Fame was thy gift from others; but for her
To whom the wide earth held that only spot
She lov'd thee! Lovely in your lives ye were,,
And in your early deaths divided not!
Thou hast thine oak, thy trophy; what hath she?
Her own blest place by thee.
It was thy spirit, brother, which had made
The bright world glorious to her thoughtful eye,
Since first in childhood 'midst the vines ye play'd,
And sent glad singing through the free blue sky!
Ye were but two; and, when that spirit pass'd,
Wo to the one-the last!
Wo, yet not long! she linger'd but to trace
Thine image from the image in her breast;
Once, once again, to see that buried face
But smile upon her ere she went to rest.
Too sad a smile! its living light was o'er,
It answered hers no more.
The earth grew silent when thy voice departed;
The home too lonely when thy step had fled:
What then was left for her, the faithful-hearted?
Death! death, to still the yearning for the dead.
Softly she perish'd-be the flower deplored
Here, with the lyre and sword.
Have ye not met her now? So let those trust
That meet for moments but to part for years;
That weep, watch, pray, to hold back dust from dust,
That love where love is but a fount of tears!
Brother! sweet sister! peace around ye dwell!
Lyre, sword, and flower, farewell! MRS. HEMANS.
THE ISLES OF GREECE.
THE Isles of Greece, the Isles of Greece!
Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
Where grew the arts of war and peace,-
Where Delos rose and Phoebus 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 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 Thermopylæ!
What! silent still,-and silent all!
Ah! no-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 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!
THE LAST DAYS OF HERCULANEUM.
EXTRACTED FROM A POEM OF THE SAME TITLE.
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.
The father shared and heightened. But at length
The rigorous law had grasped him, and condemned
To fetters and to darkness.
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.
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
A troubled dreamy sleep.
Never to waken more!
But terrible his agony.
He slept at last
Well-had he slept
His hours are few,
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
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