And must thy lyre, so long divine, "T is something, in the dearth of fame, Though linked among a fettered race, To feel at least a patriot's shame, Even as I sing, suffuse my face; For what is left the poet here ? For Greeks a blush,- for Greece a tear. Must we but weep o'er days more blest? 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!" 'T is but the living who are dumb. In vain,-in vain; strike other chords; You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, Of two such lessons, why forget The nobler and the manlier one? You have the letters Cadmus gave, Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! He served but served Polycrates The tyrant of the Chersonese Was freedom's best and bravest friend; That tyrant was Miltiades! O, 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, They have a king who buys and sells. In native swords and native ranks The only hope of courage dwells; Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! Place me on Sunium's marbled steep, There, swan-like, let me sing and die. EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY.-Wordsworth. "WHY, William, on that old gray stone, "Where are your books? that light bequeathed To beings else forlorn and blind! Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed From dead men to their kind. "You look round on your mother earth, As if you were her first-born birth, One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake, The eye, it cannot choose but see; "Nor less I deem that there are Powers 66 Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum "Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, Conversing as I may, I sit upon this old gray stone, And dream my time away." UP! up! my friend, and quit your books; The sun, above the mountain's head, Through all the long green fields has spread, Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it. And hark! how blithe the throstle sings! He, too, is no mean preacher : She has a world of ready wealth, One impulse from a vernal wood Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Misshapes the beauteous forms of things: Enough of Science and of Art; Close up these barren leaves; MANHOOD.-C. A. Dana. DEAR, noble soul, wisely thy lot thou bearest ; |