As if they felt a spirit go

O'er their transparent solitude:

The great hills darken-all the valleys quake
With one continual throe,—
The green earth is wet

With a fragrant sweat,

Like the fine small dew,

That filters through

Rich moss, by the foot subdued;

And the olive trees there

Their blossoms throw

On the motionless air,

Like a shower of snow,
Perpetually-

Trembling as if they felt the tread

Of the stout invisible dead-
The buried nations of all the earth-
All struggling upward into birth,
To subterranean melody:

And see! another band appear,
Unarm'd with helm, or sword, or spear,
Or buckler, guard, or shield;
A band of giants! on they go,
Each-by himself to meet the foe,
Alone in yonder field:

Three hundred Spartan shadows they,
I know them by their flying hair,
Rejoicing as it floats away,

A lustre on the troubled air:
Behold! they gather round

The marble Sleeper, where he lies
Reposing on the scented ground,—
His head with dripping roses bound-
A shadow in his eyes:

Behold them slowly trace,

With sorrow in each noble face,
The print of naked feet about the holy place:
Awake! awake!

Thou sleeping warrior-Bard! O break
Thy trance profound!

The Spartans are about thee-
They will not go without thee-
Awake!

They claim thee for the last
Of all that valiant race;
The Grecians of the past,—

To whom the battle and the chase,
The war-ship tumbling to the blast,
The stormy night,

The thunder and the fight,
Were pastime and repose?
Up, then, and take thy stand
Amid the shadowy band!
Outspread thy banner o'er them,
Go, as thou should'st, before them;
Hear thou their call,

Awake! and fall

Like the bright thunder on their foes!

On with thy helmet! set thy foot
Where'er thou art-

Strike down the infidel, and put

Thy mailed hand upon thy slumbering heart,
Or on the nearest altar, where,
Unstain'd with revel, blood, or wine,
Stands many an everlasting shrine,
Wrapp'd in perpetual cloud,
For ever echoing loud,

And sounding to the mountain air,
With voices wild, remote, and high,
Like fanes of ancient prophecy-
Built by the cherubim, of solid rock,
Into the broad blue heaven-to mock
The thunder and the Moslem shock-
The armies of the earth and sky!

Go up, thou Sleeper! go with loosen'd hair;

into the cloud, and then forbear

To join the awful interlude,

The wild and solemn harmony

Of that afflicted solitude,

Bard of the Ocean, if thou canst, in one eternal prayer!

What!

Still changing not,
Still motionless and pale,
And damp, and cold,
Unmoved by trumpet, prayer, or song,
The stirring gale,

Or noise of coming strife,

Or thunder near thee roll'd:
The nations that have known thee long
Unheeded marching by,

Where thou art lying;

The Spartan wise—the Spartan strong,
Scared women with their garments flying,
As if pursued
By some great multitude—
Young children all about thee crying,
And thou, alone,

Immoveable as if-thy blood were turn'd to stone!
Why! what art thou,

Man of the solid brow;

O what!

To alter not,

Nor change, nor stir thyself, nor wake,
Though all the nations try to break
Thy trance profound!

Nay, though they altogether take
The place of supplication round
The silent spot,

The cold extinguished ground,
Where thou art now,
Until

They overcast

Thy spirit, Sleeper, with a last
And most awakening spell-
A spell of power and sorcery
For all that dwell
Beneath the water or the sky.
Or fill

The vaulted mystery,

That silent flies

For ever o'er our upturn'd eyes—
Showering the dew

Like a shower of light
From the beautiful blue
Of a beautiful night:
Up, then, awake!

Up from thy charmed slumber! break
Thy long and sorrowful trance!
Now! Now!
Advance!

Ye of the snowy brow,
Each in her overpowering splendor!
The young and great,

Superb and desolate,

The beautiful and tender!
Advance!

Ye shadows of his child and wife,
And thrill the sleeper into life!

Now heaven be thanked! he lies
Regardless of our cries.
Rejoice! Rejoice!

Children of Greece, rejoice!

No change nor trouble shall come again To the island-bard of the deep blue main; Nor blight nor blast

All

To overcast

The brightness of his name;
Rejoice! Rejoice!

ye that have loved the man, rejoice,
Throughout the world!

He cannot, now,

From the precipice brow
Of Glory's hill be hurl'd?

And you, ye men of Greece,
For his heart is yours
While time endures-

A flame

That will burn eternally

And sound that will never cease!

And ye that have loved him, where
There's freedom in the air,

O peace!

For his beautiful eyes,

Under Grecian skies,

Were shut by the hands of Grecian men And the voice of his heart

Will never depart

Away from the land of the brave again:

O peace!

For he lifted his head,
With a sorrowful look,
When the spirit fled,

And the temple shook,
Forgetful of all that were nearest;
And he thought of his home

O'er the ocean foam;

And call'd upon them that were dearest;
The mother and the blue-eyed child,*
Far, far away,

And all that in his morning smiled
When he was innocent as they-
O peace!

For his loving voice will haunt the place
Of their green repose,
Where'er they may lie interr'd,
Like his own sweet, unseen bird,
That pale and blighted rose:t
But where the warriors of the household lie,
And they that dwelt in minstrelsy,
His voice will sound with a warlike tone,
Like the distant cry

Of trumpets when the wind is high:
O peace!

Peace to the ancient halls!
Peace to the darken'd walls!
And peace to the troubled family,
For never again shall one of them be
A moment on earth alone,

A spirit, wherever they go,
Shall go for ever before them;

A shelter from every foe,

A guardian hovering o'er them;
O peace!

For every trace

Of his glorious face

Shall be preserved in the sculptured stone! Embalm'd by Greece,

And multiplied

On every side,

Instinct with immortality—

The last words of Byron related to his wife and child.
In the Giaour.