FOOTNOTES:

FOOTNOTES:[I]While the army of the crusaders was inactive near Ascalon, a truce having been agreed to between the Saracens and their assailants, the Grand Master of the Templars, Conrade Marquis of Montserrat, and others of the Christian Princes, were plotting to effect its dismemberment. Richard of England was the leading spirit of the crusade, and the plotters wished either to get rid of him or to inspire his colleagues with jealousy of his leadership. The Grand Master sought to have the King assassinated. Conrade tried to break up the league by milder means: he first provoked the Duke of Austria to insult the English banner; and then thinking rightly that the suspicion and wrath of Richard would fall upon Austria, he secretly stole the banner from its place. Its safe-keeping, after Austria's insult, had been entrusted by the King to Sir Kenneth, known as the Knight of the Leopard, in reality David Prince of Scotland, who in the disguise of an obscure gentleman had joined the crusade as a follower of the English King. Sir Kenneth was innocently decoyed from his watch, and in his absence, the banner, left with but his dog to guard it, was stolen by Conrade. For his failure of duty. Sir Kenneth was condemned to immediate death, but Saladin, who in the disguise of an Arab physician was in the English camp, and who had rescued the King from death by fever, urgently interceding, his life was spared. Saladin took Sir Kenneth to the camp of the Saracens, and knowing his worth and valor, having previously had knightly encounter with him in the desert, disguised him as a Nubian slave, and sent him as a present to Richard with the hope that he might in some way discover by whom the banner had been stolen. Attending Richard as a slave Sir Kenneth saved the king from the assassination which the Grand Master had instigated, and aided by the instinct of his dog, also disguised, he detected the thief in Conrade. Richard thereupon, at once charged Conrade with the theft, and challenged him to mortal combat. The King was prevented by the Council of the Princes from fighting in person, but having divined in the Nubian slave the former Knight of the Leopard, he permitted Sir Kenneth to fight in his stead, that the knight might atone for the dishonor of being faithless in his watch. Conrade's cause was espoused by the Grand Master, who had been his confidant, and by the Duke of Austria. The encounter was appointed to take place at the Diamond of the Desert, in the territory of Saladin, who was asked to act as umpire. It had been stipulated that but five hundred Saracens should be present at the trial; Saladin, however, having been apprised of further plotting on the part of the Grand Master, for safety's sake caused a larger attendance of his followers. Sir Kenneth had long loved Edith Plantagenet, but being known to her only as a poor and nameless adventurer, he had not yet openly avowed his love.

[I]While the army of the crusaders was inactive near Ascalon, a truce having been agreed to between the Saracens and their assailants, the Grand Master of the Templars, Conrade Marquis of Montserrat, and others of the Christian Princes, were plotting to effect its dismemberment. Richard of England was the leading spirit of the crusade, and the plotters wished either to get rid of him or to inspire his colleagues with jealousy of his leadership. The Grand Master sought to have the King assassinated. Conrade tried to break up the league by milder means: he first provoked the Duke of Austria to insult the English banner; and then thinking rightly that the suspicion and wrath of Richard would fall upon Austria, he secretly stole the banner from its place. Its safe-keeping, after Austria's insult, had been entrusted by the King to Sir Kenneth, known as the Knight of the Leopard, in reality David Prince of Scotland, who in the disguise of an obscure gentleman had joined the crusade as a follower of the English King. Sir Kenneth was innocently decoyed from his watch, and in his absence, the banner, left with but his dog to guard it, was stolen by Conrade. For his failure of duty. Sir Kenneth was condemned to immediate death, but Saladin, who in the disguise of an Arab physician was in the English camp, and who had rescued the King from death by fever, urgently interceding, his life was spared. Saladin took Sir Kenneth to the camp of the Saracens, and knowing his worth and valor, having previously had knightly encounter with him in the desert, disguised him as a Nubian slave, and sent him as a present to Richard with the hope that he might in some way discover by whom the banner had been stolen. Attending Richard as a slave Sir Kenneth saved the king from the assassination which the Grand Master had instigated, and aided by the instinct of his dog, also disguised, he detected the thief in Conrade. Richard thereupon, at once charged Conrade with the theft, and challenged him to mortal combat. The King was prevented by the Council of the Princes from fighting in person, but having divined in the Nubian slave the former Knight of the Leopard, he permitted Sir Kenneth to fight in his stead, that the knight might atone for the dishonor of being faithless in his watch. Conrade's cause was espoused by the Grand Master, who had been his confidant, and by the Duke of Austria. The encounter was appointed to take place at the Diamond of the Desert, in the territory of Saladin, who was asked to act as umpire. It had been stipulated that but five hundred Saracens should be present at the trial; Saladin, however, having been apprised of further plotting on the part of the Grand Master, for safety's sake caused a larger attendance of his followers. Sir Kenneth had long loved Edith Plantagenet, but being known to her only as a poor and nameless adventurer, he had not yet openly avowed his love.

SweetHighland girl, a very showerOf beauty is thy earthly dower!Twice seven consenting years have shedTheir utmost bounty on thy head:And these gray rocks; this household lawn;These trees, a veil just half withdrawn;This fall of water, that doth makeA murmur near the silent lake;This little bay, a quiet roadThat holds in shelter thy abode;In truth, together do ye seemLike something fashion'd in a dream;Such forms as from their covert peepWhen earthly cares are laid asleep!Yet, dream and vision as thou art,I bless thee with a human heart:God shield thee to thy latest years!Thee neither know I nor thy peers;And yet my eyes are fill'd with tears.With earnest feeling I shall prayFor thee when I am far away:For never saw I mien, or face,In which more plainly I could traceBenignity and home-bred senseRipening in perfect innocence.Here scatter'd like a random seed,Remote from men, thou dost not needThe embarrass'd look of shy distress,And maidenly shamefacèdness:Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clearThe freedom of a mountaineer:A face with gladness overspread!Soft smiles, by human kindness bred!And seemliness complete, that swaysThy courtesies, about thee plays;With no restraint, but such as springsFrom quick and eager visitingsOf thoughts that lie beyond the reachOf thy few words of English speech:A bondage sweetly brook'd, a strifeThat gives thy gestures grace and life!So have I, not unmov'd in mind,Seen birds of tempest-loving kind,Thus beating up against the wind.What hand but would a garland cullFor thee who art so beautiful?O happy pleasure! here to dwellBeside thee in some heathy dell;Adopt your homely ways, and dress,A shepherd, thou a shepherdess!But I could frame a wish for theeMore like a grave reality:Thou art to me but as a waveOf the wild sea; and I would haveSome claim upon thee, if I could,Though but of common neighborhood.What joy to hear thee, and to see!Thy elder brother I would be,Thy father, anything to thee!Now thanks to Heaven! that of its graceHath led me to this lonely place.Joy have I had; and going henceI bear away my recompense.In spots like these it is we prizeOur memory, feel that she hath eyes:Then, why should I be loth to stir?I feel this place was made for her;To give new pleasure like the past,Continued long as life shall last.Nor am I loth, though pleas'd at heart,Sweet Highland girl! from thee to part;For I, methinks, till I grow old,As fair before me shall behold,As I do now, the cabin small,The lake, the bay, the waterfall;And thee, the spirit of them all!

With earnest feeling I shall prayFor thee when I am far away:For never saw I mien, or face,In which more plainly I could traceBenignity and home-bred senseRipening in perfect innocence.Here scatter'd like a random seed,Remote from men, thou dost not needThe embarrass'd look of shy distress,And maidenly shamefacèdness:Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clearThe freedom of a mountaineer:A face with gladness overspread!Soft smiles, by human kindness bred!And seemliness complete, that swaysThy courtesies, about thee plays;With no restraint, but such as springsFrom quick and eager visitingsOf thoughts that lie beyond the reachOf thy few words of English speech:A bondage sweetly brook'd, a strifeThat gives thy gestures grace and life!So have I, not unmov'd in mind,Seen birds of tempest-loving kind,Thus beating up against the wind.

What hand but would a garland cullFor thee who art so beautiful?O happy pleasure! here to dwellBeside thee in some heathy dell;Adopt your homely ways, and dress,A shepherd, thou a shepherdess!But I could frame a wish for theeMore like a grave reality:Thou art to me but as a waveOf the wild sea; and I would haveSome claim upon thee, if I could,Though but of common neighborhood.What joy to hear thee, and to see!Thy elder brother I would be,Thy father, anything to thee!

Now thanks to Heaven! that of its graceHath led me to this lonely place.Joy have I had; and going henceI bear away my recompense.In spots like these it is we prizeOur memory, feel that she hath eyes:Then, why should I be loth to stir?I feel this place was made for her;To give new pleasure like the past,Continued long as life shall last.Nor am I loth, though pleas'd at heart,Sweet Highland girl! from thee to part;For I, methinks, till I grow old,As fair before me shall behold,As I do now, the cabin small,The lake, the bay, the waterfall;And thee, the spirit of them all!

I.YeClouds! that far above me float and pause,Whose pathless march no mortal may control!Ye Ocean-Waves! that, wheresoe'er ye roll,Yield homage only to eternal laws!Ye Woods! that listen to the night-birds singing,Midway the smooth and perilous slope reclin'd,Save when your own imperious branches, swinging,Have made a solemn music of the wind!Where, like a man belov'd of God,Through glooms, which never woodman trod,How oft, pursuing fancies holy,My moonlight way o'er flowering weeds I wound,Inspir'd, beyond the guess of folly,By each rude shape and wild unconquerable sound!O ye loud Waves! and O ye Forests high!And O ye Clouds that far above me soar'd!Thou rising Sun! thou blue rejoicing Sky!Yea, every thing that is and will be free!Bear witness for me, wheresoe'er ye be,With what deep worship I have still ador'dThe spirit of divinest Liberty.II.When France in wrath her giant-limbs uprear'd,And with that oath, which smote air, earth, and sea,Stamp'd her strong foot and said she would be free,Bear witness for me, how I hoped and fear'd!With what a joy my lofty gratulationUnaw'd I sang, amid a slavish band;And when to whelm the disenchanted nation,Like fiends embattled by a wizard's wand.The Monarchs march'd in evil day,And Britain join'd the dire array,Though dear her shores and circling ocean,Though many friendships, many youthful loves,Had swoll'n the patriot emotion,And flung a magic light o'er all her hills and groves;Yet still my voice, unalter'd, sang defeatTo all that brav'd the tyrant-quelling lance,And shame too long delay'd and vain retreat!For ne'er, O Liberty! with partial aimI dimm'd thy light or damp'd thy holy flame;But bless'd thepæans of deliver'd France,And hung my head and wept at Britain's name.III."And what," I said, "though Blasphemy's loud screamWith that sweet music of deliverance strove!Though all the fierce and drunken passions woveA dance more wild than e'er was maniac's dream!Ye Storms, that round the dawning east assembled,The Sun was rising, though ye hid his light!"And when, to soothe my soul, that hoped and trembled,The dissonance ceas'd, and all seem'd calm and bright;When France her front deep-scarr'd and goryConceal'd with clustering wreaths of glory;When, insupportably advancing,Her arm made mockery of the warrior's tramp,While, timid looks of fury glancing,Domestic treason, crush'd beneath her fatal stamp,Writh'd like a wounded dragon in his gore:Then I reproach'd my fears that would not flee;"And soon," I said, "shall Wisdom teach her loreIn the low huts of them that toil and groan!And, conquering by her happiness alone,Shall France compel the nations to be free,Till Love and Joy look round, and call the earth their own."IV.Forgive me, Freedom! O forgive those dreams!I hear thy voice, I hear thy loud lament,From bleak Helvetia's icy cavern sent,—I hear thy groans upon her blood-stain'd streams!Heroes, that for your peaceful country perish'd,And ye that, fleeing, spot your mountain-snowsWith bleeding wounds, forgive me, that I cherish'dOne thought that ever bless'd your cruel foes!To scatter rage, and traitorous guilt,Where Peace her jealous home had built;A patriot-race to disinheritOf all that made their stormy wilds so dear,And with inexpiable spiritTo taint the bloodless freedom of the mountaineer,—O France, that mockest Heaven, adulterous, blind,And patriot only in pernicious toils,Are these thy boasts, champion of human kind?To mix with kings in the low lust of sway,Yell in the hunt, and share the murderous prey;To insult the shrine of Liberty with spoilsFrom freemen torn; to tempt and to betray?V.The Sensual and the Dark rebel in vain,Slaves by their own compulsion! In mad gameThey burst their manacles and wear the nameOf Freedom, graven on a heavier chain!O Liberty! with profitless endeavorHave I pursued thee, many a weary hour;But thou nor swell'st the victor's strain, nor everDidst breathe thy soul in forms of human power.Alike from all, howe'er they praise thee(Nor prayer, nor boastful name delays thee),Alike from Priestcraft's harpy minions,And factious Blasphemy's obscener slaves,Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions,The guide of homeless winds, and playmate of the waves!And there I felt thee!—on that sea-cliff's verge,Whose pines, scarce travell'd by the breeze above,Had made one murmur with the distant surge!Yes, while I stood and gaz'd, my temples bare,And shot my being through earth, sea, and air,Possessing all things with intensest love,O Liberty! my spirit felt thee there.

YeClouds! that far above me float and pause,Whose pathless march no mortal may control!Ye Ocean-Waves! that, wheresoe'er ye roll,Yield homage only to eternal laws!Ye Woods! that listen to the night-birds singing,Midway the smooth and perilous slope reclin'd,Save when your own imperious branches, swinging,Have made a solemn music of the wind!Where, like a man belov'd of God,Through glooms, which never woodman trod,How oft, pursuing fancies holy,My moonlight way o'er flowering weeds I wound,Inspir'd, beyond the guess of folly,By each rude shape and wild unconquerable sound!O ye loud Waves! and O ye Forests high!And O ye Clouds that far above me soar'd!Thou rising Sun! thou blue rejoicing Sky!Yea, every thing that is and will be free!Bear witness for me, wheresoe'er ye be,With what deep worship I have still ador'dThe spirit of divinest Liberty.

II.

When France in wrath her giant-limbs uprear'd,And with that oath, which smote air, earth, and sea,Stamp'd her strong foot and said she would be free,Bear witness for me, how I hoped and fear'd!With what a joy my lofty gratulationUnaw'd I sang, amid a slavish band;And when to whelm the disenchanted nation,Like fiends embattled by a wizard's wand.The Monarchs march'd in evil day,And Britain join'd the dire array,Though dear her shores and circling ocean,Though many friendships, many youthful loves,Had swoll'n the patriot emotion,And flung a magic light o'er all her hills and groves;Yet still my voice, unalter'd, sang defeatTo all that brav'd the tyrant-quelling lance,And shame too long delay'd and vain retreat!For ne'er, O Liberty! with partial aimI dimm'd thy light or damp'd thy holy flame;But bless'd thepæans of deliver'd France,And hung my head and wept at Britain's name.

III.

"And what," I said, "though Blasphemy's loud screamWith that sweet music of deliverance strove!Though all the fierce and drunken passions woveA dance more wild than e'er was maniac's dream!Ye Storms, that round the dawning east assembled,The Sun was rising, though ye hid his light!"And when, to soothe my soul, that hoped and trembled,The dissonance ceas'd, and all seem'd calm and bright;When France her front deep-scarr'd and goryConceal'd with clustering wreaths of glory;When, insupportably advancing,Her arm made mockery of the warrior's tramp,While, timid looks of fury glancing,Domestic treason, crush'd beneath her fatal stamp,Writh'd like a wounded dragon in his gore:Then I reproach'd my fears that would not flee;"And soon," I said, "shall Wisdom teach her loreIn the low huts of them that toil and groan!And, conquering by her happiness alone,Shall France compel the nations to be free,Till Love and Joy look round, and call the earth their own."

IV.

Forgive me, Freedom! O forgive those dreams!I hear thy voice, I hear thy loud lament,From bleak Helvetia's icy cavern sent,—I hear thy groans upon her blood-stain'd streams!Heroes, that for your peaceful country perish'd,And ye that, fleeing, spot your mountain-snowsWith bleeding wounds, forgive me, that I cherish'dOne thought that ever bless'd your cruel foes!To scatter rage, and traitorous guilt,Where Peace her jealous home had built;A patriot-race to disinheritOf all that made their stormy wilds so dear,And with inexpiable spiritTo taint the bloodless freedom of the mountaineer,—O France, that mockest Heaven, adulterous, blind,And patriot only in pernicious toils,Are these thy boasts, champion of human kind?To mix with kings in the low lust of sway,Yell in the hunt, and share the murderous prey;To insult the shrine of Liberty with spoilsFrom freemen torn; to tempt and to betray?

The Sensual and the Dark rebel in vain,Slaves by their own compulsion! In mad gameThey burst their manacles and wear the nameOf Freedom, graven on a heavier chain!O Liberty! with profitless endeavorHave I pursued thee, many a weary hour;But thou nor swell'st the victor's strain, nor everDidst breathe thy soul in forms of human power.Alike from all, howe'er they praise thee(Nor prayer, nor boastful name delays thee),Alike from Priestcraft's harpy minions,And factious Blasphemy's obscener slaves,Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions,The guide of homeless winds, and playmate of the waves!And there I felt thee!—on that sea-cliff's verge,Whose pines, scarce travell'd by the breeze above,Had made one murmur with the distant surge!Yes, while I stood and gaz'd, my temples bare,And shot my being through earth, sea, and air,Possessing all things with intensest love,O Liberty! my spirit felt thee there.

I.Howseldom, friend! a good great man inheritsHonor or wealth, with all his worth and pains!It sounds like stories from the land of spirits,If any man obtain that which he merits,Or any merit that which he obtains.II.For shame, dear friend! renounce this canting strain!What wouldst thou have a good great man obtain?Place—titles—salary—a gilded chain—Or throne of corses which his sword hath slain?—Greatness and goodness are not means but ends!Hath he not always treasures, always friends,The good great man?—three treasures,—love, and light,And calm thoughts, regular as infant's breath;—And three firm friends, more sure than day and night,—Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death.

Howseldom, friend! a good great man inheritsHonor or wealth, with all his worth and pains!It sounds like stories from the land of spirits,If any man obtain that which he merits,Or any merit that which he obtains.

II.

For shame, dear friend! renounce this canting strain!What wouldst thou have a good great man obtain?Place—titles—salary—a gilded chain—Or throne of corses which his sword hath slain?—Greatness and goodness are not means but ends!Hath he not always treasures, always friends,The good great man?—three treasures,—love, and light,And calm thoughts, regular as infant's breath;—And three firm friends, more sure than day and night,—Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death.

Robert Southey.—1774-1843.

A wellthere is in the west country,And a clearer one never was seen;There is not a wife in the west countryBut has heard of the Well of St. Keyne.An oak and an elm-tree stand beside,And behind doth an ash-tree grow,And a willow from the bank aboveDroops to the water below.A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne;Joyfully he drew nigh;For from cock-crow he had been travelling,And there was not a cloud in the sky.He drank of the water so cool and clear,For thirsty and hot was he;And he sat down upon the bankUnder the willow-tree.There came a man from the house hard by,At the well to fill his pail;On the well-side he rested it,And he bade the stranger hail."Now, art thou a bachelor, stranger?" quoth he;"For, an if thou hast a wife,The happiest draught thou hast drank this dayThat ever thou didst in thy life."Or has thy good woman, if one thou hast,Ever here in Cornwall been?For, an if she have, I'll venture my lifeShe has drank of the Well of St. Keyne.""I have left a good woman who never was here,"The stranger he made reply;"But that my draught should be the better for that,I pray you answer me why.""St. Keyne," quoth the Cornish-man, "many a timeDrank of this crystal well;And, before the angel summon'd her,She laid on the water a spell,—"If the husband of this gifted wellShall drink before his wife,A happy man thenceforth is he,For he shall be master for life;"But if the wife should drink of it first,God help the husband then!"The stranger stoop'd to the Well of St. Keyne,And drank of the water again."You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes?"He to the Cornish-man said;But the Cornish-man smiled as the stranger spake,And sheepishly shook his head:—"I hasten'd, as soon as the wedding was done,And left my wife in the porch;But i' faith she had been wiser than me,For she took a bottle to church."

A wellthere is in the west country,And a clearer one never was seen;There is not a wife in the west countryBut has heard of the Well of St. Keyne.

An oak and an elm-tree stand beside,And behind doth an ash-tree grow,And a willow from the bank aboveDroops to the water below.

A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne;Joyfully he drew nigh;For from cock-crow he had been travelling,And there was not a cloud in the sky.

He drank of the water so cool and clear,For thirsty and hot was he;And he sat down upon the bankUnder the willow-tree.

There came a man from the house hard by,At the well to fill his pail;On the well-side he rested it,And he bade the stranger hail.

"Now, art thou a bachelor, stranger?" quoth he;"For, an if thou hast a wife,The happiest draught thou hast drank this dayThat ever thou didst in thy life.

"Or has thy good woman, if one thou hast,Ever here in Cornwall been?For, an if she have, I'll venture my lifeShe has drank of the Well of St. Keyne."

"I have left a good woman who never was here,"The stranger he made reply;"But that my draught should be the better for that,I pray you answer me why."

"St. Keyne," quoth the Cornish-man, "many a timeDrank of this crystal well;And, before the angel summon'd her,She laid on the water a spell,—

"If the husband of this gifted wellShall drink before his wife,A happy man thenceforth is he,For he shall be master for life;

"But if the wife should drink of it first,God help the husband then!"The stranger stoop'd to the Well of St. Keyne,And drank of the water again.

"You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes?"He to the Cornish-man said;But the Cornish-man smiled as the stranger spake,And sheepishly shook his head:—

"I hasten'd, as soon as the wedding was done,And left my wife in the porch;But i' faith she had been wiser than me,For she took a bottle to church."

Theisles of Greece! the isles of Greece!Where burning Sappho lov'd and sung,Where grew the arts of war and peace,Where Delos rose, and Phœbus sprung!Eternal summer gilds them yet,But all, except their sun, is set.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 muteTo sounds which echo further westThan your sires' "Islands of the Blest."The mountains look on Marathon—And Marathon looks on the sea;And 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 sate on the rocky browWhich 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 shoreThe 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 among a fetter'd race,To feel at least a patriot's shame,Even as I sing, suffuse my face;For what is left the poet here?For Greeks a blush—for Greece a tear.Mustwebut weep o'er days more blest?Mustwebut blush?—Our fathers bled.Earth! render back from out thy breastA remnant of our Spartan dead!Of the three hundred grant but three,To make a new Thermopylæ!What, silent still? and silent all?Ah! no;—the voices of the deadSound 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 forgetThe 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 thenWere still, at least, our countrymen.The tyrant of the ChersoneseWas freedom's best and bravest friend;Thattyrant was Miltiades!Oh! that the present hour would lendAnother 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 lineSuch 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 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!

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 muteTo sounds which echo further westThan your sires' "Islands of the Blest."

The mountains look on Marathon—And Marathon looks on the sea;And 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 sate on the rocky browWhich 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 shoreThe 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 among a fetter'd race,To feel at least a patriot's shame,Even as I sing, suffuse my face;For what is left the poet here?For Greeks a blush—for Greece a tear.

Mustwebut weep o'er days more blest?Mustwebut blush?—Our fathers bled.Earth! render back from out thy breastA remnant of our Spartan dead!Of the three hundred grant but three,To make a new Thermopylæ!

What, silent still? and silent all?Ah! no;—the voices of the deadSound 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 forgetThe 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 thenWere still, at least, our countrymen.

The tyrant of the ChersoneseWas freedom's best and bravest friend;Thattyrant was Miltiades!Oh! that the present hour would lendAnother 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 lineSuch 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 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!

Gowhere glory waits thee;But, while fame elates thee,O, still remember me!When the praise thou meetestTo thine ear is sweetest,O, then remember me!Other arms may press thee,Dearer friends caress thee,All the joys that bless theeSweeter far may be;But when friends are nearest,And when joys are dearest,O, then remember me!When, at eve, thou rovestBy the star thou lovest,O, then remember me!Think, when home returning,Bright we've seen it burning,O, thus remember me!Oft as summer closes,When thine eye reposesOn its lingering roses,Once so lov'd by thee,Think of her who wove them,Her who made thee love them,O, then remember me!When, around thee dying,Autumn leaves are lying,O, then remember me!And, at night, when gazingOn the gay hearth blazing,O, still remember me!Then, should music, stealingAll the soul of feeling,To thy heart appealing,Draw one tear from thee;Then let memory bring theeStrains I used to sing thee,—O, then remember me!

When, at eve, thou rovestBy the star thou lovest,O, then remember me!Think, when home returning,Bright we've seen it burning,O, thus remember me!Oft as summer closes,When thine eye reposesOn its lingering roses,Once so lov'd by thee,Think of her who wove them,Her who made thee love them,O, then remember me!

When, around thee dying,Autumn leaves are lying,O, then remember me!And, at night, when gazingOn the gay hearth blazing,O, still remember me!Then, should music, stealingAll the soul of feeling,To thy heart appealing,Draw one tear from thee;Then let memory bring theeStrains I used to sing thee,—O, then remember me!

DearHarp of my Country! in darkness I found thee,The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long,When proudly, my own Island Harp, I unbound thee,And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song!The warm lay of love and the light note of gladnessHave waken'd thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill;But, so oft hast thou echo'd the deep sigh of sadness,That ev'n in thy mirth it will steal from thee still.Dear Harp of my Country! farewell to thy numbers,This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine!Go, sleep with the sunshine of fame on thy slumbers,Till touch'd by some hand less unworthy than mine;If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover,Have throbb'd at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone;I wasbutas the wind, passing heedlessly over,And all the wild sweetness I waked was thy own.

The warm lay of love and the light note of gladnessHave waken'd thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill;But, so oft hast thou echo'd the deep sigh of sadness,That ev'n in thy mirth it will steal from thee still.

Dear Harp of my Country! farewell to thy numbers,This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine!Go, sleep with the sunshine of fame on thy slumbers,Till touch'd by some hand less unworthy than mine;

If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover,Have throbb'd at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone;I wasbutas the wind, passing heedlessly over,And all the wild sweetness I waked was thy own.

Come, ye disconsolate, where'er you languish,Come, at God's altar fervently kneel;Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your anguish—Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal.Joy of the desolate, Light of the straying,Hope, when all others die, fadeless and pure,Here speaks the Comforter, in God's name saying,—"Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot cure."Go, ask the infidel, what boon he brings us,What charm for aching heartshecan reveal,Sweet as that heavenly promise Hope sings us,"Earth has no sorrow that God cannot heal."

Come, ye disconsolate, where'er you languish,Come, at God's altar fervently kneel;Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your anguish—Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal.

Joy of the desolate, Light of the straying,Hope, when all others die, fadeless and pure,Here speaks the Comforter, in God's name saying,—"Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot cure."

Go, ask the infidel, what boon he brings us,What charm for aching heartshecan reveal,Sweet as that heavenly promise Hope sings us,"Earth has no sorrow that God cannot heal."

Itlies before me there, and my own breathStirs its thin outer threads, as though besideThe living head I stood in honor'd pride,Talking of lovely things that conquer death.Perhaps he press'd it once, or underneathRan his fine fingers, when he leant, blank-ey'd,And saw, in fancy, Adam and his brideWith their rich locks, or his own Delphic wreath.There seems a love in hair, though it be dead.It is the gentlest, yet the strongest threadOf our frail plant,—a blossom from the treeSurviving the proud trunk;—as though it saidPatience and gentleness is power; in meBehold affectionate eternity.

King Franciswas a hearty king, and lov'd a royal sport,And one day, as his lions strove, sat looking on the court:The nobles fill'd the benches round, the ladies by their side,And 'mongst them Count de Lorge, with one he hoped to makehis bride;And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show,Valor and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.Ramp'd and roar'd the lions, with horrid laughing jaws;They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went withtheir paws;With wallowing might and stifled roar they roll'd one on another,Till all the pit, with sand and mane, was in a thund'rous smother;The bloody foam above the bars came whizzing through the air;Said Francis then, "Good gentlemen, we're better here thanthere!"De Lorge's love o'erheard the King, a beauteous, lively dame,With smiling lips, and sharp bright eyes, which always seem'dthe same:She thought, "The Count, my lover, is as brave as brave can be;He surely would do desperate things to show his love of me!King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the chance is wondrous fine;I'll drop my glove to prove his love; great glory will be mine!"She dropp'd her glove to prove his love: then look'd on himand smiled;He bow'd, and in a moment leap'd among the lions wild:The leap was quick; return was quick; he soon regain'd hisplace;Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face!"In truth!" cried Francis, "rightly done!" and he rose fromwhere he sat:"No love," quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a task like that!"

Ramp'd and roar'd the lions, with horrid laughing jaws;They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went withtheir paws;With wallowing might and stifled roar they roll'd one on another,Till all the pit, with sand and mane, was in a thund'rous smother;The bloody foam above the bars came whizzing through the air;Said Francis then, "Good gentlemen, we're better here thanthere!"

De Lorge's love o'erheard the King, a beauteous, lively dame,With smiling lips, and sharp bright eyes, which always seem'dthe same:She thought, "The Count, my lover, is as brave as brave can be;He surely would do desperate things to show his love of me!King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the chance is wondrous fine;I'll drop my glove to prove his love; great glory will be mine!"

She dropp'd her glove to prove his love: then look'd on himand smiled;He bow'd, and in a moment leap'd among the lions wild:The leap was quick; return was quick; he soon regain'd hisplace;Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face!"In truth!" cried Francis, "rightly done!" and he rose fromwhere he sat:"No love," quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a task like that!"

Rough wind, that moanest loudGrief too sad for song;Wild wind, when sullen cloudKnells all the night long;Sad storm, whose tears are vain,Bare woods, whose branches strain,Deep caves and dreary main,Wail, for the world's wrong.

A Dirge.—Shelley.

I.I bringfresh showers for the thirsting flowersFrom the seas and the streams;I bear light shade for the leaves when laidIn their noon-day dreams.From my wings are shaken the dews that wakenThe sweet buds every one,When rock'd to rest on their Mother's breast,As she dances about the sun.I wield the flail of the lashing hail,And whiten the green plains under;And then again I dissolve it in rain,And laugh as I pass in thunder.II.I sift the snow on the mountains below,And their great pines groan aghast;And all the night 'tis my pillow white,While I sleep in the arms of the Blast.Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowersLightning, my pilot, sits;In a cavern under is fetter'd the Thunder,—It struggles and howls at fits.Over earth and ocean with gentle motionThis pilot is guiding me,Lured by the love of the Genii that moveIn the depths of the purple sea;Over the rills and the crags and the hills,Over the lakes and the plains,Wherever he dream under mountain or streamThe Spirit he loves remains;And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile,Whilst he is dissolving in rains.III.The sanguine Sunrise, with his meteor eyes,And his burning plumes outspread,Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,When the morning star shines dead;As on the jag of a mountain-crag,Which an earthquake rocks and swings,An eagle alit one moment may sitIn the light of its golden wings.And, when Sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath,Its ardor of rest and of love,And the crimson pall of eve may fallFrom the depth of heaven above,With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest,As still as a brooding dove.IV.That orbèd maiden, with white-fire laden,Whom mortals call the Moon,Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floorBy the midnight breezes strewn;And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,Which only the angels hear,May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,The Stars peep behind her and peer.And I laugh to see them whirl and fleeLike a swarm of golden bees,When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,—Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,Are each pav'd with the moon and these.V.I bind the Sun's throne with a burning zone,And the Moon's with a girdle of pearl;The volcanoes are dim, and the Stars reel and swim,When the Whirlwinds my banner unfurl.From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,Over a torrent sea,Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,—The mountains its columns be.The triumphal arch, through which I march,With hurricane, fire, and snow,When the Powers of the air are chain'd to my chair,Is the million-color'd bow;The Sphere-fire above its soft colors wove,While the moist Earth was laughing below.VI.I am the daughter of Earth and Water,And the nursling of the Sky;I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;I change, but I cannot die.For after the rain, when with never a stainThe pavilion of heaven is bare,And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleamsBuild up the blue dome of air,I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,—And out of the caverns of rain,Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,I arise, and unbuild it again.

I bringfresh showers for the thirsting flowersFrom the seas and the streams;I bear light shade for the leaves when laidIn their noon-day dreams.From my wings are shaken the dews that wakenThe sweet buds every one,When rock'd to rest on their Mother's breast,As she dances about the sun.I wield the flail of the lashing hail,And whiten the green plains under;And then again I dissolve it in rain,And laugh as I pass in thunder.

II.

I sift the snow on the mountains below,And their great pines groan aghast;And all the night 'tis my pillow white,While I sleep in the arms of the Blast.Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowersLightning, my pilot, sits;In a cavern under is fetter'd the Thunder,—It struggles and howls at fits.Over earth and ocean with gentle motionThis pilot is guiding me,Lured by the love of the Genii that moveIn the depths of the purple sea;Over the rills and the crags and the hills,Over the lakes and the plains,Wherever he dream under mountain or streamThe Spirit he loves remains;And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile,Whilst he is dissolving in rains.

III.

The sanguine Sunrise, with his meteor eyes,And his burning plumes outspread,Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,When the morning star shines dead;As on the jag of a mountain-crag,Which an earthquake rocks and swings,An eagle alit one moment may sitIn the light of its golden wings.And, when Sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath,Its ardor of rest and of love,And the crimson pall of eve may fallFrom the depth of heaven above,With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest,As still as a brooding dove.

IV.

That orbèd maiden, with white-fire laden,Whom mortals call the Moon,Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floorBy the midnight breezes strewn;And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,Which only the angels hear,May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,The Stars peep behind her and peer.And I laugh to see them whirl and fleeLike a swarm of golden bees,When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,—Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,Are each pav'd with the moon and these.

I bind the Sun's throne with a burning zone,And the Moon's with a girdle of pearl;The volcanoes are dim, and the Stars reel and swim,When the Whirlwinds my banner unfurl.From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,Over a torrent sea,Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,—The mountains its columns be.The triumphal arch, through which I march,With hurricane, fire, and snow,When the Powers of the air are chain'd to my chair,Is the million-color'd bow;The Sphere-fire above its soft colors wove,While the moist Earth was laughing below.

VI.

I am the daughter of Earth and Water,And the nursling of the Sky;I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;I change, but I cannot die.For after the rain, when with never a stainThe pavilion of heaven is bare,And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleamsBuild up the blue dome of air,I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,—And out of the caverns of rain,Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,I arise, and unbuild it again.

Muchhave I travell'd in the realms of gold,And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;Round many western islands have I beenWhich bards in fealty to Apollo hold.Oft of one wide expanse had I been toldThat deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne:Yet did I never breathe its pure sereneTill I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:Then felt I like some watcher of the skiesWhen a new planet swims into his ken;Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyesHe stared at the Pacific—and all his menLook'd at each other with a wild surmise—Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

Thepoetry of earth is never dead:When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,And hide in cooling trees, a voice will runFrom hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead:That is the grasshopper's—he takes the leadIn summer luxury,—he has never doneWith his delights, for, when tired out with fun,He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.The poetry of earth is ceasing never:On a lone winter evening, when the frostHas wrought a silence, from the stove there shrillsThe cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,The grasshopper's among some grassy hills.

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