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The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain A shadow of man's ravage, save his own; When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown! His steps are not upon thy paths-thy fields Are not a spoil for him,-thou dost arise,

And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray And howling, to his gods, where haply lies His petty hope in some near port or bay, And dashest him again to earth:-there let him lay. The armaments which thunderstrike the walls Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, And monarchs tremble in their capitals— The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make Their clay creator the vain title take Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war

These are thy toys; and, as the snowy flake,
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar
Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee—
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they?
Thy waters wasted them while they were free,
And many a tyrant since; their shores obey
The stranger, slave, or savage! their decay
Has dried up realms to deserts:-not so thou,
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play-
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow-
Such as Creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now!
Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form
Glasses itself in tempests!—in all time--
Calm or convulsed, in breeze or gale or storm,
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime

Dark-heaving-boundless, endless, and sublime!
The image of Eternity!-the throne

Of the invisible:-Even from out thy slime
The monsters of the deep are made! Each zone

Obeys thee! Thou goest forth, dread! fathomless! alone!

Byro

The Present Aspect of Greece.
HE who hath bent him o'er the dead,
Ere the first day of death is fled--.
The first dark day of nothingness,
The last of danger and distress-
Before Decay's effacing fingers

Have swept the lines where beauty lingers,
And mark'd the mild angelic air,
The rapture of repose that's there-
The fix'd, yet tender traits, that streak
The languor of the placid cheek-
And-but for that sad shrouded eye,
That fires not-wins not-weeps not-now--
And but for that chill changeless brow,
Whose touch thrills with mortality;
And curdles to the gazer's heart,
As if to him it could impart

The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon-
Yes-but for these-and these alone-
Some moments—ay—one treacherous hour,
He still might doubt the tyrant's power,
So fair-so calm-so softly seal'd
The first-last look-by death reveal'd!
Such is the aspect of this shore.

'Tis Greece-but living Greece no more!
So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,
We start-for soul is wanting there.
Hers is the loveliness in death,

That parts not quite with parting breath;
But beauty with that fearful bloom,
That hue which haunts it to the tomb-
Expression's last receding ray,

A gilded halo hovering round decay,

The farewell beam of Feeling past away!

Spark of that flame-perchance of heavenly birth—

Which gleams-but warms no more its cherish'd earth!

The Curfew.

THE Curfew tolls-the knell of parting day!
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea;
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way;
And leaves the world to darkness, and to me.-

Byron.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds;
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:
Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower,
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath these rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap;
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,

The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed!
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care;
No children run to lisp their sire's return,

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share!

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield;

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke: How jocund did they drive their team a-field!

How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor.-
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await, alike, the inevitable hour-

The paths of glory lead-but to the grave!
Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,

If memory o'er their tombs no trophies raise, Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault, The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.-

Can storied urn, or animated bust,

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust?

Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death?

233

Perhaps, in this neglected spot, is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre:

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;
Chill penury repress'd their noble rage,

And froze the genial current of the soul!

Full many a gem of purest ray serene,

The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air! Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood; Some mute inglorious Milton here may restSome Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. The applause of listening senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,

And read their history in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbade; nor circumscribed alone

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confinedForbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind; The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide; To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame; Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride,

With incense kindled at the muse's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way!
Yet even these bones from insult to protect,
Some frail memorial, still erected nigh,

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spell'd by the unletter'd muse The place of fame and elegy supply;

And many a holy text around she strews,

To teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,

This pleasing, anxious being e'er resign'd-
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind?
On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires:
E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires!

For thee, who, mindful of the unhonour'd dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate,
If, 'chance, by lonely Contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate;

Haply, some hoary-headed swain may say

66

Oft have we seen him, at the peep of dawn,
Brushing, with hasty steps, the dews away,
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.
"There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech,
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that bubbles by.

"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,

Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove; Now drooping, woful, wan, like one forlorn,

Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love!

"One morn I miss'd him on the accustom'd hill, Along the heath, and near his favourite tree: Another came; nor yet beside the rill,

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Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he:

'The next-with dirges due, in sad array,

Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne: Approach, and read-for thou canst read-the lay, Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."

THE EPITAPH.

HERE rests his head upon the lap of earth,
A youth to fortune and to fame unknown;
Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth
And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.

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