THE ISLES OF GREECE.

BY 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 Phœbus sprung!
Eternal summer gilds them yet,
But all except their sun, is set.

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 dayAnd 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?

Must we but weep o'er days more blest?
Must we but blush? Our father's 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 Thermopyla!

Douglas, Douglas, Tender and True....Dinah Maria Mulock