My former thoughts returned: the fear that kills; Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills; - Perplexed, and longing to be comforted, "How is it that you live, and what is it you do?" He with a smile did then his words repeat; While he was talking thus, the lonely place, While I these thoughts within myself pursued, And soon with this he other matter blended, "God," said I, "be my help and stay secure; I'll think of the Leech-gatherer on the lonely moor!" WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. THE ISLES OF GREECE THE Isles of Greece, the Isles of Greece! The Scian and the Teian muse, The Hero's harp, the Lover's lute, To sounds which echo further west The mountains look on Marathon I dreamed 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 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 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, For Greeks a blush for Greece a tear. Must we but weep o'er days more blest? What, silent still? and silent all? 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 callHow answers each bold Bacchanal! You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet; The nobler and the manlier one? Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! He served but served Polycrates - 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! Such as the Doric mothers bore; 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, Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! Place me on Sunium's marbled steep, LORD BYRON. ODE TO THE WEST WIND I O WILD West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being, Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low, Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow |