Darken above our bones, yet fondly deem'd Our children should obey her child, and bless'd Her and her hoped-for seed, whose promise seem'd Like stars to shepherds' eyes-'twas but a meteor beam'd. Woe unto us, not her; for she sleeps well: Of hollow counsel, the false oracle, Which from the birth of monarchy hath rung Nations have arm'd in madness, the strange fate Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns, and hath flung Against their blind omnipotence a weight Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon or late These might have been her destiny; but no, Whose shock was as an earthquake's, and oppress'd The land which loved thee so that none could love thee best. From Childe Harold. A SINKING SHIP. At half-past eight o'clock, booms, hen-coops, spars, Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell! Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the brave; And the sea yawn'd around her like a hell, And down she suck'd with her the whirling wave, Like one who grapples with his enemy, And strives to strangle him before he die. And first one universal shriek there rush'd, From Don Juan. THE MOON. The sun set, and up rose the yellow moon: The longest, not the twenty-first of June, Sees half the business in a wicked way On which three single hours of moonshine smile- There is a dangerous silence in that hour, A stillness which leaves room for the full soul Of calling wholly back its self-control; From Don Juan. SONG OF THE GREEK BARD. The isles of Greece! the isles of Greece! The Scian and the Teian muse, The hero's harp, the lover's lute, The mountains look on Marathon- I dream'd that Greece might still be free; A king sate on the rocky brow Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; And men in nations;-all were his! 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! 'Tis something, in the dearth of fame, Must we but weep o'er days more bless'd? What, silent still? and silent all? In vain-in vain: strike other chords; And shed the blood of Scio's vine! You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, The nobler and the manlier one? Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! It made Anacreon's song divine: He served-but served Polycrates A tyrant; but our masters then Were still, at least, our countrymen. 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; Trust not for freedom to the Franks- Place me on Sunium's marbled steep- From Don Juan. THE EVENING HYMN. Ave Maria! o'er the earth and sea, That heavenliest hour of Heaven is worthiest thee! Ave Maria! blessed be the hour! The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft Have felt that moment in its fullest power Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft, While swung the deep bell in the distant tower, Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft, And not a breath crept through the rosy air, And yet the forest leaves seem'd stirr'd with prayer. Ave Maria! 'tis the hour of prayer! Ave Maria! 'tis the hour of love! Ave Maria! may our spirits dare Look up to thine and to thy Son's above? Ave Maria! oh that face so fair! Those downcast eyes beneath the almighty DoveWhat though 'tis but a pictured image strikeThat painting is no idol, 'tis too like. From Don Juan, STANZA S. I heard thy fate without a tear, I know not what hath sear'd mine eye: The tears refuse to start; But every drop its lids deny Yes-deep and heavy, one by one, They cannot petrify more fast |