ON HIS HAVING ARRIVED AT THE AGE OF TWENTY –THREE
JOHN MILTON
HOW soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth
Stol’n on his wing my three and twentieth year!
My hasting days fly on with full career,
But my late spring no bud or blossom shew’th
Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth
That I to manhood an arriv’d so near,
And inward ripeness doth much less appear,
That some more timely happy spirits endu’th
Yet, be it less of more, or soon or slow,
It shall be still in strictest measure ev’n
To that same lot, however mean or high,
Toward which Time leads me and the will of heav’n.
All is, if have grace to use it so,
As ever in my great Task-Master’s eye.
THE ISLES OF GREECE
LORD 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 Phoebus 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 fund the fame your shores 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 Persians grave,
I could not deem myself a slave.
A king sat on the rocky brow
Which looks o’er sea born Salamis;
And ships by thousands lay below
And men n nations;-all were his!
He counted them at break of day-
And when the sun set, where were they?
And where are they? And were 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 death 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!
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?
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
We will not think of themes like these!
It made Anacreon’s song divine;
He served –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 chins 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 wine1
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 Sunim’s marbled steep,
Where nothing save the waves and I,
May hear our mutual murmurs sweep;
There swan like let me sing and die;
And land of slaves shall ne’er be mine-
Dash down you cup of Samian wine!
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