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Whether by hunger, cold, and grief consumed,
They perished miserably-and unentombed,
(While on that frigid bier their corses lay,)
Became the sea-fowl's or the sea-bear's prey;
-Whether the wasting mound by swift degrees,
Exhaled in mist and vanished from the seas,
While they, too weak to struggle even in death,
Locked in each other's arms, resigned their breath,
And their white skeletons, beneath the wave,
Lie intertwined in one sepulchral cave:
—Or meeting some Norwegian bark at sea,
They deemed its deck a world of liberty;
-Or sunward sailing, on green Erin's sod
They kneeled and worshipped a delivering God,
Where yet the blood they brought from Greenland runs
Among the noblest of our sister's so'ns;

-Is all unknown ;-their Ice-berg disappears

Amidst the flood of unreturning years.


Described in an Episode of two lovers and their infant

LOVE, the last feeling that from life retires,
Blew the faint sparks of his unfuelled fires.
In the cold sunshine of yon narrow dell,
Affection lingers; there two lovers dwell,
Greenland's whole family; nor long forlorn,
There comes a visitant; a babe is born.
O'er his meek helplessness the parents smiled;
'Twas hope;-for hope is every mother's child.
Then seemed they, in that world of solitude,
The Eve and Adam of a race renewed.
Brief happiness! too perilous to last;

The moon hath waxed and waned, and all is past.
Behold the end!-one morn athwart the wall,
They marked the shadow of a reindeer fall,
Bounding in tameless freedom o'er the snow;
The father tracked him, and with fatal bow

Smote down the victim; but, before his eyes,
A rabid she-bear pounced upon the prize;
A shaft into the spoiler's flank he sent,

She turned in wrath, and limb from limb had rent
The hunter; but his dagger's plunging steel,
With riven bosom, made the monster reel;
Unvanquished, both to closer combat flew,
Assailants each, till each the other slew;
Mingling their blood from mutual wounds, they lay
Stretched on the carcass of their antlered prey.
Meanwhile his partner waits, her heart at rest,
No burthen but her infant on her breast;
With him she slumbers, or with him she plays,
And tells him all her dreams of future days,
Asks him a thousand questions, feigns replies,
And reads whate'er she wishes in his eyes.

-Red evening comes; no husband's shadow falls,
Where fell the reindeer's, o'er the latticed walls;
'Tis night; no footstep sounds towards her door;
The day returns,—but he returns no more.
In frenzy forth she sallies, and with cries,
To which no voice except her own replies,
In frightful echoes, starting all around,
Where human voice again shall never sound,
She seeks him, finds him not; some angel guide
In mercy turns her from the corpse aside;
Perhaps his own freed spirit, lingering near,
Who waits to waft her to a happier sphere,
But leads her first, at evening to their cot,
Where lies the little one, all day forgot;
Imparadised in sleep she finds him there,
Kisses his cheek, and breathes a mother's prayer.
Three days she languishes, nor can she shed

One tear between the living and the dead;

When her lost spouse comes o'er the widow's thought,
The pangs of memory are to madness wrought;
But, when her suckling's eager lips are felt,
Her heart would fain-but oh! it cannot melt;
At length it breaks, while on her lap he lies
With baby wonder gazing in her eyes.
Poor orphan ! mine is not a hand to trace
Thy little story, last of all thy race!


Not long thy sufferings; cold and colder grown,
The arms that clasp thee, chill thy limbs to stone.
-'Tis done:—from Greenland's coast the latest sigh
Bore infant innocence beyond the sky.



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 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 farther 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 Persian's grave,
I could not deem myself a slave.

A king sate 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 battles 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 nobler and the mânlier 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 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,
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 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!



BUT short that contemplation-sad and short
The pause to bid each much loved scene adieu !—
Beneath the very shadow of the fort,

Where friendly swords were drawn, and banners flew,

* The three characters mentioned in the above passage, being warned of the approach of a hostile tribe of North American Indians, are forced to abandon their peaceful retreat "beyond the Atlantic wave," and fly for safety to a neighbouring fort. On the following morning at sunrise,

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