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AND THOU ART DEAD “ Heu, quanto minus est cum reliquis versari quam tui meminisse!”

AND thou art dead, as young and fair

As aught of mortal birth;
And form so soft, and charms so rare,

Too soon return'd to Earth!
Though Earth received them in her bed,
And o'er the spot the crowd may tread

In carelessness or mirth,
There is an eye which could not brook
A moment on that grave to look.

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I will not ask where thou liest low,

Nor gaze upon the spot ;
There flowers or weeds at will may grow,

So I behold them not:
It is enough for me to prove
That what I loved, and long must love,

Like common earth can rot ;
To me there needs no stone to tell,
'Tis Nothing that I loved so well.
Yet did I love thee to the last

As fervently as thou,
Who didst not change through all the past,

And canst not alter now.
The love where Death has set his seal,
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal,

Nor falsehood disavow :
And, what were worse, thou canst not see
Or wrong, or change, or fault in me.
The better days of life were ours;

The worst can be but mine :
The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers,

Shall never more be thine.

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The silence of that dreamless sleep
I envy now too much to weep;

Nor need I to repine
That all those charms have pass'd away;
I might have watch'd through long decay.

The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd

Must fall the earliest prey ;
Though by no hand untimely snatch'd,

The leaves must drop away :
And yet it were a greater grief
To watch it withering leaf by leaf,

Than see it pluck'd to-day;
Since earthly eye but ill can bear
To trace the change to foul from fair.

I know not if I could have borne

To see thy beauties fade ;
The night that follow'd such a morn

Had worn a deeper shade:
Thy day without a cloud hath pass'd,
And thou wert lovely to the last ;

Extinguish'd, not decay'd ;
As stars that shoot along the sky
Shine brightest as they fall from high.

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As once I wept, if I could weep,

My tears might well be shed,
To think I was not near to keep

One vigil o'er thy bed ;
To gaze, how fondly ! on thy face,
To fold thee in a faint embrace,

Uphold thy drooping head;
And show that love, however vain,
Nor thou nor I can feel again.

Yet how much less it were to gain,

Though thou hast left me free,
The loveliest things that still remain,

Than thus remember thee!
The all of thine that cannot die
Through dark and dread Eternity

Returns again to me,
And more thy buried love endears
Than aught, except its living years.

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THE GLORY THAT WAS GREECE

Clime of the unforgotten brave !
Whose land from plain to mountain-cave
Was Freedom's home, or Glory's grave!
Shrine of the mighty ! can it be
That this is all remains of thee ?
Approach, thou craven crouching slave :

Say, is not this Thermopy.læ ? .
These waters blue that round you lave,

O servile offspring of the free-
Pronounce what sea, what shore is this?
The gulf, the rock of Salamis !
These scenes, their story not unknown,
Arise, and make again your own;
Snatch from the ashes of your sires
The embers of their former fires;
And he who in the strife expires
Will add to theirs a name of fear,
That Tyranny shall quake to hear,
And leave his sons a hope, a fame,
They too will rather die than shame:
For Freedom's battle once begun,
Bequeathed by bleeding Sire to Son,
Though baffled oft is ever won.
Bear witness, Greece, thy living page!
Attest it many a deathless age !

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While kings, in dusty darkness hid,
Have left a nameless pyramid,
Thy heroes, though the general doom
Hath swept the column from their tomb,
A mightier monument command,
The mountains of their native land!
There points thy Muse to stranger's eye
The graves of those that cannot die!
'Twere long to tell, and sad to trace,
Each step from splendour to disgrace;
Enough-no foreign foe could quell
Thy soul, till from itself it fell;
Yes! Self-abasement paved the way
To villain-bonds and despot sway.

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KNOW YE THE LAND KNOW ye the land where the cypress and myrtle

Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime ? Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle,

Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime? Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine ; Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppress'd with perfume, Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gúl in her bloom ; Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, And the voice of the nightingale never is mute:

10 Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky, In color though varied, in beauty may vie, And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye; Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine, And all, save the spirit of man, is divine ? 'Tis the clime of the East ; 'tis the land of the SunCan he smile on such deeds as his children have done ? Oh! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they

tell.

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THE CORSAIRS' SONG
“O'ER the glad waters of the dark-blue sea,
Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free,
Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam,
Survey our empire, and behold our home!
These are our realms, no limits to their sway,
Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey.
Ours the wild life in tumult still to range
From toil to rest, and joy in every change.
Oh, who can tell ? not thou, luxurious slave!
Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving wave :
Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease !
Whom slumber soothes not-pleasure cannot please-
Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried,
And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide,
The exulting sense-the pulse's maddening play,
That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way?
That for itself can woo the approaching fight,
And turn what some deem danger to delight;
That seeks what cravens shun with more than zeal,
And where the feebler faint can only feel-
Feel—to the rising bosom's inmost core,
Its hope awaken and its spirit soar?
No dread of death-if with us die our foes-
Save that it seems even duller than repose :
Come when it will—we snatch the life of life-
When lost—what recks it by disease or strife?
Let him who crawls enamour'd of decay,
Cling to his couch, and sicken years away ;
Heave his thick breath, and shake his palsied head ;
Ours—the fresh turf, and not the feverish bed.
While gasp by gasp he falters forth his soul,
Ours with one pang—one bound-escapes control.
His corse may boast its urn and narrow cave,
And they who loathed his life may gild his grave;

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