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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 !

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 Teian 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.

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 ?

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.

A king sat on the rocky brow

Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis ;

The tyrant of the Chersonese

Was freedom's best and bravest friend; That tyrant was Miltiades !

O that the present hour would lend

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And with the idle gallows-rope

The young child played.

Where the doomed victim in his cell

Had counted o'er the weary hours, Glad school-girls, answering to the bell,

Came crowned with flowers.

Grown wiser for the lesson given,

I fear no longer, for I know That where the share is deepest driven

The best fruits grow.

The outworn rite, the old abuse,

The pious fraud transparent grown, The good held captive in the use

Of wrong alone,

These wait their doom, from that great law

Which makes the past time serve to-day; And fresher life the world shall draw

From their decay.

O backward-looking son of time !

The new is old, the old is new, The cycle of a change sublime

Still sweeping through.

So wisely taught the Indian seer;

Destroying Seva, forming Brahm, Who wake by turn Earth's love and fear,

Are one, the same.

Idly as thou, in that old day

Thou mournest, did thy sire repine ; So, in his time, thy child grown gray

Shall sigh for thine.

But life shall on and upward go ;

Th' eternal step of Progress beats To that great anthem, calm and slow,

Which God repeats.

Take heart !- the Waster builds again,

A charméd life old Goodness hath ; The tares may perish, -- but the grain

Is not for death.

God works in all things ; all obey

His first propulsion from the night : Wake thou and watch !- the world is gray With morning light!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

“Spare," Art implored, “yon holy pile ;

That grand old time-worn turret spare" : Meek Reverence, kneeling in the aisle,

Cried out, “Forbear!”

Gray-bearded Use, who, deaf and blind,

Groped for his old accustomed stone, Leaned on his staff, and wept to find

His seat o'erthrown.

Young Romance raised his dreamy eyes,

O'erhung with paly locks of gold, Why smite,” he asked in sad surprise,

“The fair, the old ?"

Yet louder rang the Strong One's stroke,

Yet nearer flashed his axe's gleam ; Shuddering and sick of heart I woke,

As from a dream.

I looked : aside the dust-cloud rolled,

The Waster seemed the Builder too ; Up springing from the ruined Old

I saw the New.

'T was but the ruin of the bad,

The wasting of the wrong and ill ; Whate'er of good the old time had

Was living still.

Calm grew the brows of him I feared ;

The frown which awed me passed away, And left behind a smile which cheered

Like breaking day.

The grain grew green on battle-plains,

O'er swarded war-mounds grazed the cow ; The slave stood forging from his chains

The spade and plough.

Where frowned the fort, pavilions gay

And cottage windows, flower-intwined, Looked out upon the peaceful bay

And hills behind.

Through vine-wreathed cups with wine once red,

The lights on brimming crystal fell, Drawn, sparkling, from the rivulet head

And mossy well.

Through prison walls, like Heaven-sent hope,

Fresh breezes blew, and sunbeams strayed,

POEMS OF THE SEA.

They

turned to the Earth, but she frowns on her child;

They turned to the sea, and he smiled as of old:
Sweeter was the peril of the breakers white and wild,

Sweeter than the land, with its bondage and gold!

Sayard Taylon

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