Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat, By nature vile, ennobled but by name, Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame. Newstead Abbey, Oct. 30, 1808. XXXIV. Farewell. FAREWELL! if ever fondest prayer But waft thy name beyond the sky, "Twere vain to speak, to weep, to sigh: Oh! more than tears of blood can tell, When wrung from guilt's expiring eye, Are in that word-Farewell!—Farewell! These lips are mute, these eyes are dry; The thought that ne'er shall sleep again. I only feel-Farewell!-Farewell! APPENDIX. AMONGST an enslaved people, obliged to have recourse to foreign presses even for their books of religion, it is less to be wondered at that we find so few publications on general subjects than that we find any at all. The whole number of the Greeks, scattered up and down the Turkish empire and elsewhere, may amount, at most, to three millions; and yet, for so scanty a number, it is impossible to discover any nation with so great a proportion of books and their authors, as the Greeks of the present century. "Ay," but say the generous advocates of oppression, who, while they assert the ignorance of the Greeks, wish to prevent them from dispelling it, ay, but these are mostly, if not all, ecclesiastical tracts, and consequently good for nothing." Well! and pray what else can they write about?—It is pleasant enough to hear a Frank, particularly an Englishman, who may abuse the government of his own country; or a Frenchman, who may abuse every government except his own, and who may range at will over every philosophical, religious, scientific, sceptical, or moral subject, sneering at |