scenes, their story not unknown, Arise, and make again your own ; Snatch from the ashes of your sires The embers of their former fires ; And he who in the strife expires Will add to theirs a name of fear That Tyranny shall quake to hear, And leave his sons a hope, a fame, They too will rather die than shame : For Freedom's battle once begun, Bequeath'd by bleeding Sire to Son, Though baffled oft is ever won. Bear witness, Greece, thy living page, Attest it many a deathless age ! While kings, in dusty darkness hid, Have left a nameless pyramid, Thy heroes, though the general doom Hath swept the column from their tomb, A mightier monument command, The mountains of their native land ! There points thy Muse to stranger's eye The graves

of those that cannot die ! 'Twere long to tell, and sad to trace, Each step from splendour to disgrace ; Enough-no foreign foe could quell Thy soul, till from itself it fell ; Yes! Self-abasement paved the way To vilain-bonds and despot sway.

What can he tell who treads thy shore ?

No legend of thine olden time,

No theme on which the muse might soar, High as thine own in days of yore,

When man was worthy of thy clime. The hearts within thy valleys bred, The fiery souls that might have led

Thy sons to deeds sublime, Now crawl from cradle to the grave, Slaves—nay, the bondsmen of a slave, (6)

And callous, save to crime; Stain'd with each evil that pollutes Mankind, where least above the brutes ; Without even savage virtue blest, Without one free or valiant breast. Still to the neighbouring ports they waft Proverbial wiles, and ancient craft; In this the subtle Greek is found, For this, and this alone, renown'd. In vain might Liberty invoke The spirit to its bondage broke, Or raise the neck that courts the yoke : No more her sorrows I bewail, Yet this will be a mournful tale, And they who listen may believe, Who heard it first had cause to grieve.

Far, dark, along the blue sea glancing, The shadows of the rocks advancing, Start on the fisher's eye like boat Of island-pirate or Mainote ; And fearful for his light caique, He shuns the near but doubtful creek :

Though worn and weary with his toil,
And cumber'd with his scaly spoil,
Slowly, yet strongly, plies the oar,
Till Port Leone's safer shore
Receives him by the lovely light
That best becomes an Eastern night.

Who thundering comes on blackest steed, With slacken'd bit and hoof of speed ? Beneath the clattering iron's sound The cavern'd echoes wake around In lash for lash, and bound for bound; The foam that streaks the courser's side Seems gather'd from the ocean-tide. Though weary waves are sunk to rest, There's none within his rider's breast : And though to-morrow's tempest lower, 'Tis calmer than thy heart, young Giaour ! (7) I know thee not, I loathe thy race, But in thy lineaments I trace What time shall strengthen, not 'efface : Though young and pale, that sallow front Is scathed by fiery passion's brunt; Though bent on earth thine evil eye, As meteor-like thou glidest by, Right well I view and deem thee one Whom Othman's sons should slay or shun.

On-on he hasten'd, and he drew My gaze of wonder as he flew :

Though like a demon of the night.
He pass’d and vanish'd from my sight,
His aspect and his air impress'd
A troubled memory on my breast,
And long upon my startled ear
Rung his dark courser's hoofs of fear.
He spurs his steed; he nears the steep,
That, jutting, shadows o'er the deep;
He winds around; he hurries by ;
The rock relieves him from mine eye;
For well I ween unwelcome he
Whose glance is fix'd on those that flee;
And not a star but shines too bright
On him who takes such timeless flight.
He wound along; but ere he pass'd
One glance he snatch'd, as if his last,
A moment check'd his wheeling steed,
A moment breathed him from his speed,
A moment on his stirrup stood
Why looks he o'er the olive wood ?
The crescent glimmers on the hill,
The Mosque's high lamps are quivering still :
Though too remote for sound to wake
In echoes of the far tophaike, (8)
The flashes of each joyous peal
Are seen to prove the Moslem's zeal.
To-night, set Rhamazani's sun;
To-night, the Bairam feast's begun;
To-nightbut who and what art thou
Of foreign garb and fearful brow?
And what are these to thine or thee,
That thou should'st either pause or flee ?

He stood -some dread was on his face,
Soon Hatred settled in its place:
It rose not with the reddening flush
Of transient Anger's hasty blush,
But pale as marble o'er the tomb,
Whose ghastly whiteness aids its gloom.
His brow was bent, his eye was glazed ;
He raised his arm, and fiercely raised,
And sternly shook his hand on high,
As doubting to return or fly:
Impatient of his flight delay'd,
Here loud his raven charger neigh’d-
Down glanced that hand, and grasp'd his blade ;
That sound had burst his waking dream,
As Slumber starts at owlet's scream.
The
spur

hath lanced his courser's sides ;
Away, away, for life he rides :
Swift as the hurl'd on high jerreed (9)
Springs to the touch his startled steed;
The rock is doubled, and the shore
Shakes with the clattering tramp no more ;
The

won, no more is seen
His Christian crest and haughty mien.
'Twas but an instant he restrain'd
That fiery barb so sternly rein'd;
'Twas but a moment that he stood,
Then sped as if by death pursued ;
But in that instant o'er his soul
Winters of Memory seem'd to roll,
And gather in that drop of time
A life of pain, an age of crime.

crag is

VOL. II.

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