The Scian and the Teian muse,

The hero's harp, the lover's lute,
Have found the fame your shores refuse;
Their place of birth alone is mute,
To sounds which echo farther west
Than your sires' "Islands of the blest."

The mountains look on Marathon-
And Marathon looks on the sea;
Musing there an hour alone,

I dream'd that Greece might still be free;
For standing on the Persians' grave,
I could not deem myself a slave.

A king sat on the rocky brow,

Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis :
And ships, by thousands, lay below,
And men in nations :-all were his.
He counted them at break of day—
And when the sun set, where were they?

And where are they? And where art thou, My country? On thy voiceless shore The heroic lay is tuneless now—

The heroic bosom beats no more! And must thy lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine?

'Tis something in the dearth of fame,
Though link'd within a fetter'd race;
To feel at least a patriot's shame,
E'en as I sing, suffuse my face;
For what is left the poet here?

For Greeks-a blush; for Greece-a tear!

Must we but weep o'er days more bless'd?
Must we but blush ?-Our fathers bled.
Earth! render back from out thy breast
A remnant of our Spartan dead?
Of the three hundred grant but three,
To make a new Thermopyla!

What! silent still,-and silent all!
Ah! no-the voices of the dead
Sound like a distant torrent's fall,
Let one living head,
"But one arise,—we come, we come!
""Tis but the living who are dumb."

And answer,

In vain-in vain! strike other chords;
Fill high the cup with Samian wine!
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes,

And shed the blood of Scio's vine!
Hark! rising to the ignoble call
How answers each bold bacchanal.

You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet,
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone?
Of two such lessons, why forget

The noblier and the manlier one.
You have the letters Cadmus gave-
Think ye he meant them for a slave?

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
We will not think of themes like these

It made Anacreon's songs divine :

He served but served Polycrates-
A tyrant-but our masters then
Were still at least our countrymen.

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
On Suli's rocks 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 that 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 mine-
Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!

BYRON.

THE LAST DAYS OF

HERCULANEUM.

EXTRACTED FROM A POEM OF THE SAME TITLE.

THERE was a man,

A Roman soldier, for some daring deed,

That trespassed on the laws, in dungeon low
Chained down. His was a noble spirit, rough,
But generous, and brave, and kind.
He had a son, 'twas a rosy boy,

A little faithful copy of his sire

In face and gesture. 'In her pangs she died
That gave him birth; and ever since the child
Had been his father's solace and his care.

Every sport

The father shared and heightened. But at length
The rigorous law had grasped him, and condemned
To fetters and to darkness.

The captive's lot

He felt in all its bitterness:-the walls

Of his deep dungeon answered many a sigh

And heart-heaved groan. His tale was known, and touched His jailor with compassion;-and the boy,

Thenceforth a frequent visitor, beguiled

His father's lingering hours, and brought a balm

With his loved presence that in every wound
Dropt healing. But in this terrific hour
He was a poisoned arrow in the breast
Where he had been a cure.

With earliest morn,

Of that first day of darkness and amaze,
He came. The iron door was closed-for them.
Never to open more! The day, the night,
Dragged slowly by; nor did they know the fate
Impending o'er the city. Well they heard
The pent up thunders in the earth beneath,
And felt its giddy rocking; and the air

Grew hot, at length, and thick; but in his straw
The boy was sleeping: and the father hoped
The earthquake might pass by; nor would he wake
From his sound rest the unfearing child, nor tell
The dangers of their state. On his low couch

The fettered soldier sunk-and with deep awe
Listened the fearful sounds:-with upturned eye
To the great gods he breathed a prayer; then strove
To calm himself, and lose in sleep a while
His useless terrors. But he could not sleep :-
His body burned with feverish heat;-his chains
Clanked loud, although he moved not: deep in earth
Groaned unimaginable thunders :-sounds,
Fearful and ominous, arose and died,

Like the sad moanings of November's wind
In the blank midnight. Deepest horror chilled
His blood that burned before;-cold clammy sweats
Came o'er him :-then anon a fiery thrill

Shot through his veins. Now on his couch he shrunk
And shivered as in fear :-now upright leaped,

As though he heard the battle trumpet sound,
And longed to cope with death.

A troubled dreamy sleep.
Never to waken more!
But terrible his agony.

He slept at last
Well—had he slept
His hours are few,

Soon the storm

Burst forth the lightnings glanced :—the air
Shook with the thunders. They awoke; they sprung
Amazed upon their feet. The dungeon glowed

A moment as in sunshine-and was dark :-
Again a flood of white flame fills the cell;
Dying away upon the dazzled eye

In darkening, quivering tints, as stunning sound
Dies throbbing, ringing in the ear.

Silence,

And blackest darkness. With intensest awe
The soldier's frame was filled; and many a thought
Of strange foreboding hurried through his mind,
As underneath he felt the fevered earth
Jarring and lifting and the massive walls

Heard harshly grate and strain: yet knew he not,
While evils undefined and yet to come

Glanced through his thoughts, what deep and cureless wound

Fate had already given. Where, man of woe!
Where, wretched father! is thy boy? Thou callest
His name in vain :-he cannot answer thee.

Loudly the father called upon his child :— No voice replied. Trembling and anxiously

He searched their couch of straw: with headlong haste

Trod round his stinted limits, and, low bent,
Groped darkling on the earth :- -no child was there.
Again he called:-again at farthest stretch
Of his accursed fetters-till the blood
Seemed bursting from his ears, and from his eyes
Fire flashed—he strained with arm extended far,
And fingers widely spread, greedy to touch
Though but his idol's garment. Useless toil,
Yet still renewed:-still round and round he goes,
And strains and snatches-and with dreadful cries
Calls on his boy. Mad frenzy fires him now;
He plants against the wall his feet;-his chain
Grasps;-tugs with giant strength, to force away
The deep-driven staple ;—yells and shrieks with rage.
And, like a desert lion in the snare,

Raging to break his toils-to and fro bounds.
But see! the ground is opening;—a blue light
Mounts, gently waving-noiseless:—thin and cold
It seems, and like a rainbow tint, not flame;
But by its lustre, on the earth outstretched,
Behold the lifeless child!—his dress is singed,
And over his serene face a dark line
Points out the lightning's track.