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The tyrant of the Chersonese

Was freedom's best and bravest friend; That tyrant was Miltiades!

O 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 FranksThey 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 mineDash down yon cup of Samian wine!

483

ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY-
SIXTH YEAR

'Tis time this heart should be unmoved,
Since others it hath ceased to move:
Yet, though I cannot be beloved,
Still let me love!

My days are in the yellow leaf;

The flowers and fruits of love are gone;
The worm, the canker, and the grief
Are mine alone!

The fire that on my bosom preys
Is lone as some volcanic isle;
No torch is kindled at its blaze-
A funeral pile.

The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
The exalted portion of the pain
And power of love, I cannot share,
But wear the chain.

But 'tis not thus-and 'tis not here

Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now, Where glory decks the hero's bier,

Or binds his brow.

The sword, the banner, and the field,
Glory and Greece, around me see!
The Spartan, borne upon his shield,
Was not more free.

Awake! (not Greece-she is awake!)
Awake, my spirit! Think through whom
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake,

And then strike home!

484

Tread those reviving passions down,
Unworthy manhood!-unto thee
Indifferent should the smile or frown
Of beauty be.

If thou regret'st thy youth, why live?
The land of honourable death
Is here:-up to the field, and give
Away thy breath!

Seek out-less often sought than found-
A soldier's grave, for thee the best;
Then look around, and choose thy ground,
And take thy rest.

AT MisSOLONGHI, January 22, 1824.

THOMAS MOORE

[1779-1852]

THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS

OFT in the stilly night

Ere slumber's chain has bound me,

Fond Memory brings the light

Of other days around me:

The smiles, the tears

Of boyhood's years,

The words of love then spoken;
The eyes that shone,

Now dimm'd and gone,

The cheerful hearts now broken!

Thus in the stilly night

Ere slumber's chain has bound me,

Sad Memory brings the light

Of other days around me.

When I remember all

The friends so link'd together

I've seen around me fall

Like leaves in wintry weather,

I feel like one

Who treads alone

Some banquet-hall deserted,
Whose lights are fled
Whose garlands dead,
And all but he departed!
Thus in the stilly night

Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
Sad Memory brings the light

Of other days around me.

485

PRO PATRIA MORI

WHEN he who adores thee has left but the name

Of his fault and his sorrows behind,

O! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame
Of a life that for thee was resign'd!

Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn,

Thy tears shall efface their decree;

For, Heaven can witness, though guilty to them,

I have been but too faithful to thee.

With thee were the dreams of my earliest love;
Every thought of my reason was thine:

In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above
Thy name shall be mingled with mine!

O! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live
The days of thy glory to see;

But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give
Is the pride of thus dying for thee.

486

THE MEETING OF THE WATERS

THERE is not in the wide world a valley so sweet
As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;
Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart,
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.

Yet it was not that nature had shed o'er the scene
Her purest of crystal and brightest of green;
'Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill,
Oh! no-it was something more exquisite still.

'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near,
Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear,
And who felt how the best charms of nature improve,
When we see them reflected from looks that we love.

Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest

In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best, Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should

cease,

And our hearts, like thy waters, бe mingled in peace.

487

THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER

'Tis the last rose of summer
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,
No rosebud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
To give sigh for sigh.

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one!
To pine on the stem;

Since the lovely are sleeping,

Go, sleep thou with them.

Thus kindly I scatter

Thy leaves o'er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow,

When friendships decay,
And from Love's shining circle
The gems drop away.

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