The Hundred Best English Poems - LightNovelsOnl.com
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I.
Deep in my soul that tender secret dwells, Lonely and lost to light for evermore, Save when to thine my heart responsive swells, Then trembles into silence as before.
II.
There, in its centre, a sepulchral lamp Burns the slow flame, eternal--but unseen; Which not the darkness of Despair can damp, Though vain its ray as it had never been.
III.
Remember me--Oh! pa.s.s not thou my grave Without one thought whose relics there recline: The only pang my bosom dare not brave Must be to find forgetfulness in thine.
IV.
My fondest--faintest--latest accents hear-- Grief for the dead not Virtue can reprove; Then give me all I ever asked--a tear, The first--last--sole reward of so much love!
19. _Song from "Don Juan."_
I.
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.
II.
The Scian and the Teian muse, The Hero's harp, the Lover's lute, Have found the fame your sh.o.r.es refuse: Their place of birth alone is mute To sounds which echo further west Than your Sires' "Islands of the Blest."
III.
The mountains look on Marathon-- And Marathon looks on the sea; And musing there an hour alone, I dreamed that Greece might still be free; For standing on the Persians' grave, I could not deem myself a slave.
IV.
A King sate on the rocky brow Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; And s.h.i.+ps, by thousands, lay below, And men in nations;--all were his!
He counted them at break of day-- And, when the Sun set, where were they?
V.
And where are they? and where art thou, My Country? On thy voiceless sh.o.r.e The heroic lay is tuneless now-- The heroic bosom beats no more!
And must thy Lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine?
VI.
'Tis something, in the dearth of Fame, Though linked among a fettered 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.
VII.
Must _we_ but weep o'er days more blest?
Must _we_ but 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 Thermopylae!
VIII.
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.
IX.
In vain--in vain: strike other chords; Fill high the cup with Samian wine!
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, And shed the blood of Scio's vine!
Hark! rising to the ign.o.ble call-- How answers each bold Baccha.n.a.l!
X.
You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone?
Of two such lessons, why forget The n.o.bler and the manlier one?
You have the letters Cadmus gave-- Think ye he meant them for a slave?
XI.
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 Polycrates-- A Tyrant; but our masters then Were still, at least, our countrymen.
XII.
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.
XIII.
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
On Suli's rock, and Parga's sh.o.r.e, Exists the remnant of a line Such as the Doric mothers bore; And there, perhaps, some seed is sown, The Heracleidan blood might own.
XIV.
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 s.h.i.+eld, however broad.
XV.
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
Our virgins dance beneath the shade-- I see their glorious black eyes s.h.i.+ne; But gazing on each glowing maid, My own the burning tear-drop laves, To think such b.r.e.a.s.t.s must suckle slaves.
XVI.
