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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,
But one arise,—we come, we come !"
'Tis but the living who are dumb.
In vain-in vain ; strike other chords;

Fill high the cup with Samian wine!
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes,

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

ye

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,
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 !

On Suli's rock and Parga's shore
Exists the remnant of a line

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 :
In native swords, and native ranks,

The only hope of courage dwells;
But Turkish force, and Latin fraud,
Would break your shield, however broad.
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine !

Our virgins dance beneath the shade-
I see their glorious black eyes shine;

But, gazing on each glowing maid,
My own the burning tear-drop laves,
To think such breasts must suckle slaves.

Place me on Sunium's marbled steep,

Where nothing, save the waves and I,
May hear our mutual murmurs sweep;

There, swan-like, let me sing and die ;
A. land of slaves shall ne'er be mine-
Dash down yon cup of Samian wine !

Don Juan.

FARE THEE WELL.*

FARE thee well ! and if for ever,

Still for ever fare thee well ;
E'en though unforgiving, never

'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.
Would that breast were bared before thee,

Where thy head so oft hath lain,
While that placid sleep came o'er thee

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.

it so.

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.
Although my many faults defaced me,

Could no other arm be found
Than the one which once embraced me

To inflict a cureless wound ?
Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not :

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 ;
Both shall live, but every morrow

Wake us from a widowed bed.
And when thou wouldst solace gather,

When our child's first accents flow,
Wilt thou teach her to say “Father!”

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,
Then thy heart will softly tremble

With a pulse yet true to me.
All my faults perchance thou knowest,

All my madness none can know;
All my hopes, where'er thou goest,

Wither; yet with thee they go.
Every feeling hath been shaken,

Pride, which not a world could bow,
Bows to thee—by thee forsaken,
E'en
my

soul forsakes me now.
But 'tis done—all words are idle ;

Words from me are vainer still ;
But the thoughts we cannot bridle
Force their

way

without the will.
Fare thee well !—thus disunited,

Torn from every nearer tie;
Seared in heart, and lone, and blighted,

More than this I scarce can die.

CHARLES WOLFE.

(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,
By the struggling moonbeams' misty light,

And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him ;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,

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,
The foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,

And we far away on the billow !
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ;
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on

In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task was done,

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.

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