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The sun,
the soil, but not the slave, the same;
Unchanged in all except its foreign lord-
Preserves alike its bounds and boundless fame
The Battle-field, where Persia's victim horde
First bow'd beneath the brunt of Hellas' sword,
As on the morn to distant Glory dear,
When Marathon became a magic word;
Which utter'd, to the hearer's eye appear

39

XCIII.

Let such approach this consecrated land, And pass in peace along the magic waste; But spare its relics-let no busy hand Deface the scenes, already how defaced! Not for such purpose were these altars placed; Revere the remnants nations once revered: So may our country's name be undisgraced, So may'st thou prosper where thy youth was rear'd By every honest joy of love and life endear'd!

XCIV.

For thee, who thus in too protracted song Hath soothed thine idlesse with inglorious lays, Soon shall thy voice be lost amid the thror g Of louder minstrels in these later days; To such resign the strife for fading bays,Ill may such contest now the spirit move Which heeds nor keen reproach nor partial praise; Since cold each kinder heart that might approve, And none are left to please, when none are left to love.

XCV.

Thou too art gone, thou loved and lovely one!
Whom youth and youth's affections bound to me,
Who did for me what none beside have done,
Nor shrank from one albeit unworthy thee.
What is my being? thou hast ceased to be!
Nor staid to welcome here thy wanderer home,
Who mourns o'er hours which we no more shall see:
Would they had never been, or were to come!

The camp, the host, the fight, the conqueror's ca- Would he had ne'er returned, to find fresh cause to

reer.

XC.

The flying Mede, his shaftless broken bow;
The fiery Greek, his red pursuing spear;
Mountains above, Earth's, Ocean's plain below,
Death in the front, Destruction in the rear!
Such was the scene-what now remaineth here?
What sacred trophy marks the hallow'd ground,
Recording freedom's smile, and Asia's tear?
The rifled urn, the violated mound,

roam.

XCVI.

Oh! ever loving, lovely, and beloved!

How selfish Sorrow ponders on the past,
And clings to thoughts now better far removed!
But Time shall tear thy shadow from me last. [hast.
All thou couldst have of mine, stern Death! thou
The parent, friend, and now the more than friend;
Ne'er yet for one thine arrows flew so fast,
And grief with grief continuing still to blend,

The dust thy courser's hoof, rude stranger! spurns Hath snatch'd the little joy that life had yet to lend

around.

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30

XXI.

The moon is up by Heaven, a lovely eve! Long streams of light o'er dancing waves expand; Now lads on shore may sigh, and maids believe. Such be our fate when we return to land! Meantime, some rude Arion's restless hand Wakes the brisk harmony that sailors love; A circle there of merry listeners stand, Or to some well-known measure featly move, Thoughtless, as if on shore they still were free to

rove.

XXII.

Through Calpe's straits survey the steepy shore;
Europe and Afric on each other gaze!
Lands of the dark-eyed Maid and dusky Moor
Alike beheld beneath pale Hecate's blaze;
How softly on the Spanish shore she plays,
Disclosing rock, and slope, and forest brown,
Distinct, though darkening with her waning phase;
But Mauritania's giant-shadows frown,

XXVII.

More blest the life of godly Eremite, Such as on lonely Athos may be seen, Watching at eve upon the giant height, Which looks o'er waves so blue, skies so sei ene That he who there at such an hour hath been Will wistful linger on that hallowed spot; Then slowly tear him from the witching scene, Sigh forth one wish that such had been his lot, Then turn to hate a world he had almost forgot.

XXVIII.

Pass we the long, unvarying course, the track
Oft trod, that never leaves a trace behind;
Pass we the calm, the gale, the change, the tack
And each well known caprice of wave and wind;
Pass we the joys and sorrows sailors find,
Coop'd in their winged sea-girt citadel;
The foul, the fair, the contrary, the kind,
As breezes rise and fall and billows swell,

From mountain cliff to coast descending sombre Till on some jocund morn―lo, land! and all is well

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'Tis an old lesson; Time approves it true,
And those who know it best, deplore it most;
When all is won that all desire to woo,
The paltry prize is hardly worth the cost;
Youth wasted, minds degraded, honor lost,
These are thy fruits, successful Passion! these!

If, kindly cruel, early Hope is crost,

Sull to the last it rankles, a disease,

Childe Harold sail'd, and pass'd the barren spot!
Where sad Penelope o'erlook'd the wave;
And onward view'd the mount, not yet forgot,
The lovers refuge, and the Lesbian's grave.
Dark Sappho could not verse immortal save
That breast imbued with such-immortal fire?
Could she not live who life eternal gave?
If life eternal may await the lyre,
That only Heaven to which Earth's children may
aspire.

XL.

'Twas on a Grecian autumn's gentle eve Childe Harold hail'd Leucadia's cape afar; A spot he long'd to see, nor cared to leave. Oft did he mark the scenes of vanish'd war, Actium, Lepanto, fatal Trafalgar; 13 Mark them unmoved, for he would not delight (Born beneath some remote inglorious star) In themes of bloody fray, or gallant fight, But loathed the bravo's trade, and laughed at mai tial wight.

XLI.

But when he saw the evening star above
Leucadia's far-projecting rock of wo,
And hail'd the last resort of fruitless love,14
He felt, or deem'd he felt, no common glow;
And as the stately vessel glided slow
Beneath the shadow of that ancient mount,
He watch'd the billows' melancholy flow,
And, sunk albeit in thought as he was wont,

Not to be cured when Love itself forgets to please. More placid seem'd his eye, and smooth his pallid

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Here the red cross, for still the cross is here,
Though sadly scoff'd at by the circumcised,
Forgets that pride to pamper'd priesthood dear ·
Churchman and votary alike despised.
Foul Superstition! howsoe'er disguised,
Idol, saint, virgin, prophet, crescent, cross,
For whatsoever symbol thou art prized,
Thon sacerdotal gain, but general loss!

Land of Albania! where Iskander rose, Theme of the young, and beacon of the wise, And he his namesake, whose oft-baffled foes Shrunk frota his deeds of chivalrous emprize: I..nd of Albania! let me bend mine eyes On thee, thon rugged nurse of savage men! The Cross descends, thy minarets arise, And the pale crescent sparkles in the glen, Through many a cypress grove within each city's Who from true worship's gold can separate thy

ken.

dross?

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