The Ontario Readers: The High School Reader, 1886 Part 25

The Scian and the Teian muse, The hero's harp, the lover's lute, Have found the fame your sh.o.r.es refuse: Their place of birth alone is mute To sounds which echo further west Than your sires' "Islands of the Blest."

The mountains look on Marathon-- And Marathon looks on the sea; And musing there an hour alone, I dream'd that Greece might still be free; For standing on the Persians' grave, I could not deem myself a slave.

A king sate on the rocky brow Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; And ships, by thousands, lay below, And men in nations;--all were his!

He counted them at break of day-- And when the sun set, where were they?

And where are they? and where art thou, My country? On thy voiceless sh.o.r.e The heroic lay is tuneless now-- The heroic bosom beats no more!

And must thy lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine?

'Tis something, in the dearth of fame, Though link'd among a fetter'd 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?

Must _we_ but blush?--Our fathers bled.

Earth! render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead!

Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopylae!

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!"

'Tis but the living who are dumb.

In vain--in vain: strike other chords; Fill high the cup with Samian wine!

Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, And shed the blood of Scio's vine!

Hark! rising to the ign.o.ble call-- How answers each bold Baccha.n.a.l!

You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet; Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone?

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!

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!

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 shield, however broad.

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!

Our virgins dance beneath the shade-- I see their glorious black eyes shine; 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!

x.x.xVI. GO WHERE GLORY WAITS THEE.

THOMAS MOORE.--1779-1852.

Go where glory waits thee; But, while fame elates thee, O, still remember me!

When the praise thou meetest To thine ear is sweetest, O, then remember me!

Other arms may press thee, Dearer friends caress thee, All the joys that bless thee Sweeter far may be; But when friends are nearest, And when joys are dearest, O, then remember me!

When, at eve, thou rovest By the star thou lovest, O, then remember me!

Think, when home returning, Bright we've seen it burning, O, thus remember me!

Oft as summer closes, When thine eye reposes On its lingering roses, Once so lov'd by thee, Think of her who wove them, Her who made thee love them, O, then remember me!

When, around thee dying, Autumn leaves are lying, O, then remember me!

And, at night, when gazing On the gay hearth blazing, O, still remember me!

Then, should music, stealing All the soul of feeling, To thy heart appealing, Draw one tear from thee; Then let memory bring thee Strains I used to sing thee,-- O, then remember me!

x.x.xVII. DEAR HARP OF MY COUNTRY.

MOORE.

Dear Harp of my Country! in darkness I found thee, The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long, When proudly, my own Island Harp, I unbound thee, And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song!

The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness Have waken'd thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill; But, so oft hast thou echo'd the deep sigh of sadness, That ev'n in thy mirth it will steal from thee still.

Dear Harp of my Country! farewell to thy numbers, This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine!

Go, sleep with the sunshine of fame on thy slumbers, Till touch'd by some hand less unworthy than mine;

If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover, Have throbb'd at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone; I was _but_ as the wind, pa.s.sing heedlessly over, And all the wild sweetness I waked was thy own.

x.x.xVIII. COME, YE DISCONSOLATE.

MOORE.

Come, ye disconsolate, where'er you languish, Come, at G.o.d's altar fervently kneel; Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your anguish-- Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal.

Joy of the desolate, Light of the straying, Hope, when all others die, fadeless and pure, Here speaks the Comforter, in G.o.d's name saying,-- "Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot cure."

Go, ask the infidel, what boon he brings us, What charm for aching hearts _he_ can reveal, Sweet as that heavenly promise Hope sings us, "Earth has no sorrow that G.o.d cannot heal."