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Page 52 - 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?
Page 52 - 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!
Page 52 - 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...
Page 52 - 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 further west Than your sires'
Page 35 - To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven: As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head.
Page 82 - Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark, unfathom'd caves of ocean bear ; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood, Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest ; Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. Th...
Page 200 - The glory of Lebanon shall come unto thee, the fir tree, the pine tree, and the box together, to beautify the place of my sanctuary; and I will make the place of my feet glorious.
Page 158 - See here, what a mighty pretty Horace I have in my pocket ! what if you amused yourself in turning an ode, till we mount again? Lord! if you pleased, what a clever Miscellany might you make at leisure hours ?
Page 35 - And oft the craggy cliff he loved to climb, When all in mist the world below was lost— What dreadful pleasure! there to stand sublime, Like shipwrecked mariner on desert coast, And view the enormous waste of vapour, tost In billows, lengthening to th' horizon round, Now scooped in gulfs, with mountains now embossed!