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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.

V.-PRESENT STATE OF GREECE.
(BYRON.)

HE who hath bent him o'er the dead,
Ere the first day of death is fled—
The first dark day of nothingness,
The last of danger and distress—

Before Decay's effacing fingers

Have swept the lines where beauty lingers,
And marked the mild, angelic air,

The rapture of repose that's there—
The fixed, yet tender traits, that streak
The languor 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,
Whose touch thrills with mortality,
And curdles to the gazer'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, ay, 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 passed away!

Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth,

Which gleams, but warms no more its cherished earth.

VI.-BATTLE OF KILLIECRANKIE.

(AYTOUN.)

William Edmonstoune Aytoun, Professor of Rhetoric and Belles Lettres in the University of Edinburgh, was born in 1813. He is author of "Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers," "Bothwell," &c.

The battle of Killiecrankie was fought in 1689. The forces of William III., under General Mackay, were defeated by those of the exiled James II., under Graham of Claverhouse, Viscount Dundee.

On the heights of Killiecrankie yester-morn our army lay : Slowly rose the mist in columns from the river's broken way; Hoarsely roared the swollen torrent, and the pass was wrapped in gloom,

When the clansmen rose together from their lair amidst the broom.

Then we belted on our tartans, and our bonnets down we drew,

And we felt our broadswords' edges, and we proved them to be true;

And we prayed the prayer of soldiers, and we cried the gathering cry;

And we clasped the hands of kinsmen, and we swore to do or die!

Then our leader rode before us on his war-horse black as

night

Well the Cameronian rebels knew that charger in the fight! And a cry of exultation from the bearded warriors rose; For we loved the house of Claver'se, and we thought of good Montrose.

But he raised his hand for silence-" Soldiers! I have sworn

a vow:

Ere the evening's sun shall glisten on Schehallion's lofty brow

Either we shall rest in triumph, or another of the Græmes Shall have died in battle-harness for his country and King James!

Think upon the Royal Martyr-think of what his race endure

Think on him whom butchers murdered on the field of Magus Moor:

By his sacred blood I charge ye, by the ruined hearth and shrine

By the blighted hopes of Scotland, by your injuries and mine

Strike this day as if the anvil lay beneath your blows the while,

Be they Covenanting traitors, or the brood of false Argyle ! Strike! and drive the trembling rebels backwards o'er the stormy Forth;

Let them tell their pale Convention how they fared within the North.

Let them tell that Highland honour is not to be bought nor sold,

That we scorn their prince's anger, as we loathe his foreign gold.

Strike! and when the fight is over, if you look in vain for

me,

Where the dead are lying thickest, search for him that was Dundee !"

Loudly then the hills re-echoed with our answer to his call, But a deeper echo sounded in the bosoms of us all.

For the lands of wide Breadalbane, not a man who heard

him speak

Would that day have left the battle. Burning eye and flushing cheek

Told the clansmen's fierce emotion, and they harder drew

their breath;

For their souls were strong within them—stronger than the grasp of death.

Soon we heard a challenge-trumpet sounding in the pass

below,

And the distant tramp of horses, and the voices of the foe: Down we crouched amid the bracken, till the Lowland ranks

drew near,

Panting like the hounds in summer, when they scent the stately deer.

From the dark defile emerging, next we saw the squadrons

come,

Leslie's foot, and Leven's troopers marching to the tuck of

drum;

Through the scattered wood of birches, o'er the broken ground and heath,

Wound the long battalion slowly, till they gained the field beneath ;

Then we bounded from our covert. Judge how looked the Saxons then,

When they saw the rugged mountain start to life with armed men!

Like a tempest down the ridges swept the hurricane of steel; Rose the slogan of Macdonald-flashed the broadsword of Lochiel !

Vainly sped the withering volley 'mongst the foremost of our band-

On we poured until we met them, foot to foot and hand to

hand.

Horse and man went down like drift-wood when the floods are black at Yule,

And their carcasses are whirling in the Garry's deepest pool: Horse and man went down before us-living foe there tarried none

On the field of Killiecrankie, when that stubborn fight was done!

VII.-DEATH OF LEONIDAS.
(CROLY.)

The Rev. George Croly, LL.D., Rector of St. Stephen's, Walbrook, London, was born in Dublin in 1785. Died, 1861. His works, both prose and verse, are very voluminous.

Leonidas, King of Sparta, was sent by his country to repel the invasion of Greece by Xerxes in 480 B.C. He fell, with his three hundred Spartans, in the battle at the pass of Thermopylæ.

It was the wild midnight,—a storm was in the sky,
The lightning gave its light, and the thunder echoed by;
The torrent swept the glen, the ocean lashed the shore,-
Then rose the Spartan men, to make their bed in gore!

Swift from the deluged ground three hundred took the shield;

Then, silent, gathered round the leader of the field.

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