Fled panting away, over river and isle,
Nor once turned his eye to the brook of Glen-Gyle.

The fox fled in terror ; the eagle awoke
As slumbering he dosed on the shelve of the rock ;
Astonished, to hide in the moonbeam he flew
And screwed the night-heaven till lost in the blue.

Young Malcolm beheld the pale lady approach, The chieftain salute her, and shrink from her touch. He saw the Macgregor kneel down on the plain, As begging for something he could not obtain ; She raised him indignant, derided his stay, Then bore him on board, set her sail, and away.

Though fast the red bark down the river did glide, Yet faster ran Malcolm adown by its side ; “Macgregor ! Macgregor !” he bitterly cried ; Macgregor ! Macgregor !" the echoes replied. He struck at the lady, but, strange though it seem, His sword only fell on the rocks and the stream; But the groans from the boat, that ascended amain, Were groans from a bosom in horror and pain. They reached the dark lake, and bore lightly away“ Macgregor is vanished for ever and aye !

THE ISLES OF GREECE.

BY BYRON.

THE isles of Greece, the isles of Greece !

Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
Where grew the arts of war and peace,-

Where Delos rose, and Phæbus sprung !
Eternal summer gilds them yet,
But all, except their sun, is set.

The Scian' and the Teiano muse,

The hero's harp, the lover's lute,
Have found the fame your shores refuse ;

Their place of birth alone is mute
To sounds which echo farther 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 dreamed 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 shore 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 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 ?

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 Thermopylæ !

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 ignoble callHow answers each bold Bacchanal!

You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet,

Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone ? Of two such lessons, why forget

The nobler and the manlier one ? You have the letters Cadmus gaveThink 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 shore, 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 breasts 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!

DON GARZı..

BY ROGERS.

Among those awful forms, in elder time
Assembled, and through many an after-age
Destined to stand as genii of the Place
Where men most meet in Florence, may be seen
His who first played the tyrant. Clad in mail,
But with his helmet off-in kingly state,
Aloft he sits upon his horse of brass ;'
And they, that read the legend underneath,
Go and pronounce him happy. Yet, methinks,
There is a chamber that, if walls could speak,
Would turn their admiration into pity.
Half of what passed died with him; but the rest,
All he discovered when the fit was on,
All that, by those who listened, could be gleaned
From broken sentences and starts in sleep,
Is told, and by an honest chronicler.?

2

Two of his sons, Giovanni and Garzia, (The eldest had not seen his nineteenth summer,) Went to the chase ; but only one returned. Giovanni, when the huntsman blew his horn O'er the last stag that started from the brake, And in the heather turned to stand at bay, Appeared not, and at close of day was found Bathed in his innocent blood. Too well, alas, The trembling Cosmo guessed the deed, the doer; And, having caused the body to be borne