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If the power that raised thee here
Hallow so thy watery bier.
A less drear ruin then than now,
With thy conquest-branded brow
Stooping to the slave of slaves
From thy throne, among the waves
Wilt thou be, when the sea-mew
Flies, as once before it flew,
O'er thine isles depopulate,
And all is in its antient state,
Save where many a palace gate
With green sea-flowers overgrown
Like a rock of ocean's own,
Topples o'er the abandoned sea
As the tides change sullenly.
The fisher on his watery way,
Wandering at the close of day,
Will spread his sail and seize his oar
Till he pass the gloomy shore,
Lest thy dead should, from their sleep
Bursting o'er the starlight deep,
Lead a rapid masque of death
O'er the waters of his path.

Those who alone thy towers behold
Quivering through aerial gold,

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As I now behold them here,
Would imagine not they were
Sepulchres, where human forms,
Like pollution-nourished worms
To the corpse of greatness cling,
Murdered, and now mouldering :
But if Freedom should awake
In her omnipotence, and shake
From the Celtic Anarch's hold
All the keys of dungeons cold,
Where a hundred cities lie
Chained like thee, ingloriously,
Thou and all thy sister band
Might adorn this sunny land,
Twining memories of old time
With new virtues more sublime ;
If not, perish thou and they,
Clouds which stain truth's rising day
By her sun consumed away,
Earth can spare ye : while like flowers,
In the waste of years and hours,
From your dust new nations spring
With more kindly blossoming.
Perish — let there only be
Floating o'er thy hearthless sea
As the garment of thy sky
Clothes the world immortally,

VI.

This hour will in thy memory

Be a dream of days forgotten long,
We soon shall dwell by the azure sea
Of serene and golden Italy,
Or Greece, the Mother of the free;

And I will teach thine infant tongue
To call upon those heroes old
In their own language, and will mould
Thy growing spirit in the flame
Of Grecian lore, that by such name
A patriot's birthright thou mayst claim !

LINES TO A CRITIC.

I.

HONEY from silkworms who can gather,

Or silk from the yellow bee?
The grass may grow in winter weather

As soon as hate in me.

II.

Hate men who cant, and men who pray, And men who rail like thee;

An equal passion to repay

They are not coy like me.

III. Or seek some slave of power and gold,

To be thy dear heart's mate, Thy love will move that bigot cold

Sooner than me thy hate.

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A passion like the one I prove

Cannot divided be;
I hate thy want of truth and love —

How should I then hate thee?

TO MARY

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O MARY dear, that you were here
With your brown eyes bright and clear,
And your sweet voice, like a bird
Singing love to its lone mate
In the ivy bower disconsolate ;
Voice the sweetest ever heard !
And your brow more ...

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FT 10 že zainted rei vici muse väg ive
Cal wie: nguyn unreai sapes trei ieze.
Jai nu mimic al ve vut eiieve
Vim zgious idly preai,

einmi, turis fear bau Sope, win iesnies: vo ver weave Teir wadiows or he asm, sgncies mi irear. I new me vio radi iiteci i-ae pugit, For dis 'as ieart was sentier, hings ooves Zat bund hem not, zias: 200 was here mugit Die vorid ontains, ne vitica de couid uppruve.

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