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HAS SORROW THY YOUNG DAYS SHADED?
Has sorrow thy young days shaded,
Has love to that soul so tender
Been like our Lagenian mine,
But, if in pursuit we go deeper,
Allured by the gleam that shone,
Has hope, like the bird in the story,
On branch after branch alighting,
If thus the sweet hours have fleeted
I'll weep with thee tear for tear.
Then whilst on the waters I mutely gaze,
And the words I have heard but no more can hear;
And the tales that can never again be told,
And the pressure of hands-that now are cold.—
'Tis then we encourage the fond belief,
That those whom we grieve for, behold our grief;
THE ISLES OF GREECE.
The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece !
The Scian and the Teian muse,
The heroe's harp, the lover's lute,
The mountains look on Marathon
And Marathon looks on the sea; And musing there an hour alone,
I dreamed that Greece might still be free, For standing on the Persians' grave,
I could not deem myself a slave.
A King sat on the lofty brow
Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis;
And ships, by thousands, lay below,
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 linked among a fettered 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.
Must we but weep o'er days more blest?
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,
And shed the blood of Scio's vine!
You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet,