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Such kisses as belong to early days, Where heart, and soul, and sense, in concert move,

And the blood's lava, and the pulse a blaze,

Each kiss a heart-quake,-for a kiss's strength,

I think it must be reckon'd by its length.

By length I mean duration; theirs endured

Heaven knows how long-no doubt they never reckon'd;

And if they had, they could not have secured

The sum of their sensations to a second; They had not spoken; but they felt allured,

As if their souls and lips each other beckon'd,

Which, being join'd, like swarming bees they clung

Their hearts the flowers from whence the honey sprung.

They were alone, but not alone as they Who shut in chambers think it loneliness;

The silent ocean, and the starlight bay, The twilight glow, which momently grew less,

The voiceless sands, and dropping caves, that lay

Around them, made them to each other

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Torture is theirs, what they inflict they feel.

They are right; for man, to man so oft unjust,

Is always so to women; one sole bond Awaits them, treachery is all their trust; Taught to conceal, their bursting hearts despond

Over their idol, till some wealthier lust Buys them in marriage-and what rests beyond ?

A thankless husband, next a faithless lover,

Then dressing, nursing, praying, and all's over.

Some take a lover, some take drams or prayers,

Some mind their household, others dissipation,

Some run away, and but exchange their

cares,

Losing the advantage of a virtuous station;

Few changes e'er can better their affairs, Theirs being an unnatural situation, From the dull palace to the dirty hovel : Some play the devil, and then write a novel.

Haidée was Nature's bride, and knew not this:

Haidée was Passion's child, born where the sun Showers triple light, and scorches even the kiss

Of his gazelle-eyed daughters; she was

one

Made but to love, to feel that she was

his

Who was her chosen: what was said or done

Elsewhere was nothing. She had nought to fear,

Hope, care, nor love beyond,—her heart beat here.

And oh! that quickening of the heart, that beat!

How much it costs us! yet each rising throb

Is in its cause as its effect so sweet,

That wisdom, ever on the watch to rob Joy of its alchemy, and to repeat

Fine truths; even Conscience, too, has a tough job

To make us understand each good old maxim,

So good-I wonder Castlereagh don't tax 'em.

And now 't was done-on the lone shore were plighted

Their hearts; the stars, their nuptial torches, shed

Beauty upon the beautiful they lighted; Ocean their witness, and the cave

their bed,

By their own feelings hallow'd and united,

Their priest was Solitude, and they were wed:

And they were happy, for to their young

eyes

Each was an angel, and earth paradise.

Oh, Love of whom great Cæsar was the suitor,

Titus the master, Antony the slave, Horace, Catullus, scholars, Ovid tutor, Sappho the sage blue-stocking, in whose grave

All those may leap who rather would be neuter

(Leucadia's rock still overlooks the wave)

Oh, Love thou art the very god of evil, For, after all, we cannot call thee devil.

Thou mak'st the chaste connubial state precarious,

And jestest with the brows of might

iest men:

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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 features

Have such a charm for us poor human creatures?

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'Tis the perception of the beautiful, A fine extension of the faculties, Platonic, universal, wonderful,

Drawn from the stars, and filter'd through the skies,

Without which life would be extremely dull;

In short, it is the use of our own eyes, With one or two small senses added, just To hint that flesh is form'd of fiery dust.

Yet 't is a painful feeling, and unwilling, For surely if we always could perceive In the same object graces quite as killing

As when she rose upon us like an Eve, 'T would save us many a heart-ache, many a shilling

(For we must get them anyhow, or grieve),

Whereas, if one sole lady pleased for

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THE ISLES OF GREECE

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 echo further west Than your sires' "Islands of the Blest." The mountains look on MarathonAnd 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 his! He counted them at break of day— And 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 thy 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.

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 Thermopyla !

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 Samian 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 phalanx gone? Of two such lessons, why forget

The nobler and the manlier one? You have the letters Cadmus gave-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,

My own the burning tear-drop laves,
To think such breasts must suckle slaves.

Place me on Sunium's marbled steep,

Where nothing, save the waves and I, May hear our mutual murmurs sweep;

There, swan-like, let me sing and die: A land of slaves shall ne'er be mineDash down yon cup of Samian wine!

Thus sung, or would, or could, or should have sung, St. 87

The modern Greek, in tolerable verse; If not like Orpheus quite, when Greece was young,

Yet in these times he might have done much worse:

His strain display'd some feeling-right or wrong;

And feeling, in a poet, is the source Of others' feeling; but they are such liars,

And take all colors-like the hands of dyers.

But words are things, and a small drop of ink,

Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces

That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think;

'Tis strange, the shortest letter which

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Survives himself, his tomb, and all that's his!

And when his bones are dust, his grave a blank,

His station, generation, even his nation,

Become a thing, or nothing, save to rank In chronological commemoration, Some dull MS, oblivion long has sank,

Or graven stone found in a barrack's station

In digging the foundation of a closet, May turn his name up, as a rare deposit.

And glory long has made the sages smile; 'Tis something, nothing, words, ilusion wind

Depending more upon the historian's style

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