FROM THE GIAOUR, BY LORD BYRON.

Recollections of Greece.

CLIME of the unforgotten brave!
Whose land from plain to mountain-cave
Was Freedom's home or Glory's grave—
Shrine of the mighty! can it be,
That this is all remains of thee?
Approach, thou craven crouching slave-
Say, is not this Thermopyla?

These waters blue that round you lave
Oh servile offspring of the free-
Pronounce what sea, what shore is this?
The gulf, the rock of Salamis!

These scenes their story not unknown-
Arise, and make again your own;
Snatch from the ashes of your sires
The embers of their former fires,
And he who in the strife expires
Will add to theirs a name of fear,
That Tyranny shall quake to hear,
And leave his sons a hope, a fame,
They too will rather die than shame;
For Freedom's battle once begun,
Bequeathed by bleeding Sire to Son,
Though baffled oft is ever won.
Bear witness, Greece, thy living page,
Attest it many a deathless
age!

While kings in dusty darkness hid,
Have left a nameless pyramid,

Thy heroes-though the general doom
Hath swept the column from their tomb,
A mightier monument command,
The mountains of their native land!
There points thy Muse to stranger's eye,
The graves of those that cannot die!
"Twere long to tell, and sad to trace,
Each step from splendour to disgrace,
Enough no foreign foe could quell
Thy soul, till from itself it fell,
And Self-abasement pav'd the way
To villain-bonds and despot-sway.

What can he tell who treads thy shore?
No legend of thine olden time,

No

No theme on which the muse might soar,
High as thine own in days of yore,

When man was worthy of thy clime.
The hearts within thy valleys bred,
The fiery souls that might have led
Thy sons to deeds sublime;
Now crawl from cradle to the grave,
Slaves-nay the bondsmen of a slave,
And callous, save to crime;
Stain'd with each evil that pollutes
Mankind, where least above the brutes ;
Without even savage virtue blest,
Without one free or valiant breast.
Still to the neighbouring ports they waft
Proverbial wiles, and ancient craft,
In this the subtle Greek is found,
For this, and this alone, renown'd.
In vain might Liberty invoke
The spirit to its bondage broke,

Or raise the neck that courts the yoke:
No more her sorrows I bewail,

Yet this will be a mournful tale,
And they who listen may believe,

Who heard it first had cause to grieve.

HASSAN.

The steed is vanished from the stall,
No serf is seen in Hassan's hall;
The lonely Spider's thin grey pall
Waves slowly widening o'er the wall;
The Bat builds in his Haram bower;
And in the fortress of his power
The Owl usurps the beacon tower;

The wild-dog howls o'er the fountain's brim,

With baffled thirst, and famine, grim,

For the stream has shrunk from its marble bed,

Where the weeds and the desolate dust are spread.

'Twas sweet of yore to see it play

And chase the sultriness of day-
As springing high the silver dew

In whirls fantastically flew,

And flung luxurious coolness round

The air, and verdure o'er the ground.

'Twas sweet, when cloudless stars were bright,

To view the wave of watery light,

And hear its melody by night.

And oft had Hassan's Childhood played
Around the verge of that cascade;

And

A

And oft upon his mother's breast
That sound had harmonized his rest;
And oft had Hassan's Youth along
It's bank been soothed by Beauty's song;
And softer seemed each melting tone
Of Music mingled with it's own.—
But ne'er shall Hassan's Age repose
Along the brink at Twilight's close-
The stream that filled that font is fled-
The blood that warmed his heart is shed-
And here no more shall human voice
Be heard to rage-regret-rejoice--
The last sad note that swelled the gale
Was woman's wildest funeral wail-
That quench'd in silence-all is still,
But the lattice that flaps when the wind is shrill
Though raves the gust, and floods the rain,
No hand shall close its clasp again.
On desart sands 'twere joy to scan
The rudest steps of fellow man,
So here the very voice of Grief
Might wake an Echo like relief-
At least 'twould say, "all are not gone;
There lingers Life, though but in one-
For many a gilded chamber's there,
Unmeet for Solitude to share;
Within that dome as yet Decay

Hath slowly worked her cankering way-
But Gloom is gather'd o'er the gate,
Nor there the Fakir's self will wait;
Nor there will wandering Dervise stay,
For Bounty cheers not his delay;
Nor there will weary stranger halt

To share the master's “bread and salt."
Alike must Wealth and Poverty

Pass heedless and unheeded by,

For Courtesy and Pity died

With Hassan on the mountain side.--

His roof-that refuge unto men

Is Desolation's hungry den.

The guest flies the hall, and the vassal from labour,

Since his turban was cleft by the infidel's sabre !

*

*

THE

FROM MONTGOMERY'S WORLD BEFORE THE FLOOD.

The Death of Adam.

"With him his noblest sons might not compare,

In godlike feature and majestic air,

Not out of weakness rose his gradual frame,
Perfect from his Creator's hand he came;
And as in form excelling, so in mind

The Sire of men transcended all mankind:
A soul was in his eye, and in his speech
A dialect of heaven no art could reach;
For oft of old to him, the evening breeze
Had borne the voice of God among the trees;
Angels were wont their songs with his to blend,
And talk with him as their familiar friend.
But deep remorse for that mysterious crime,
Whose dire contagion through elapsing time
Diffused the curse of death beyond controul,
Had wrought such self-abasement in his soul,
That he, whose honours were approach'd by none,
Was yet the meekest man beneath the sun.
From sin, as from the serpent that betray'd
Eve's early innocence, he shrunk afraid;
Vice he rebuked with so austere a frown,
He seem'd to bring an instant judgment down,
Yet while he chid, compunctious tears would start,
And yearning tenderness dissolve his heart;
The guilt of all his race became his own,
He suffer'd as if he bad sinn'd alone,
Within our glen to filial love endear'd,
Abroad for wisdom, truth and justice fear'd,
He waik'd so humbly in the sight of all,
The vilest ne'er reproach'd him with his fall.
Children were his delight;-they ran to meet
His soothing hand, and clasp his honour'd feet;
While midst their fearless sports supremely blest,
He grew in heart a child among the rest :
Yet as a Parent, nought beneath the sky
Touch'd him so quickly as an infant's eye;
Joy from its smile of happiness he caught,
Its flash of rage sent horror through his thought,
His smitten conscience felt as fierce a pain,
As if he fell from innocence again,

"One

"One morn, I track'd him on his lonely way,
Pale as the gleam of slow-awakening day;
With feeble step he climb'd yon craggy height,
Thence fix'd on distant Paradise his sight;
He gazed awhile in silent thought profound,
Then falling prostrate on the dewy ground,
He pour'd his spirit in a flood of prayer,
Bewail'd his ancient crime with self-despair,
And claim'd the pledge of reconciling grace,
The promised Seed, the Saviour of his race.
Wrestling with God, as Nature's vigour fail'd,
His faith grew stronger and his plea prevail'd;
The prayer from agony to rapture rose,
And sweet as Angel accents fell the close.
I stood to greet him; when he raised his head,
Divine expression o'er his visage spread,
His presence was so saintly to behold,

He seem'd in sinless Paradise grown old,

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"This day,' said he, in Time's star-lighted round, Renews the anguish of that mortal wound

On me inflicted, when the Serpent's tongue

My Spouse with his beguiling falsehood stung.

Though years of grace thro' centuries have pass'd
Since my transgression, this may be my last;

• Infirmities without, and fears within

Foretell the consummating stroke of sin;

The hour, the place, the form to me unknown,

But God, who lent me life, will claim his own:
Then, lest I sink as suddenly in death,

As quicken'd into being by his breath,

Once more I climb'd these rocks with weary pace,
And but once more, to view my native place,

To bid yon garden of delight farewell,

The earthly Paradise, from which I fell.
This mantle, Enoch! which I yearly wear
To mark the day of penitence and prayer,-
These skins, the covering of my first offence,
When conscious of departed innocence,
Naked and trembling from my Judge I fied,
A hand of mercy o'er my vileness spread ;-
Enoch! this mantle thus vouchsafed to me,
At my dismission I bequeath to thee;
• Wear it in sad memorial on this day,
And yearly at mine earliest altar slay
A lamb immaculate, whose blood be spilt
In sign of wrath removed and cancell'd guilt;

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