The mountains look on Marathon- I dream'd that Greece might still be free; A king sate on the rocky brow Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; And men in nations;-all were his! 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? 'Tis something, in the dearth of fame, Even as I sing, suffuse my face; Must we but weep o'er days more bless'd? What, silent still? and silent all? Ah! no;-the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent's fall, And answer, " Let one living head, In vain-in vain: strike other chords; And shed the blood of Scio's vine! You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, The nobler and the manlier one? 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. 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. Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! Such as the Doric mothers bore; Trust not for freedom to the Franks- The only hope of courage dwells; Place me on Sunium's marbled steep- From Don Juan, Ave Maria! o'er the earth and sea, That heavenliest hour of Heaven is worthiest thee! Ave Maria! blessed be the hour! The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft Have felt that moment in its fullest power Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft, While swung the deep bell in the distant tower, Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft, And not a breath crept through the rosy air, And yet the forest leaves seem'd stirr'd with prayer. Ave Maria! 'tis the hour of prayer! Ave Maria! 'tis the hour of love! Ave Maria! may our spirits dare Look up to thine and to thy Son's above? Ave Maria! oh that face so fair! Those downcast eyes beneath the almighty DoveWhat though 'tis but a pictured image strike That painting is no idol, 'tis too like. From Don Juan. STANZA S. I heard thy fate without a tear, I know not what hath sear'd mine eye: But every drop its lids deny Yes-deep and heavy, one by one, They cannot petrify more fast THE proper name of this writer is Bryan Waller Proctor; but this he converted into the anagram of Barry Cornwall, by which he is best known as a poet. He was born in London, and was educated at Harrow, where, among other school-fellows who gained a high name in society, he numbered Lord Byron and Sir Robert Peel. Having finished his classical education, he was placed with a solicitor at Calne, in Wiltshire, to be educated for the bar; but after studying the elements of the law at this place for four years, he changed his purpose, and became the pupil of a conveyancer at Lincoln's Inn, in which profession he finally settled. The poetical tastes and studies of Proctor lay among the great dramatic authors of the Elizabethan period, and accordingly his first publication, which appeared in 1815, consisted of a series of dramatic sketches in which he caught in a great measure the tenderness and gentleness, although not the sublimity and strength, of those great master-spirits. Towards the end of the same year, he published his Sicilian Story. In 1820 appeared his Marcian Colonna, and in the following year his tragedy of Mirandola. He now became a favourite poet with the public, not only on account of the intrinsic merits of his writings, but also in consequence of that charm of deep melancholy with which they are imbued a melancholy too deep and sustained to be fictitious. In him, also, this natural bias seems to determine the selection of his subjects, which are exclusively themes of tenderness and sadness. In private life, as in his poetry, he blends with pensiveness of spirit and gentleness of manners those virtuous and amiable qualities, which have secured for him through life the affection and esteem of every class of society. THE LAST SONG. Must it be?-Then farewell, Thou whom my woman's heart cherish'd so long: The last, wherein I say, "I loved thee well." Many a weary strain (Never yet heard by thee) hath this poor breath Utter'd, of Love and Death, And maiden grief, hidden and chid in vain. Oh! if in after years The tale that I am dead shall touch thy heart, Bid not the pain depart; But shed, over my grave, a few sad tears. Think of me-still so young, Silent, though fond, who cast my life away, The passionate Spirit that around me clung. Farewell again; and yet, Must it indeed be so-and on this shore Shall you and I no more Together see the sun of the Summer set? For me, my days are gone: No more shall I, in vintage times, prepare As I was wont: oh, 'twas for you alone! And on my bier I'll lay Me down in frozen beauty, pale and wan, And, like a broken flower, gently decay. THE LAST DAY OF TIPPOO SAIB. That day he 'rose Sultan of half the East. Soldier and chief and slave: and he the while In figure as some Indian god, or like Then busy sights were seen, and sounds of war Came thickening: first the steed's shrill neigh; the drum Rolling at intervals; the bugle note, Mix'd with the hoarse command; then (nearing on) The soldiers' silent, firm, and regular tread; The trampling horse; the clash of swords; the wheel How fierce the dark king bore him on that day! |