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FROM THE GIAOUR.
He who hath bent him o'er the dead
Ere the first day of death is fled,
The last of danger and distress
Have swept the lines where beauty lingers),
The rapture of repose that's there,
The fixed yet tender traits that streak
That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now,
The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon;
'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more!
We start, for soul is wanting there.
That parts not quite with parting breath;
But beauty with that fearful bloom,
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 cherished earth!
Clime of the unforgotten brave! Whose land from plain to mountain-cave Was Freedom's home or Glory's grave! Shrine of the mighty! can it be, That this is all remains of thee? Approach, thou craven crouching slave: Say, is not this Thermopylæ ? These waters blue that round you lave, Oh servile offspring of the freePronounce what sea, what shore is this? The gulf, the rock of Salamis ! These scenes, their story not unknown, Arise, and make again your own; Snatch from the ashes of your sires The embers of their former fires; And he who in the strife expires Will add to theirs a name of fear That Tyranny shall quake to hear, And leave his sons a hope, a fame, They, too, will rather die than shame: For Freedom's battle once begun, Bequeathed by bleeding Sire to Son, Though baffled oft is ever won. Bear witness, Greece, thy living page, Attest it many a deathless age! While kings in dusty darkness hid, Have left a nameless pyramid, Thy heroes, though the general doom Hath swept the column from their tomb, A mightier monument command, The mountains of their native land! There points thy Muse to stranger's eye The graves of those that cannot die! "Twere long to tell, and sad to trace, Each step from splendour to disgrace; Enough-no foreign foe could quell Thy soul, till from itself it fell; Yes! Self-abasement paved the way To villain-bonds and despot sway.
The stars are forth, the moon above the tops
While Cæsar's chambers, and the Augustan halls,
And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon
All this, and cast a wide and tender light,
As 'twere anew, the gaps of centuries;
Leaving that beautiful which still was so,
And making that which was not, till the place
THOMAS MOORE: 1780-1852.
Moore was a native of Dublin, and was educated at Dublin University. He came to London to study law, and in 1800 published his translation of the Odes of Anacreon. In 1803 he obtained a government appointment in Bermuda; but, after an absence of fourteen months, he returned to England, leaving his duties in the hands of a deputy. Moore's chief poems are, Lalla Rookh, a brilliant series of oriental tales, abounding with gorgeous descriptions of eastern scenery; The Loves of the Angels; The Twopenny Post-bag, a political satire; and his Songs and Irish Melodies, which are the most popular of his works.
I SAW FROM THE BEACH.
I saw from the beach, when the morning was shining,
I came when the sun o'er that beach was declining,
And such is the fate of our life's early promise,
So passing the spring-tide of joy we have known; Each wave, that we danced on at morning, ebbs from us, And leaves us, at eve, on the bleak shore alone.
Ne'er tell me of glories serenely adorning
The close of our day, the calm eve of our night:
Give me back, give me back the wild freshness of Morning,
Oh, who would not welcome that moment's returning,
PARADISE AND THE PERI. From Lalla Rookh.
One morn a Peri at the gate
Of Eden stood, disconsolate;
Of Life within, like music flowing,
She wept to think her recreant race Should e'er have lost that glorious place! 'How happy,' exclaimed this child of air, 'Are the holy Spirits who wander there,
'Mid flowers that never shall fade or fall; Though mine are the gardens of earth and sea, And the stars themselves have flowers for me, One blossom of Heaven outblooms them all! Though sunny the Lake of cool Cashmere, With its plane-tree isle reflected clear,
And sweetly the founts of that Valley fall; Though bright are the waters of Sing-su-hay, And the golden floods that thitherward stray, Yet-oh! 'tis only the Blest can say
How the waters of Heaven outshine them all!
'Go, wing thy flight from star to star, From world to luminous world, as far
As the universe spreads its flaming wall: Take all the pleasures of all the spheres, And multiply each through endless years, One minute of Heaven is worth them all!'
The glorious Angel, who was keeping
From Eden's fountain, when it lies
The Gift that is most dear to Heaven!
Go seek it, and redeem thy sin—