And though, sometimes, each dreary pause between,
Dejected PITY at his side,

Her soul-subduing voice applied,

Yet still he kept his wild unaltered mien;

While each strained ball of sight-seemed bursting from his head.

Thy numbers, JEALOUSY, to nought were fixed;
Sad proof of thy distressful state:

Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd:
And, now, it courted Love: now, raving, called on Hate.

With eyes upraised, as one inspired,

Pale MELANCHOLY sat retired;

And from her wild sequestered scat,

In notes by distance made more sweet,

Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul:
And, dashing soft, from rocks around,

Bubbling runnels joined the sound:

Through glades, and glooms, the mingled measure stole ; Or, o'er some haunted streams, with fond delay (Round a holy calm diffusing,

Love of peace and lonely musing)

In hollow murmurs died away.

But, O, how altered was its sprightlier tone!
When CHEERFULNESS, a nymph of healthiest hue,
Her bow across her shoulder flung,

Her buskins gemmed with morning dew,
Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung,
The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known;

The oak-crowned Sisters, and their chaste-eyed Queen,

Satyrs, and sylvan Boys, were seen,

Peeping from forth their alleys green:

Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear;

And Sport leaped up, and seized his beechen spear.

Last, came Joy's ecstatic trial:

He, with viny crown advancing,

First to the lively pipe his hand addressed; But, soon he saw the brisk awakening viol,

Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best. They would have thought, who heard the strain,

They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maids,
Amid the festal-sounding shades,

To some unwearied minstrel dancing;

While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings,
Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round,
(Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound)
And he, amid his frolic play,

As if he would the charming air repay,
Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.

THE ISLES OF GREECE.-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 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 e;
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 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 Anacreon's song divine:

He served—but served PolycratesA 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!

TO WINTER.- Campbell.

When first the fiery-mantled sun
His heavenly race began to run,
Round the earth and ocean blue,
His children four, the Seasons, flew.
First, in green apparel dancing,

The young Spring smiled with angel-grace :

Rosy Summer, next advancing,

Rush'd into her sire's embrace-
Her bright-hair'd sire, who bade her keep
For ever nearest to his smiles,
On Calpe's olive-shaded steep,

On India's citron-cover'd isles:
More remote and buxom-brown,

The Queen of vintage bow'd before his throne;
A rich pomegranate gemm'd her crown,
A ripe sheaf bound her zone!
But howling Winter fled afar,
To hills that prop the polar star,
And loves on deer-borne car to ride,
With barren darkness by his side,
Round the shore where loud Lofoden
Whirls to death the roaring whale !
Round the hall where Runic Odin
Howls his war-song to the gale!—
Save when adown the ravaged globe
He travels on his native storm,
Deflowering Nature's grassy robe,
And trampling on her faded form :-
Till light's returning lord assume

The shaft that drives him to his polar field,
Of power to pierce his raven plume,
And crystal-cover'd shield!

O sire of storms!-whose savage ear
The Lapland drum delights to hear,
When Frenzy, with her blood-shot eye,
Implores thy dreadful deity—
Archangel! power of desolation!

Fast descending as thou art,
Say, hath mortal invocation

Spells to touch thy stony heart?
Then, sullen Winter, hear my prayer,
And gently rule the ruin'd year;
Nor chill the wanderer's bosom bare,
Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear ;-
To shuddering Want's unmantled bed

Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lend;