Where hearts like thine have broke or bled,

Though quench'd the vital glow,

Their mem'ry lights a flame, instead,
Which, ev'n from out the narrow bed
Of death its beams shall throw.
Thou art not dead-thou art not dead!
No, dearest Harmodius, no.

Thy name, by myriads sung and said,
From age to age shall go,
Long as the oak and ivy wed,
As bees shall haunt Hymettus' head,
Or Helle's waters flow.

Thou art not dead-thou art not dead!
No, dearest Harmodius, no.

SONG.

"RAISE the buckler-poise the lance

Now here

now there-retreat-advance!"

Such were the sounds, to which the warrior boy

Danc'd in those happy days, when Greece was free;

When Sparta's youth, ev'n in the hour of joy,
Thus train'd their steps to war and victory.
"Raise the buckler-poise the lance-
Now here now there-retreat-advance!"
Such was the Spartan warrior's dance.
"Grasp the falchion-gird the shield-
Attack—defend-do all, but yield.”

Thus did thy sons, oh Greece, one glorious night,
Dance by a moon like this, till o'er the sea
That morning dawn'd by whose immortal light
They nobly died for thee and liberty!
"Raise the buckler-poise the lance-
Now here now there-retreat-advance!"
Such was the Spartan heroes' dance.

SONG.

I SAW, from yonder silent cave,
Two Fountains running, side by side;
The one was Mem'ry's limpid wave

The other cold Oblivion's tide.

"Oh Love!" said I, in thoughtless mood,
As deep I drank of Lethe's stream,

But who could bear that gloomy blank,
Where joy was lost as well as pain?
Quickly of Mem'ry's fount I drank,

And brought the past all back again;
And said, "Oh Love! whate'er my lot,
Still let this soul to thee be true-
Rather than have one bliss forgot,
Be all my pains remember'd too!"

SONG.

AH! where are they, who heard, in former hours,
The voice of Song in these neglected bow'rs?

They are gone-all gone!

The youth, who told his pain in such sweet tone, That all, who heard him, wish'd his pain their own

He is gone he is gone!

And she, who, while he sung, sat list'ning by,
And thought, to strains like these 'twere sweet to die-
She is gone-she too is gone!

'Tis thus, in future hours, some bard will say
Of her who hears, and him who sings this lay-
They are gone-they both are gone!

"THE sky is bright-the breeze is fair,
And the mainsail flowing, full and free-
Our farewell word is woman's pray'r,
And the hope before us-Liberty!

Farewell, farewell.

To Greece we give our shining blades,
And our hearts to you, young Zean Maids!

The moon is in the heavens above,

And the wind is on the foaming sea

Thus shines the star of woman's love

On the glorious strife of Liberty!
Farewell, farewell.

To Greece we give our shining blades,

And our hearts to you, young Zean Maids!"

SONG.

As o'er her loom the Lesbian Maid
In love-sick languor hung her head,
Unknowing where her fingers stray'd,
She weeping turn'd away, and said,
"Oh, my sweet Mother-'tis in vain-
I cannot weave, as once I wove-
So wilder'd is my heart and brain
With thinking of that youth I love!"

Again the web she tried to trace,

But tears fell o'er each tangled thread; While, looking in her mother's face, Who watchful o'er her lean'd, she said, "Oh, my sweet Mother-'tis in vainI cannot weave, as once I woveSo wilder'd is my heart and brain With thinking of that youth I love!"

As by the shore at break of day,
A vanquish'd Chief expiring lay
Upon the sands, with broken sword,
He trac'd his farewell to the Free;
And, there, the last unfinish'd word
He dying wrote was "Liberty!"

At night a Sea-bird shriek'd the knell Of him who thus for Freedom fell; The words he wrote, ere evening came,

Were cover'd by the sounding sea;— So pass away the cause and name Of him who dies for Liberty!