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EMPLOYMENT. — George Herbert.
If, as a flower doth spread and die,
Thou wouldst extend me to some good, Before I were by frost's extremity
Nipt in the bud,
The sweetness and the praise were thine ;
But the extension and the room, Which in thy garland I should fill, were mine
At thy great doom.
For as thou dost impart thy grace,
The greater shall our glory be.
The stuff with thee.
Let me not languish, then, and spend
But with delays.
All things are busy ; only I
Neither bring honey with the bees, Nor flowers to make that, nor the husbandry
To water these.
I am no link of thy great chain,
But all my company is as a weed. Lord, place me in thy concert, give one strain
To my poor reed.
THE ISLES OF GREECE. – Byron.
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 Phæbus 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, llave found the fame your shores refuse ;
Their place of birth alone is mute
sires' “ Islands of the Blest.'
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.
A king sat on the rocky brow
Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis ;
And men in nations; all were his !
My country? On thy voiceless shore
The heroic bosom eats no more !
THE ISLES OF GREECL.
And must thy lyre, so long divine,
'T is something, in the dearth of fame,
Though linked among a fettered race,
Even as I sing, suffuse my face ;
Must we but weep o'er days more blest?
Must we but blush? . Our fathers bled
A remnant of our Spartan dead !
What, silent still ? and silent all ?
Ah! no;— the voices of the dead
And answer, “Let one living head, But one, arise, — we come, we come!” 'T is but the living who are dumb.
In vain, — in vain ; strike other chords;
Fill high the cup with Samian wine !
And shed the blood of Scio's vine !
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,
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. The tyrant of the Chersonese
Was freedom's best and bravest friend ; That tyrant was Miltiades !
O, that the present hour would lend
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine !
On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore,
Such as the Doric mothers bore ;
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.
EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY.
Place me on Sunium's marbled steep,
Where nothing, save the waves and I,
There, swan-like, let me sing and die.
EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY.- Wordsworth.
“ Why, William, on that old gray stone,
Thus for the length of half a day,
? “ Where are your books ? - that light bequeathed
To beings else forlorn and blind ! Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed
From dead men to their kind.
“ You look round on your mother earth,
As if she for no purpose bore you ; As if you were her first-born birth,
And none had lived before you ! ”
One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake,
When life was sweet, I knew not why, To me my good friend Matthew spake,
And thus I made reply:—
66 The eye,
it cannot choose but see; We cannot bid the ear be still ; Our bodies feel, where'er they be,
Against or with our will.