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Of the three hundred grant but three,
To make a new Thermopylæ!

Ah! no;

a

What, silent still? and silent all?

- the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent's fall,

And answer, “Let one living head, But one arise,

we come, we come!” "Tis but the living who are dumb.

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 nobler 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 song divine: He served — but served Polycrates

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.

a

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 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 ATHEIST AND THE ACORN

METHINKS this world is oddly made,

And ev'ry thing's amiss,
A dull, presuming Atheist said,
As stretch'd he lay beneath a shade;

And instanced in this:

a

Behold, quoth he, that mighty thing,

A Pumpkin, large and round,
Is held but by a little string,
Which upwards cannot make it spring,

Or bear it from the ground.

Whilst on this Oak, a fruit so small,

So disproportion'd grows;
That who with sense surveys this All,
This universal Causal Ball,

Its ill contrivance knows.

My better judgment would have hung

That weight upon a tree, And left this mast, thus slightly strung, 'Mongst things which on the surface sprung,

And small and feeble be.

No more the caviller could say,

Nor further faults descry;
For, as he upwards gazing lay,
An Acorn, loosen'd from the stay,

Fell down upon his eye.

Th' offended part with tears ran o'er,

As punish'd for the sin:
Fool! had that bough a Pumpkin bore,
Thy whimseys must have worked no more,
Nor skull had kept them in.

Anne, CountESS OF WINCHELSEA

THE WORLD A GAME

This world a-hunting is,
The prey poor man, the Nimrod fierce is Death;
His speedy greyhounds are
Lust, sickness, envy, care,
Strife that ne'er falls amiss,
With all those ills which haunt us while we breathe.
Now, if by chance we fly
Of these the eager chase,
Old age with stealing pace
Casts up his nets, and there we panting die.

WILLIAM DRUMMOND

REQUIEM

UNDER the wide and starry sky,
Dig the grave and let me lie.

Glad did I live and gladly die,

And I laid me down with a will.

This be the verse you grave for me:
Here he lies where he longed to be;
Home is the sailor, home from sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN

I

HAMELIN Town's in Brunswick,

By famous Hanover city;
The river Weser, deep and wide,
Washes its walls on the southern side;
A pleasanter spot you never spied;

But, when begins my ditty,
Almost five hundred years ago,
To see the townsfolk suffer so

From vermin, was a pity.

II
Rats!
They fought the dogs and killed the cats,

And bit the babies in the cradles,
And ate the cheeses out of the vats,

And licked the soup from the cooks' own ladles, Split open the kegs of salted sprats, Made nests inside men's Sunday hats, And even spoiled the women's chats,

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