Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 110

Of two such lessons, why forget The n.o.bler and the manlier one?

You have the letters Cadmus gave-- Think 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!

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!

On Suli's rock, and Parga's sh.o.r.e, 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 s.h.i.+eld, however broad.

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!

Our virgins dance beneath the shade-- I see their glorious black eyes s.h.i.+ne; But gazing on each glowing maid, My own the burning tear-drop laves, To think such b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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!

Sir Aubrey De Vere. 1788-1846

602. The Children Band

ALL holy influences dwell within The breast of Childhood: instincts fresh from G.o.d Inspire it, ere the heart beneath the rod Of grief hath bled, or caught the plague of sin.

How mighty was that fervour which could win Its way to infant souls!--and was the sod Of Palestine by infant Croises trod?

Like Joseph went they forth, or Benjamin, In all their touching beauty to redeem?

And did their soft lips kiss the Sepulchre?

Alas! the lovely pageant as a dream Faded! They sank not through ign.o.ble fear; They felt not Moslem steel. By mountain, stream, In sands, in fens, they died--no mother near!

Charles Wolfe. 1791-1823

603. The Burial of Sir John Moore after Corunna

NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart 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 moonbeam's misty light And the lanthorn dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet or 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 that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed And smooth'd down his lonely pillow, That 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.

Charles Wolfe. 1791-1823

604. To Mary

IF I had thought thou couldst have died, I might not weep for thee; But I forgot, when by thy side, That thou couldst mortal be: It never through my mind had past The time would e'er be o'er, And I on thee should look my last, And thou shouldst smile no more!

And still upon that face I look, And think 'twill smile again; And still the thought I will not brook, That I must look in vain.

But when I speak--thou dost not say What thou ne'er left'st unsaid; And now I feel, as well I may, Sweet Mary, thou art dead!

If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art, All cold and all serene-- I still might press thy silent heart, And where thy smiles have been.

While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have, Thou seemest still mine own; But there--I lay thee in thy grave, And I am now alone!

I do not think, where'er thou art, Thou hast forgotten me; And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart In thinking too of thee: Yet there was round thee such a dawn Of light ne'er seen before, As fancy never could have drawn, And never can restore!

Percy Bysshe Sh.e.l.ley. 1792-1822

605. Hymn of Pan

FROM the forests and highlands We come, we come; From the river-girt islands, Where loud waves are dumb, Listening to my sweet pipings.

The wind in the reeds and the rushes, The bees on the bells of thyme, The birds on the myrtle bushes, The cicale above in the lime, And the lizards below in the gra.s.s, Were as silent as ever old Tmolus was, Listening to my sweet pipings.

Liquid Peneus was flowing, And all dark Tempe lay In Pelion's shadow, outgrowing The light of the dying day, Speeded by my sweet pipings.

The Sileni and Sylvans and Fauns, And the Nymphs of the woods and waves, To the edge of the moist river-lawns, And the brink of the dewy caves, And all that did then attend and follow, Were silent with love, as you now, Apollo, With envy of my sweet pipings.

I sang of the dancing stars, I sang of the daedal earth, And of heaven, and the giant wars, And love, and death, and birth.

And then I changed my pipings-- Singing how down the vale of Maenalus I pursued a maiden, and clasp'd a reed: G.o.ds and men, we are all deluded thus!

It breaks in our bosom, and then we bleed.

All wept--as I think both ye now would, If envy or age had not frozen your blood-- At the sorrow of my sweet pipings.

Percy Bysshe Sh.e.l.ley. 1792-1822

606. The Invitation

BEST and brightest, come away!

Fairer far than this fair Day, Which, like thee to those in sorrow, Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow To the rough Year just awake In its cradle on the brake.

The brightest hour of unborn Spring, Through the winter wandering, Found, it seems, the halcyon Morn To h.o.a.r February born.

Bending from heaven, in azure mirth, It kiss'd the forehead of the Earth; And smiled upon the silent sea; And bade the frozen streams be free; And waked to music all their fountains; And breathed upon the frozen mountains; And like a prophetess of May Strew'd flowers upon the barren way, Making the wintry world appear Like one on whom thou smilest, dear.

Away, away, from men and towns, To the wild wood and the downs-- To the silent wilderness Where the soul need not repress Its music lest it should not find An echo in another's mind, While the touch of Nature's art Harmonizes heart to heart.

I leave this notice on my door For each accustom'd visitor:-- 'I am gone into the fields To take what this sweet hour yields.

Reflection, you may come to-morrow; Sit by the fireside with Sorrow.

You with the unpaid bill, Despair,-- You, tiresome verse-reciter, Care,-- I will pay you in the grave,-- Death will listen to your stave.

Expectation too, be off!

To-day is for itself enough.