Page:Blackwood's Magazine volume 001.djvu/173

1817.] —The blent, but soon selected, call Of man, who loves and blesses all, With kingly accent, sweet though high, Completes the full-toned harmony.
 * Its thorns are in my breast—yet still

I love this Earth with all its ill! Though lone and heartless in the strife, I dread the long fatigue of life— And none to whom 'twere sweet to say, "These heavens how bright! this earth how gay!" With meeting soul and kindred mood Endear the charms of solitude— Though every hour has on its wing A sadder tear, a sharper sting— And balm and blessing were in vain— This friendless heart was formed for pain.

sea-wave falls—the sea-wave flows;
 * On lonely rock the Fisher lies,

In clear cool stream his hook he throws,
 * And views the bait with wistful eyes;
 * And as his silent task he plies,

Behold! the floods apart are flung,—
 * And where the circling eddies rise,

A Mermaid's form hath upward sprung! And soft her tones—and sweet her song:—
 * "O, Fisher! why my train decoy?

"With craft of man—still wise in wrong—
 * "Why seek to change to death their joy?
 * "O! wist thou here what tasks employ—

"What bliss the tribes of ocean know,—
 * "No more thy days should care annoy,

"But peace be sought these waves below!" "And seeks not aye the glorious sun,
 * "And beauteous moon, our watery rest?

"And springs not each, its course to run,
 * "Wave-wash'd, in tenfold glory drest?
 * "And charms not Thee in Ocean's breast

"This nether heaven of loveliest blue?—
 * "Charms not thine own fair form imprest

"In liquid limning soft and true?" The sea-wave falls—the sea-wave flows—
 * At length around his feet is flung;—

He starts—the flame within him glows,
 * That erst on love's embraces hung!
 * And sweeter yet the sea-maid sung,

And sought, half-met, the charmed shore;
 * Her arms around her victim flung

And ne'er was seen that Fisher more!

by the light of bards of yore The minstrel seeks Illissus' shore; Like them inspired with holy rage That Greece, erewhile so great and sage,
 * Greece, lovely still—his footsteps tread;

And, O!—though cold and silent now, He feels that land still strong to bow
 * The pilgrim's heart with reverential dread!

But where are they—the Men of yore—
 * Whose deeds of fame that may not die,

Bade rise upon their native shore
 * The home of holy Liberty?—

O! rouse Ye at my voice of pain!
 * O! rise and look on Græcia now!

Reft of the gifts Ye gave—in vain,
 * The servile neck behold her bow,

And hug, with trembling hand, the chain
 * The Tartar binds around her brow!

Oh! bowed to earth—and crushed—and lone—
 * Greece to my pensive eye appears

—A widow desolate, with quenchless tears Weeping her gods and all her heroes gone! Alas! o'er all this lovely clime—
 * In heart and soul by slavery wrung,

The dastard sons of sires sublime
 * Scarce know the land whereon they sprung;

And feel—of all its glories gone, Or weak regret—or memory none! Greece—Greece—alas! is all entombed— And all that fired, and blessed, and bloomed,
 * Survive but in her ashes now!

And only strangers sorrow there O'er ills—the deadliest—lands must bear
 * Where tyrants reign and bondsmen bow!

Yes! on these plains—of yore so blest,— Where sleep in death's unbroken rest
 * The hearts with Sparta's king that bled,—

Their rankling chains a race of slaves Drag o'er a thousand heroes' graves,
 * Nor ever dream what dust they tread!

But, ho!—the tomb's dark thraldom breaking. At length, Immortal Slumberers, waking, Arise—arise!—whose mighty story
 * Shall live while nature's self endures!—

O come arrayed in all your glory,
 * And Greece may live and yet be yours!

And, hark! the slave hath burst his chain, And Triumph's raptures shares again! New-born, he feels a Spartan's soul sublime, And thrusts the Tartar from his sacred clime! But ah! in vain the voice of grief
 * Is raised where all is desolate!

No answering sound affords relief
 * To hearts that wail the wrongs of fate;

Death broods o'er these abandoned plains, And horror's frozen silence reigns! Alas! the dream that soothed his soul
 * Too fleetly fled die minstrel mourns;—

Alas! when past th' infernal goal
 * No demigod to earth returns!

And hark! while here my voice of woe Is raised around their dwellings low— Repeating many a hero's name With Sparta's linked—or Athens' fame,— A turbaned Turk with sacrilegious blow Lays the last column of Minerva low!