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 shadeI 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.

At midnight, in the forest shades,

Bozzaris ranged his Suliote bandTrue as the steel of their tried blades, Heroes in heart and hand.

389

There had the Persian's thousands stood,
There had the glad earth drunk their blood,
On old Platea's day;

And now there breathed that haunted air
The sons of sires who conquered there,
With arms to strike, and soul to dare,
As quick, as far, as they.

An hour passed on-the Turk awoke:
That bright dream was his last;
He woke to hear his sentries shriek,

"To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!"

He woke to die midst flame, and smoke.
And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke,

And death-shots falling thick and fast
As lightnings from the mountain-cloud;
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud,
Bozzaris cheer his band:

"Strike-till the last armed foe expires; Strike-for your altars and your fires; Strike-for the green graves of your sires; God-and your native land!"

They fought-like brave men, long and well;
They piled that ground with Moslem slain;
They conquered—but Bozzaris fell,
Bleeding at every vein.

His few surviving comrades saw
His smile when rang their proud hurrah,
And the red field was won;

Then saw in death his eyelids close
Calmly, as to a night's repose.

Like flowers at set of sun.

Come to the bridal chamber, death,

Come to the mother's, when she feels. For the first time, her first-born's breath; Come when the blessed seals That close the pestilence are broke, And crowded cities wail its stroke; Come in consumption's ghastly form, The earthquake-shock, the ocean-storm: Come when the heart beats high and warm,

With banquet-song, and dance, and wine; And thou art terrible-the tear,

The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier;
And all we know, or dream, or fear
Of agony, are thine.

But to the hero, wher his sword

Has won the battle for the free, Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word; And in its hollow tones are heard

The thanks of millions yet to be.
Come, when his task of fame is wrought-
Come, with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought—
Come in her crowning hour-and then
Thy sunken eye's unearthly light
To him is welcome as the sight

Of sky and stars to prisoned men ;
Thy grasp is welcome as the hand
Of brother in a foreign land;
Thy summons welcome as the cry
That told the Indian isles were nigh

To the world-seeking Genoese,
When the land-wind, from woods of palm,
And orange-groves, and fields of balm,
Blew o'er the Haytian seas.

Bozzaris! with the storied brave

Greece nurtured in her glory's time,
Rest thee-there is no prouder grave,
Even in her own proud clime.
She wore no funeral weeds for thee,

Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume, Like torn branch from death's leafless tree, In sorrow's pomp and pageantry,

The heartless luxury of the tomb. But she remembers thee as one Long loved, and for a season gone. For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed, Her marble wrought, her music breathed; For thee she rings the birth-day bells; Of thee her babes' first lisping tells; For thine her evening prayer is said At palace couch, and cottage bed; Her soldier, closing with the foe, Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow; His plighted maiden, when she fears For him, the joy of her young years, Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears.

And she, the mother of thy boys, Though in her eye and faded cheek Is read the grief' she will not speak,

The memory of her buried joys— And even she who gave thee birth, Will, by her pilgrim-circled hearth,

Talk of thy doom without a sigh; For thou art freedom's now, and fame'sOne of the few, the immortal names

That were not born to die.

FITZ-GREENE HALLEON

THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD.

WHO fears to speak of Ninety-eight? Who blushes at the name?

When cowards mock the patriot's fate, Who hangs his head for shame? He's all a knave, or half a slave,

Who slights his country thus; But a true man, like you, man,

Will fill your glass with us.

We drink the memory of the brave,
The faithful and the few-
Some lie far off beyond the wave-

Some sleep in Ireland, too;
All, all are gone-but still lives on

The fame of those who died— All true men, like you, men,

Remember them with pride.

Some on the shores of distant lands

Their weary hearts have laid, And by the stranger's heedless hands Their lonely graves were made; But, though their clay be far away Beyond the Atlantic foamIn true men, like you, men,

Their spirit's still at home.

The dust of some is Irish earth;

Among their own they rest; And the same land that gave them birth Has caught them to her breast; And we will pray that from their clay

Full many a race may start Of true men, like you, men.

To act as brave a part.

They rose in dark and evil days

To right their native land; They kindled here a living blaze That nothing shall withstand. Alas! that might can vanquish right— They fell and passed away; But true men, like you, men,

Are plenty here to-day.

Then here's their memory-may it be

For us a guiding light,

To cheer our strife for liberty,

And teach us to unite.

Through good and ill, be Ireland's still,

Though sad as theirs your fate; And true men, be you, men,

Like those of Ninety-eight!

JOHN KELLS INGRAM.

AN ODE.

WHAT constitutes a state?

Not high raised battlement or labored mound, Thick wall or moated gate;

Not cities proud with spires and turrets crowned;

Not bays and broad-armed ports, Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride;

Not starred and spangled courts, Where low-browed baseness wafts perfume to

pride.

No:-men, high-minded men,

Such was this heaven-loved isle,
Than Lesbos fairer and the Cretan shore!
No more shall freedom smile?

Shall Britons languish, and be men no more?
Since all must life resign,

Those sweet rewards which decorate the brave 'Tis folly to decline,

And steal inglorious to the silent grave.
SIR WILLIAM JONES.

SONNETS.

LONDON, 1802.

MILTON! thou shouldst be living at this hour;
England hath need of thee. She is a fen
Of stagnant waters. Altar, sword, and pen,
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
Have forfeited their ancient English dower
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;
Oh, raise us up, return to us again,
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power!
Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart;
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the

sea;

Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, So didst thou travel on life's common way In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart The lowliest duties on herself did lay.

TO TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE.

TOUSSAINT, the most unhappy man of men!

In forest, brake, or den,

Prevent the long-aimed blow,

chain;

These constitute a state;

O'er thrones and globes elate,

Sits empress, crowning good, repressing ill. Smit by her sacred frown,

The fiend, dissension, like a vapor sinks;

And e'en the all-dazzling crown Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks.

and skies.

There's not a breathing of the common wind
That will forget thee. Thou hast great allies.
Thy friends are exultations, agonies,
And love, and man's unconquerable mind.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

ON A BUST OF DANTE. SEE, from this counterfeit of him Whom Arno shall remember long, How stern of lineament, how grim, The father was of Tuscan song! There but the burning sense of wrong, Perpetual care, and scorn, abideSmall friendship for the lordly throng, Distrust of all the world beside.

Faithful if this wan image be,
No dream his life was-but a fight;
Could any Beatrice see

A lover in that anchorite?

To that cold Ghibeline's gloomy sight
Who could have guessed the visions came
Of beauty, veiled with heavenly light,
In circles of eternal flame?

The lips as Cuma's cavern close,
The cheeks with fast and sorrow thin,
The rigid front, almost morose,
But for the patient hope within,
Declare a life whose course hath been
Unsullied still, though still severe,
Which, through the wavering days of sin,
Kept itself icy-chaste and clear.

Not wholly such his haggard look

When wandering once, forlorn, he strayed,
With no companion save his book,
To Corvo's hushed monastic shade;
Where, as the Benedictine laid
His palm upon the pilgrim guest,
The single boon for which he prayed
The convent's charity was rest.

Peace dwells not here-this rugged face
Betrays no spirit of repose;

The sullen warrior sole we trace,
The marble man of many woes.
Such was his mien when first arose
The thought of that strange tale divine-
When hell he peopled with his foes,
The scourge of many a guilty line.

War to the last he waged with all
The tyrant canker-worms of earth;
Baron and duke, in hold and hall,
Cursed the dark hour that gave him birth;

He used Rome's harlot for his mirth;
Plucked bare hypocrisy and crime;
But valiant souls of knightly worth
Transmitted to the rolls of time.

O time! whose verdicts mock our own,
The only righteous judge art thou;
That poor, old exile, sad and lone,
Is Latium's other Virgil now.
Before his name the nations bow;
His words are parcel of mankind,
Deep in whose hearts, as on his brow,
The marks have sunk of Dante's mind.
THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS

ON A SERMON AGAINST GLORY
COME then, tell me, sage divine,

Is it an offence to own
That our bosoms e'er incline

Toward immortal glory's throne?
For with me nor pomp, nor pleasure,
Bourbon's might, Braganza's treasure,
So can fancy's dream rejoice,

So conciliate reason's choice,

As one approving word of her impartial voice
If to spurn at noble praise

Be the passport to thy heaven,
Follow thou those gloomy ways—

No such law to me was given;
Nor, I trust, shall I deplore me,
Faring like my friends before me;
Nor an holier place desire
Than Timoleon's arms acquire,
And Tully's curule chair, and Milton's golden
lyre.

EXCELSIOR.

MARK AKENSIDE.

THE shades of night were falling fast,
As through an Alpine village passed
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice,
A banner with the strange device-
Excelsior!

His brow was sad; his eye beneath Flashed like a faulchion from its sheath; And like a silver clarion rung

The accents of that unknown tongueExcelsior!