GREECE.

HE who hath bent him o'er the dead,
Ere the first day of death is fléd,
The first dark day of nothingness,

The last of danger and distréss
(Before decay's effacing fingers!

Have swept the lines! where beauty lingers),
And marked the míld' angèlic air,
The ràpture of repose that's thére,
The fixed, yet tènder traits that streak
The languor of the placid cheek,
A'nd-but for that sad shrouded eye,

That fires not, wíns not, wèeps not, nów;
A'nd but for that chill, changeless brōw,
Where cold obstruction's ápathy
Appàls the gazing mourner's heart,
As if to him' it could impart

The doom he dreads, yet dwèlls upon;
Yés, but for thèse, and these alóne,
Some móments, áye, one treacherous hòur,
He still might doubt the tyrant's power;
So fàir, so calm, so softly séaled,
The first, last look! by death revealed!

Such is the aspect of this shòre;
'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more!
So coldly sweet, so deadly fáir,
We stárt, for soul is wanting there.
Hèrs' is the loveliness in death,

That parts not quítel with parting breath;
But beaúty, with that fearful bloom,
That húe' which haunts it to the tòmb,
Exprèssion's lást receding rày,

A gilded háloꞌ hovering round decày,
The farewell beam of feeling! past away!

Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth,

Which gleams, but wàrms no mórel its cherished earth!

Clíme of the unforgotten bràve!

Whose land from plain to mountain-cáve
Was Freedom's hóme, or Glóry's gràve!
Shrine of the mighty! can it be,
That this is all remains of thee?
Approach, thou craven crouching sláve :
Sày, is not this Thermopyla?

These waters bluel that round yōu láve,
Oh, sèrvile offspring of the free-
Pronounce what séa, what shóre is this?
The gúlf, the rock of Sàlamis!
These scénes, their story not unknown,
Aríse, and make agáin your òwn;
Snatch from the ashes of your síres
The émbers of their former fìres,
And he who in the strife expíres,
Will add to thèirs a name of fear,
That týranny shall quàke to hear,
And leave his sóns! a hòpe, a fáme,
Théy, too, will rather die than shame;
For Freedom's battle, once begún,
Bequeathed by bleeding sire to són,
Though baffled óft, is éver wòn.
Bear witness, Greece, thy living pàgc,
Attést it, many a deathless àge!
While kíngs, in dusky darkness hid,
Have left a nameless pýramid,
Thý heroes, though the general doom
Hath swept the column from their tómb,
A mightier monument command,
The mountains of their native land!
Thère points thy muse to stranger's eye
The graves of those that cannot die!
*Twere lóng to tell, and sad to trách,
Each step from splendour to disgrace;
Enough-no foreign foe could quell
Thy sóul, till from itself it fell;
Yès! self-abasement! paved the way
To villain-bonds' and despot-swày.

BYRON.

FEELINGS AT THE GRAVES OF THOSE WE LOVE.

THE grave of those we loved-what a pláce for meditation! There it is that we call up, in long review, the whole history of vírtue and gentleness, and the thousand endearments lávished upon us- —almost unhèeded—in the daily íntercourse of ìntimacy; there it is! that we dwell upon the tenderness, the sòlemn' awful tenderness, of the parting scène. The bed of death, with all its stifled grièfs-its noiseless attendance -its múte watchful assidùities. The last testimonies of expiring love! The feeble, flúttering, thrílling, oh, hòw thrilling préssure of the hand. The last fond look of the glazing eye, túrning upon us, even from the threshold of existence ! The faint, faltering áccents, struggling in death to give one mòre assurance of affection!

Ay, go to the grave of buried love, and thére1 mèditate! Thère settle the account with thy cónscience, for every past bénefit unrequited—every past endèarment unregárded—of that departed béing, who can never, never, never return, to be soothed by thy contrìtion! If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the sóul, or a fùrrow to the silvered brów of an affectionate pàrent,-if thou art a húsband, and hast ever caused the fond bósom! that ventured its whole happiness in thy árms, to doubt one mòment of thy kíndness, or thy truth,-if thou art a friend, and hast ever wronged in thought, or word, or déed, the spírit that generously confided in thee,—if thou art a lòver, and hast ever given óne unmerited pàng to that true heart which now lies cold and still beneath thy féet,-then be sure that every unkind look, every ungracious word, every ungentle áction, will come thronging back upon thy mémory, and knocking dolefully at thy soul; then be sure that thou wilt lie down, sorrowing and repentant on the gráve, and utter the unheard gróan, and pour the unavailing tèar—more deep, more bitter, because unheard, and unavailing.

Then weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew the beauties of náture about the grave; console thy broken spìrit, if thou canst, with these tender, yet fùtile tributes of regret;

but take warning! by the bitterness of this thy contrite affliction over the dead, and henceforth be more faithful and affectionatel in the discharge of thy dúties to the living. WASHINGTON IRVING.

MARK ANTONY'S ORATION OVER THE DEAD BODY OF CÆSAR.

Friends, Ròmans, countrymen, lénd me your ears.
I come to bùry Cæsar, not to praise him.
The évil that men dol lives àfter them;
The good' is oft interred with their bònes;
Sò let it bél with Cæsar! Noble Brútus!
Hath told you! Cæsar was ambitious:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Cæsar ànswered it.
Hére, under leave of Brùtus and the rést—
For Brútus' is an honourable man,

Só are they àll, àll honourable men—
Come I to speak' in Cæsar's fùneral.
He was my friend, faithful and just to me;
But Brutus says he was ambitious;

And Brútus is an honourable man.

He hath brought many captives home to Róme,
Whose ransoms did the general còffers fill;

Did this in Cæsar seem ambitious?

When that the poor have críed, Cæsar! hath wèpt;
Ambítion should be made of stèrner stuff;
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brútus is an honourable man.

You all did see that, on the Lúpercal,

I thrice presénted him a kingly cròwn,

Which he did thrícel refùse. Was this ambition?

Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;

And, sure, he is an hònourable man.

I speak not to disprove what Brútus spoke,
But here I am to speak what I do knòw.

You all did love him ónce; not without cause:
What cause withholds you then to mòurn for him?
O júdgment! thou art fled to brutish beasts,
And mén1 have lost their reason! Bear with me;
My heart is in the còffin there with Cæsar,
And I must pausel till it come back to me.

*

**

* * * *

If you have tears, prepáre to shed them now.
You àll do know this mántle; I remember
The first time ever Cæsar put it òn;
'Twas on a summer's évening in his tènt,
That day' he overcame the Nèrvii.

Look! in this place! ran Càssius' dagger through;
See what a rént! the envious Càsca' made;
Through this the well-beloved Brùtus' stabbed;
And, as he plucked his cursed steel away,
Mark how the blood of Cæsar followed it!
As rushing out of doors, to be resolved
If Brutus so unkindly knócked or nò.
For Brutus, as you knów, was Cæsar's àngel:
Judge, oh you góds! how déarly Cæsar loved him!
This' was the most unkindest cut of àll;
For when the noble Cæsar saw hím stab,
Ingratitude, more strong than tráitors' arms,
Quite vànquished him; thén' bùrst his mighty heart;
And, in his mantle muffling up his fáce,
Even at the base of Pompey's statue,

Which all the while ran blood, great Cæsar fell.
O, what a fall was there, my countrymen!
Then 'I, and yoú, and all of us, fell down;
Whilst bloody tréason' flourished òver us.
O, now you weep; and, I percéivel you feel
The dint of pity; thésel are gràcious drops.
Kind souls! what! wèep you when you but behold
Our Cæsar's vésture wounded?-look you hère !
Here is himself-màrred, as you sée, by traitors.

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