The greatest danger here was from a shark, CVII. Nor yet had he arrived but for the oar, The waters beat while he thereto was lash'd; CVIII. There, breathless, with his digging nails he clung Should suck him back to her insatiate grave: With just enough of life to feel its pain, CIX. With slow and staggering effort he arose, CX. And as he gazed, his dizzy brain spun fast, CXI. How long in his damp trance young Juan lay He knew not, till each painful pulse and limb, Thus usually when he was ask'd to sing, He gave the different nations something national; 'Twas all the same to him-" God, save the king," Or " Ça ira," according to the fashion all: His muse made increment of anything, From the high lyric down to the low rational: If Pindar sang horse-races, what should hinder Himself from being as pliable as Pindar? LXXXVI. In France, for instance, he would write a chanson; In Spain, he'd make a ballad or romance on Would be old Goethe's-(see what says De Staël); In Italy, he'd ape the "Trecentisti"; In Greece he'd sing some sort of hymn like this t❜ ye: I. The isles of Greece! the isles of Greece! 2. The Scian and the Teian muse, To sounds which echo further west 3. The mountains look on Marathon And Marathon looks on the sea; I dream'd that Greece might still be free; For, standing on the Persians' grave, I could not deem myself a slave. 4. A king sate on the rocky brow Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; And men in nations;- all were his! 5. 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? 6. 'Tis something, in the dearth of fame, Even as I sing, suffuse my face: 7. 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! 8. What, silent still? and silent all? And answer, “Let one living head, But one, arise-we come, we come!" 'Tis but the living who are dumb. 9. In vain-in vain: strike other chords. And shed the blood of Scio's vine! IO. You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, The nobler and the manlier one? II. Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! It made Anacreon's song divine: He served but served Polycrates— A tyrant but our masters then Were still, at least, our countrymen. 12. 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. 13. Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! Such as the Doric mothers bore: 14. Trust not for freedom to the Franks- In native swords and native ranks, |