To hymn, regenerate land, thy lofty praise,
Thy brave unaided strife-to tell the shame
Of Europe's freest sons, who mid the rays
Through Time's far vista blazing from thy name,
Caught no ennobling glow from that immortal flame.
Not even the deeds of him who late afar,
Shook the astonish'd nations with his might,
Not even the deeds of her, whose wings of war
Wide o'er the ocean stretch their victor flight,-
Not they shall rise with half the unbroken light
About the waves of time, fair Greece, as thine;
Earth never yet produced in heaven's high sight,
Through all her climates, offerings so divine,
As thy proud sons have paid at Freedom's sacred shrine.
Ye isles of beauty, from your dwelling blue
Lift up to heaven that shout, unheard too long,
Ye mountains steep'd in glory's distant hue,
If with your lives the memory of that song
Which freedom taught you, the proud strain prolong,
Echo each name that in her cause hath died,
Till grateful Greece enrol them with the throng
Of her illustrious sons who on the tide
Of her immortal verse eternally shall glide.
And be not his forgot, the Ocean Bard,
Whose heart and harp in Freedom's cause were strung,
For Greece self-exiled, seeking no reward,
Tyrtæus of his time, for Greece he sung:
For her on Moslem spears his breast he flung.
Many bright names in Hellas met renown,
But brighter ne'er in song or story rung
Than his, who late for freedom laid him down,
And with the minstrel's wreath entwined her martyr's crown.
That minstrel sings no more! From yon sad isles
A voice of wail was heard along the deep.
Britannia caught the sounds amid her smiles,
Forgot her triumph songs and turn'd to weep.
Vainly her grief is pour'd above his sleep;
He feels it, hears it not! the pealing roar
Of the deep thunder and the tempest's sweep
That call'd his spirit up so oft before,
May shout to him in vain! their minstrel wakes no more!
That moment heard ye the despairing shriek
Of Missolonghi's daughters? did ye hear
That cry from all the islands of the Greek,
And the wild yell of Kili's mountaineer?
The Illyrian, starting, dropp'd his forward spear,
The fierce Chimariot leant upon his gun,
From his stern eye of battle dropp'd the tear
For him who died that Freedom might be won
For Greece and all her race.
'Tis gain'd, but he is gone!
Too short he dwelt amongst us, and too long;
Where is the bard of earth will now aspire
To soar so high upon the wing of song?
Who shall inherit now his soul of fire?
His spirit's dazzling light? Vain man, retire.
Mid the wild heath of Albyn's loneliest glen,
Leave to the winds that now forsaken lyre,
Until some angel-bard come down again
And wake once more those strains, too high, too sweet for
The sun still sets along Morea's hill,
The moon still rises o'er Citharon's height;
But where is he, the bard whose matchless skill
Gave fresher beauty to their march of light?
The blue Ægean o'er whose waters bright
Has pour'd so oft the enchantment of his strain,
Seek him; and through the wet and starless night
The peals of thunder flash and shout in vain,
For him who sung their strength-he ne'er shall sing again.
What, though descended from a lofty line
Earth's highest honours waited his command,
And bright his father's coronet did shine
Around his brow, he scorn'd to take his stand
With those whose names must die;-a nobler band,
A deathless fame, his ardent bosom fired,
From glory's mount he saw the promised land
To which his anxious spirit long aspired,
And then in Freedom's arms exulting he expired.
You who delight to censure feeble man,
Wrapt in self-love to your own failings blind,
Presume not with your narrow view to scan,
The aberrations of a mighty mind;
His course was not the path of human kind,
His destinies below were not the same;
With passions headlong as the tempest-wind
His spirit wasted in its own strong flame,
A wandering star of heaven, he's gone from whence he
But while the sun looks down upon those isles
That laugh in beauty o'er the Ægean deep,
Long as the moon shall shed her placid smiles
Upon the fields where Freedom's children sleep-
Long as the bolt of heaven-the tempest's sweep,
With Rhodope or Athos war shall wage,
And its triumphant sway the cross shall keep
Above the crescent, even from age to age
Shall Byron's name shine bright on Hellas' deathless page.
Bard of my boyhood's love, farewell to thee;
I little deem'd that e'er my feeble lay
Should wait thy doom-these eyes so soon should see
The clouding of thy spirit's glorious ray;
Fountain of beauty, on life's desert way!
Too soon thy voice is hush'd-thy waters dried:
Eagle of song too short thy pinion's sway
Career'd in its high element of pride,
Weep! blue-eyed Albyn, weep! With him thy glory died!
NONE REMEMBER THEE.
By the Hon. Mrs. NORTON.
NONE remember thee! thou whose heart
Pour'd love on all around;
Thy name no anguish can impart—
'Tis a forgotten sound.
Thy old companions pass me by
With a cold bright smile and a vacant eye,
And none remember thee
Save me!
None remember thee! thou wert not
Beauteous as some things are;
My glory beam'd upon thy lot,
My pale and quiet star!
Like a winter bud that too soon hath burst,
Thy cheek was fading from the first-
And none remember thee
Save me!
None remember thee! they could spy
Nought when they gazed on thee,
But thy soul's deep love in thy quiet eye-
It hath pass'd from their memory.
The gifts of genius were not thine,
Proudly before the world to shine-
And none remember thee
Save me!
None remember thee! now thou'rt gone,
Or they could not choose but weep,
When they thought of thee, my gentle one,
In thy long and lonely sleep.
Fain would I murmur thy name, and tell
How fondly together we used to dwell-
But none remember thee
Save me!
A passage in one of the most graceful and fanciful poems in our language, The Culprit Fay, by Dr. DRAKE, an American poet.
"TIs the hour of fairy ban and spell,
The wood-tick has kept the minutes well,
He has counted them all with click and stroke,
Deep on the heart of the forest oak;
And he has awaken'd the sentry Elve,
That sleeps with him in the haunted tree,
To bid him ring the hour of twelve,
And call the Fays to their revelry.
They come from the beds of lichen green,
They creep from the mullen's velvet screen,
Some on the backs of beetles fly
From the silver tops of moon-touch'd trees, Where they swing in their cobweb hammocks high, And rock'd about in the evening breeze;
Some from the hum-bird's downy-nest,
Had driven him out by Elfin power,
And pillow'd on plumes of his rainbow crest,
Had slumber'd there till the charmed hour;
Some had lain in the scarp of the rock,
By glittering ising-stars inlaid,
And some had open'd the "four-o'-clock,"
And stolen within its purple shade;
And now they throng the moonlight glade
Above, below,-on every side,
Their little minim forms array'd In the tricksy pomp of Fairy pride.
BRING flowers, young flowers, for the festal board,
To wreath the cup ere the wine is pour'd;
Bring flowers! they are springing in wood and vale,
Their breath floats out on the southern gale,
And the touch of the sunbeam hath waked the rose,
To deck the hall where the bright wine flows.
Bring flowers, to strew in the conqueror's path-
He hath shaken thrones with his stormy wrath!
He comes with the spoil of nations back,
The vines lie crush'd in his chariot's track,
The turf looks red where he won the day-
Bring flowers, to die in the conqueror's way!
Bring flowers, to the captive's lonely cell,
They have tales of the joyous woods to tell;
Of the free blue streams, and the glowing sky,
And the bright world shut from his languid eye;
They will bear him a thought of the sunny hours,
And a dream of his youth,-bring him flowers, wild flowers!
Bring flowers, fresh flowers, for the bride to wear!
They were born to blush in her shining hair,
She is leaving the home of her childhood's mirth,
She hath bid farewell to her father's hearth;
|