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And hitting and splitting,
And shining and twining,
And rattling and battling,
And shaking and quaking,
And pouring and roaring,
And waving and raving,
And tossing and crossing,
And flowing and growing,
And running and stunning,
And hurrying and skurrying,
And glittering and flittering,
And gathering and feathering,
And dinning and spinning,
And foaming and roaming,
And dropping and hopping,
And working and jerking,
And heaving and cleaving,
And thundering and floundering;

And falling and crawling and sprawling,
And driving and riving and striving,
And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling,
And sounding and bounding and rounding,
And bubbling and troubling and doubling,
Dividing and gliding and sliding,

And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling,
And clattering and battering and shattering;
And gleaming and streaming and steaming and
beaming,

And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing,
And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping,
And curling and whirling and purling and twirling,
Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting,
Delaying and straying and playing and spraying,
Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing,
Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling,

And thumping and flumping and bumping and
jumping,
And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing,
And so never ending, but always descending,
Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending,
All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar,-
And this way the water comes down at Lodore.

BYRON.-BORN 1788; DIED 1824.

GREECE.

HE who hath bent him o'er the dead
Ere the first day of death is fled,
Before decay's effacing fingers

Have swept the lines where beauty lingers,

And mark'd the mild angelic air,

The rapture of repose that's there,

The fixed, yet tender, traits that streak
The langour of the placid cheek,

And, but for that sad shrouded eye,

That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now,
And, but for that chill changeless brow

Where cold obstruction's apathy
Appals the gazing mourner's heart,
As if to him it could impart

The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon;

Yes, but for these, and these alone,

Some moments-aye-one treacherous hour,
He still might doubt the tyrant's power,

So fair, so calm, so softly sealed,

The first-last look-by death revealed!
Such is the aspect of this shore;
'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more!
So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,
We start, for soul is wanting there.

Hers is the loveliness in death,

That parts not quite with parting breath;
But beauty with that fearful bloom,
That hue which haunts it to the tomb;
Expression's last receding ray,

A gilded halo hovering round decay,
The farewell beam of feeling past away!
Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth,
Which gleams, but warms no more its cherished earth.
Clime of the unforgotten brave!

Whose land from plain to mountain cave

Was freedom's home or glory's grave!

Shrine of the mighty! can it be,

That this is all remains of thee?
Approach, thou craven crouching slave:
Say, is not this Thermopyla?
These waters blue that round you lave,
Oh, servile offspring of the free!
Pronounce what sea, what shore is this?
The gulf, the rock of Salamis !

These scenes, their story not unknown,
Arise, and make again your own;
Snatch from the ashes of your sires
The embers of their former fires;
And he who in the strife expires
Will add to theirs a name of fear
That tyranny shall quake to hear,
And leave his sons a hope, a fame
They too will rather die than shame.
For freedom's battle once begun,
Bequeathed by bleeding sire to son,
Though baffled oft is ever won.
Bear witness, Greece, thy living page,
Attest it many a deathless age!
While kings, in dusty darkness hid,
Have left a nameless pyramid,

Thy heroes, though the general doom
Hath swept the column from their tomb,
A mightier monument command,
The mountains of their native land!
There points thy Muse to stranger's eye,
The graves of those that cannot die!
'Twere long to tell, and sad to trace,
Each step from splendour to disgrace;
Enough-no foreign foe could quell
Thy soul, till from itself it fell;
Yes, self-abasement paved the way
To villain bonds and despot sway.

SUNSET IN GREECE.

BY BYRON.

SLOW sinks, more lovely ere his race be run,
Along Morea's hills, the setting sun;

Not, as in Northern climes, obscurely bright,
But one unclouded blaze of living light!

O'er the hushed deep the yellow beam he throws,
Gilds the green wave that trembles as it glows.
On old Ægina's rock, and Idra's Isle,

The God of gladness sheds his parting smile; O'er his own regions lingering, loves to shine, Though there his altars are no more divine. Descending fast, the mountain shadows kiss The glorious gulf, unconquered Salamis !

Their azure arches through the long expanse More deeply purpled meet his mellowing glance, And tenderest tints along their summits driven Mark his gay course and own the hues of heaven, Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep, Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep.

On such an eve his palest beam he cast,
When-Athens! here thy Wisest looked his last.
How watched thy better sons his farewell ray,
That closed their murdered sage's latest day!
Not yet not yet-Sol pauses on the hill-
The precious hour of parting lingers still;
But sad his light to agonising eyes,

And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes:
Gloom o'er the lovely land he seemed to pour,
The land where Phoebus never frowned before,
But ere he sunk below Cithæron's head,
The cup of woe was quaffed-the spirit fled;
The soul of him who scorned to fear or fly-
Who lived and died as none can live or die.

THERMOPYLE.

BY BYRON.

THEY fell devoted, but undying,

The very gale their names seemed sighing;
The waters murmured of their name,
The woods were peopled with their fame;
The silent pillar, lone and grey,

Claimed kindred with their sacred clay;
Their spirits wrapped the dusky mountain,
Their memory sparkled o'er the fountain;
The meanest rill, the mightiest river,
Rolls mingling with their fame for ever.

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