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“ Eat, drink, and love; what can the

rest avail us ?' So said the royal sage Sardanapalus. But Juan ! had he quite forgotten Julia ? And should he have forgotten her so

soon ? I can't but say it seems to me most

truly a Perplexing question ; but, no doubt,

the moon) Does these things for us, and whenever

newly a Strong palpitation rises, 't is her boon, Else how the devil is it that fresh fea

tures Have such a charm for us poor human

creatures ?

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I hate inconstancy-I loathe, detest, Abhor, condemn, abjure the mortal

made Of such quicksilver clay that in his

breast No permanent foundation can be laid ; Love, constant love, has been my con

stant guest, And yet last night, being at a masque

rade, I saw the prettiest creature, fresh from

Milan, Which gave me some sensations like a

villain.

The heart is like the sky, a part of

heaven, But changes night and day, too, like

the sky ; Now o'er it clouds and thunder must be

driven, And darkness and destruction as on

higlı: But when it hath been scorch'd, and

pierced, and riven, Its storms expire in water-drops; the

eye Pours forth at last the heart's blood

turn'd to tears, Which make the English climate of our

years.

But soon Philosophy came to my aid, And whisperid, “Think of every

sacred tie!" “I will, my dear Philosophy!” I said,

! But then her teeth, and then, oh,

Heaven ! ler eye! I'll just inquire if she be wife or maid,

Or neither-out of curiosity." “Stop!” cried Philosophy, with air so

Grecian (Though she was misqued then as a fair

Venetian); “Stop!" so I stopp'd.-But to return :

that which Men call inconstancy is nothing more Than admiration due where nature's

rich Profusion with young beauty covers

o'er Some favor'd object; and as in the niche

A lo statue we almost adore,
This sort of adoration of the real
Is but a heightening of the

" beau ideal."

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Two hundred and odd stanzas as before, That being about the number I'll

allow E: chi canto of the twelve, or twenty

four ; And, laying down my pen, I make my

bow, Leaving Don Juan and Haidée to plead For them and theirs with all who deign

to read. Canto II., December, 1818, January,

1819. July 15, 1819.

FROM CANTO III

THE ISLES OF GREECE

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Must we but weep o'er days more blest ?

Must we bút blush ?--Our fathers bled. Earth ! render back from out thy breast

A remnant of our Spartan dead! Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopylæ ! 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 ;

Fill high the cup with Sainian wine ! Leave battles to the Turkish hordes,

And shed the blood of Scio's vine ! Hark! rising to the ignoble call--How answers each bold Bacchanal ! You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet ;

Where is the Pyrrhic phalaux gone ? Of two such lessons, why forget

The nobler and the manlier one ? You have the letters Cadmus gare-Think ye he meant them for a slave ? Fill high the bowl with Samian wine !

We will not think of themes like these! It made Anacreon's song divine ;

He served--but served PolycratesA 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 !

On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore, Exists the remnant of a line

Such as the Doric mothers bore ; And there, perhaps, some seed is sown, The Heracleidan blood might own. Trust not for freedom to the Franks,

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, Would break your shield, however broad. Fill high the bowl with Samian wine !

Our virgins dance beneath the shade I see their glorious black eyes shine ;

But gazing on each glowing maid,

The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece ! Where burning Sappho loved and

sung, Where grew the arts of war and peace, Where Delos

rose,

and Phoebus sprung! Eternal summer gilds them yet, But all, except their sun, is set. The Scian and the Teian muse,

The hero's harp, the lover's lute, Have found the fame your shores refuse:

Their place of birth alone is mute To sounds which echid further west Than your sires' “ Islands of the Blest.” The mountains look on Marathon

And Marathon looks on the sea ;
And musing there an hour alone,
I dream'd 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 lis! He counted them at break of dayAnd when the sun set, where were they? 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 tlıy lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine! 'Tis something, in the dearth of fame,

Though link'd among a fetter'd 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.

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My own the burning tear-drop laves, Than on the name a person leaves To think such breasts must suckle slaves.

behind :

Troy owes to Homer what whist owes to Place me on Sunium's marbled steep,

Hoyle; Where nothing, save the waves and I, The present century was growing blind May hear our mutual murmurs sweep;

To the great Marlborough's skill in givThere, swan-like, let me sing and die : ing kuocks, A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine- Until his late Life by Archdeacon Coxe. Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!

Milton's the prince of poets-so we say ; Thus sung, or would, or could, or should A little heavy, but no less divine : have sung,

St. 87 An independent being in his day-The modern Greek, in tolerable verse ; Learn'd, pious, temperate in love and If not like Orpheus quite, when Greece

wine; was young,

But his life falling into Johnson's way, Yet in these times he might have done We're told this great high priest of all much worse :

the Nine His strain display'd some feeling-right Was whipt at college a harsh sireor wrong;

odd spouse, And feeling, in a poet, is the source For the first Mrs. Milton left his house, Of others' feeling ; but they are such liars,

All these are, certes, entertaining facts, And take all colors-like the hands of Like Shakspeare's stealing deer, Lord dyers.

Bacon's bribes ;

Like Titus' youth, and Cæsar's earliest But words are things, and a small drop

acts; of ink,

Like Burns (whom Doctor Currie well Falling like dew, upon a thought, pro

describes) ; duces

Like Cromwell's pranks ;--but although That which makes thousands, perhaps

truth exacts millions, think;

These amiable descriptions from the "Tis strange, the shortest letter which

scribes, man uses

As most essential to their hero's story, Instead of speech, may form a lasting They do not much contribute to his glory.

link Of ages ; to what straits old Time re- All are not moralists, like Southey, when duces

He prated to the world of “PantisFrail man when paper-even a rag like

ocrasy : this,

Or Wordsworth unexcised, unhired, who Survives himself, his tomb, and all that's

then his !

Season'd his pedlar poems with de

mocracy ; And when his bones are dust, his grave Or Coleridge, long before his flighty per. a blank,

Let to the Morning Post its arisHis station, generation, even bis na- tocracy ; tion,

When he and Southey, following the Become a thing, or nothing, save to rank same path,

In chronological commemoration, Espoused two partners (milliners of Some dull MS. oblivion long has sank,

Bath). Or graven stone found in a barrack's station

Such names at present cut a convict In digging the foundation of a closet,

figure, May turn his name up, as a rare deposit. The very Botany Bay in moral geo

graphy ; And glory long has made the sages smile ; Their royal treason, renegado rigor, 'Tis something, nothing, words, Are good manure for their more bare usion wind

biography. Depending more upon the historian's Wordsworth's last quarto, by the way, style

is bigger

a

Another outcry for “ a little boat," And drivels seas to set it well afloat.

Than any since the birthday of typo

graphy ; A drowsy frowzy poem, call’d the “ Ex

cursion," Writ in a manner which is my aversion.

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He there builds up a formidable dyke Between his own and others' intel

lect; But Wordsworth's poem, and his fol

lowers, like Joanna Southcote's Shilob, and her

sect, Are things which in this century don't

strike The public mind,

,—so few are the elect; And the new births of both their stale

virginities Have proved but dropsies, taken for

divinities.

If he must fain sweep o'er the ethereal

plain, And Pegasus runs restive in his

Wagon," Could he not beg the loan of Charles's

Wain? Or pray Medea for a single dragon ? Or if, too classic for his vulgar brain, He feard his neck to venture such a

nag on, And he must needs mount nearer to the

moon. Could not the blockhead ask for a bal

loon ?

“Pedlars,” and “Boats," and “Wag

ons!” Oh! ye shades Of Pope and Dryden, are we come to

this? That trash of such sort not alone evades Contempt, but from the bathos' vast

abyss Floats scumlike uppermost, and these

Jack Cades
Of sense and song above your graves

may hiss The little boatman " and his “ Peter

Bell ” Can sneer at him who drew “Achito

phel !

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sures

But let me to my story: I must own,

If I have any fault, it is digression, Leaving my people to proceed alone,

While I soliloquize beyond expression: But these are my addresses from the

throne, Which put off business to the ensuing

session : Forgetting each omission is a loss to The world, not quite so great as Ariosto. I know that what our neighbors call

" longueurs," (We've not so good a word, but have

the thing, In that complete perfection which inAn epic from Bob Southey every

Spring---) Form not the true temptation which

allures The reader; but 't would not be hard

to bring Some fine examples of the epopée, To prove its grand ingredient is ennui. We learn from Horace, " Homer some

times sleeps ; We feel without him, Wordsworth

sometimes wakes,To show with what complacency le

creeps, With his dear " Wagoners," around

his lakes. He wishes for "a boat" to sail the

deeps Of ocean ?-No, of air; and then he

makes

Tour tale.—The feast was over, the

slaves gone, The dwarfs and dancing girls had all

retired ; The Arab lore and poet's song were

done, And every sound of revelry expired ; The lady and her lover, left alone, The rosy flood of twilight's sky ad

mired ; 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 leares seem'd stirr'd

with prayer. Ave Maria ! 't is the hour of prayer !

Ave Maria ! 't is 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 Al

nighty doveWhat though 't is but a pictured image

strike, That painting is no idol,-'t is too like. Some kinder casuists are pleased to say, In nameless print-that I have no de

votion; But set those persons down with me to

pray, And you shall see who has the proper

est notion Of getting into heaven the shortest way ; My altars are the mountains and the

ocean, Earth, air, stars,--all that springs from

the great Whole, Who hath produced, and will receive

the soul.

From a true lover,--shadow'd my mind's

eye. Oh, Hesperus! thou bringest all good

thingsHome to the weary, to the hungry

cheer, To the young bird the parent's brooding

wings, The welcome stall to the o'erlabor'd

steer; Whate'er of peace about our hearthstone

clings, Whate'er our household gods protect

of dear, Are gather'd round us by thy look of

rest ; Thou bring'st the child, too, to the

mother's breast. Soft hour! which wakes the wish and

melts the heart Of those who sail the seas, on the first

day When they from their sweet friends are

torn apart; Or fills with love the pilgrim on his

way As the far bell of vesper makes him start, Seeming to weep the dying day's

decay ; Is this a fancy which our reason scorns ? Ah ! surely nothing dies but something

mourns! When Nero perish'd by the justest doom

Whichever the destroyer yet destroy'd, Amidst the roar of liberated Rome, Of nations freed, and the world over

joy'd, Some hands uuseen strew'd flowers upon

his tomb: Perhaps the weakness of a heart not

void Of feeling for some kindness done, when

power Had left the wretch an uncorrupted hour. But I'm digressing; what on earth has

Nero, Or any such like sovereign buffoons, To do with the transactions of my hero, More than such madmen's fellow-man

-the moon's ? Sure my invention must be down at zero, And I grown one of many

“ wooden spoons ” Of verse (the name with which we Can

tabs please To dub the last of honors in degrees).

Sweet hour of twilight !-in the solitude

Of the pine forest, and the silent shore Which bounds Ravenna's iminemorial

wood, Rooted where once the Adrian wave

flow'd o'er, To where the last Cæsarean fortress

stood, Evergreen forest! which Boccaccio's

lore And Dryden's lay made haunted ground

to me, How have I loved the twilight hour and

thee !

The shrill cicalas, people of the pine, Making their summer lives one cease

less song, Were the sole echoes, save my steed's

and mine, And vesper bell's that rose the boughs

along : The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line. His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the

fair throng Which learn’d from this example not to

fly

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