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What, silent still ? and silent all ?
Ah ! no ;—the voices of the dead
And answer, “ Let one living head,
Fill high the cup with Samian wine!
And shed the blood of Scio's vine ! Hark! rising to the ignoble call — How answers each bold bacchanal ! 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 gaveThink
he meant them for a slave ? 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,
Was freedom's best and bravest friend ; That tyrant was Miltiades !
Oh that the present hour would lend
On Suli's rock and Parga's shore
Such as the Doric mothers bore; And there, perhaps, some seed is sown, The Heracleidan blood might own.
Trust not for freedom to the Franks-..
They have a king who buys and sells :
The only hope of courage dwells;
Our virgins dance beneath the shade-
But, gazing on each glowing maid,
Place me on Sunium's marbled steep,
Where nothing, save the waves and I,
There, swan-like, let me sing and die ;
FARE THEE WELL.*
FARE thee well ! and if for ever,
Still for ever fare thee well ;
'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.
Where thy head so oft hath lain,
Which thou ne'er canst know again :
* These verses were addressed to Lady Byron, the poet's wife, who separated from him in 1816, taking with her their infant daughter—the Ada of Byron's poems.
Would that breast, by thee glanced over,
Every inmost thought could show ! Then thou wouldst at last discover 'Twas not well to
spurn Though the world for this commend thee;
Though it smile upon the blow, E’en its praises must offend thee,
Founded on another's woe.
Could no other arm be found
To inflict a cureless wound ?
Love may sink by slow decay, But by sudden wrench, believe not
Hearts can thus be torn away. Still thine own its life retaineth ;
Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; And the undying thought which paineth
Is—that we no more may meet. These are words of deeper sorrow
Than the wail above the dead ;
Wake us from a widowed bed.
When our child's first accents flow,
Though his care she must forego ? When her little hands shall press thee,
When her lip to thine is pressed, Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee,
Think of him thy love had blessed.
Should her lineaments resemble
Those thou never more mayst see,
With a pulse yet true to me.
All my madness none can know;
Wither; yet with thee they go.
Pride, which not a world could bow,
soul forsakes me now.
Words from me are vainer still ;
without the will.
Torn from every nearer tie;
More than this I scarce can die.
(1791-1823.) Born in Dublin, and educated at Winchester and Trinity College, Dublin. Took holy orders in 1817, and was appointed to a curacy in the county of Tyrone. Hard parochial work, and inattention perhaps to his health, brought him to an early grave in 1823. Wolfe was the author of several small works; but his fame as poet rests upon his well-known ode on The Burial of Sir John Moore.
THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note,
As his corse to the ramparts we hurried : Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot,
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
And the lantern dimly burning.
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him ;
With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow : But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
And we far away on the billow !
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ;
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
When the clock struck the hour for retiring ; And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.. Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,
But we left him alone with his glory.