EXTRACTS FROM DON JUAN. THE ISLES OF GREECE.* THE isles of Greece, the isles of Greece! The Scian and the Teian muse, The hero's harp, the lover's lute, To sounds which echo further west The mountains look on Marathon- I dream'd that Greece might still be free; A king sat on the rocky brow Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; And men in nations ;-all were his ! And where are they? and where art thou, The heroic bosom beats no more! The Pieces following, to the end, are, from their great beauty and unobjectionabl aharacter, extracted from Don Juan. + The "Islands of the Blest," of the Greek poets were supposed to have been the Cage do Verd Islands or the Canaries. "Deep were the groans of Xerxes, when he saw This havoc; for his seat, a lofty mound Commanding the wide sea, o'erlook'd the hosts. And through his troops embattled on the shor "Tis something, in the dearth of fame. Even as I sing, suffuse my face; Must we but weep o'er days more blest? What, silent still? and silent all? Ah! no;-the voices of the dead Bound like a distant torrent's fall, And answer, "Let one living head, In vain-in vain; strike other chords; And shed the blood of Scio's vine! You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, The nobler and the raanlier one? Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! 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! Such as the Doric mothers bore; Trust not for freedom to the Franks- The only hope of courage dwells; Where nothing save the waves and I, FAME. WHAT is the end of Fame! "Tis but to fill Some liken it to climbing up a hill, Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapour; For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill, And bards burn what they call their "midnight taper," To have, when the original is dust, A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust. What are the hopes of man? Old Egypt's King And largest, thinking it was just the thing To keep his memory whole, and mummy hid; But somebody or other rummaging Burglariously broke his coffin's lid; Let not a monument give you or me hopes, THE SHIPWRECK. THE wind Increased at night, until it blew a gale; And though 'twas not much to a naval mind, For sailors are, in fact, a different kind : At sunset they began to take in sail, For the sky show'd it would come on to blow, |