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I have heard the cloudy thunder : Where is
GEORGE LORD BYRON.
BORN IN LONDON 1788-DIED AT MISSOLONGHI 1824.
DESCRIPTION OF ROME.
An empty urn within her wither'd hands,
Old Tiber! through a marble wilderness ?
The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood,
wide Temple and tower went down, nor left a site :Chaos of ruins! who shall trace the void,
O’er the dim fragments cast a lunar light, And
say, “ Here was, or is,” where all is doubly
The double night of ages, and of her,
lap: But Rome is as the desert, where we steer Stumbling o'er recollections ; now we clap
Our hands, and cry, “ Eureka!” it is clearWhen but some false mirage of ruin rises near.
Alas! the lofty city! and, alas !
Alas, for Earth, for never shall we see
Oh thou, whose chariot rollid on Fortune's
wheel, Triumphant Sylla! Thou, who didst subdue Thy country's foes ere thou wouldst pause to
feel The wrath of thy own wrongs, or reap the due Of hoarded vengeance till thine eagles flew O’er prostrate Asia ;-thou, who with thy
frown Annihilated senates-Roman, too,
With all thy vices, for thou didst lay down With an atoning smile a more than earthly
The dictatorial wreath,-couldst thou divine To what would one day dwindle that which
made Thee more than mortal ? and that so supine By aught than Romans Rome should thus be
laid ? She who was named Eternal, and array'd Her warriors but to conquer ; she who veil'd
Earth with her haughty shadow, and display'd,
Until the o'ercanopied horizon faild, Her rushing wings; oh! she who was Almighty
SONG OF THE GREEK BARD. THE Isles of Greece, the Isles of Greece !
Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
Where Delos rose, and Phæbus sprung!
The Scian and the Teian muse,
The hero's harp, the lover's lute,
Their place of birth alone is mute
The mountains look on Marathon
And Marathon looks on the sea ;
I dreamed that Greece might still be free ;
A king sat on the rocky brow
Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis ;
And men and nations—all were his !
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?
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 !
What! silent still ? and silent all ?
Ah! no :-the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent's fall,
6 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 call — How 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 gave Think ye he meant them for a slave ?