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The heavenly archer stands * no human birth,
No perishable denizen of earth ;
Youth blooms immortal in his beardless face,
A god in strength, with more than godlike grace;
All, all divine; no struggling muscle glows,
Through heaving vein no mantling life-blood flows;
But, animate with deity alone,
In deathless glory lives the breathing stone.

Bright kindling with a conqueror's stern delight,
His keen eye tracks the arrow's fateful flight;
Burns his indignant cheek with vengeful fire,
And his lip quivers with insulting ire :
Firm fixed his tread, yet light, as when on high
He walks the impalpable and pathless sky;
The rich luxuriance of his hair, confined
In graceful ringlets, wantons on the wind,
That lifts in sport his mantle's drooping fold,
Proud to display that form of faultless mould.

Mighty Ephesian!† with an eagle's flight
Thy proud soul mounted through the fields of light,
Viewed the bright conclave of heaven's blest abode,
And the cold marble leapt to life a god.
Contagious awe through breathless myriads ran,
And nations bowed before the work of man.
For mild he seemed, as in Elysian bowers,
Wasting in careless case the joyous hours ;
Haughty, as bards have sung, with princely sway
Curbing the fierce, flame-breathing steeds of day;
Beauteous as vision seen in dreamy sleep
By holy maid on Delphi's haunted steep,
'Mid the dim twilight of the laurel grove,
Too fair to worship, too divine to love.


Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean -roll !

Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ;
Man marks the earth with ruin; his control

Stops with the shore; upon the watery plain

The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain * The Apollo is in the act of watching the arrow with which he slow the serpent Python. † Agasias of Ephesus.

A shadow of man's ravage, save

his own,
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain,
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,
Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.
Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form

Glasses itself in tempests; in all time,
Calm or convulsed - in breeze, or gale, or storm,

Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime
Dark heaving;

- boundless, endless, and sublime The image of eternity — the throne

Of the Invisible! even from out thy slime
The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone
Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.
And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy

Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy

I wantoned with thy breakers ; — they to me

Were a delight; and if the freshening sea Made them a terror, 't was a pleasing fear;

For I was, as it were, a child of thee, And trusted to thy billows far and near, And laid my

hand upon thy mane - as I do here.


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She was an only child, her name Ginevra,
The joy, the pride, of an indulgent father :
And in her fifteenth year became a bride,
Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria,
Her playmate from her birth, and her first love.
She was all gentleness, all gayety,
Her pranks the favorite theme of every tongue.
But now the day was come, the day, the hour;
Now frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time,
The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum ;
And, in the luster of her youth, she gave
Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.
Great was the joy ; but at the nuptial feast,
When all sat down, the bride herself was wanting :
Nor was she to be found! Her father cried,
" 'T is but to make a trial of our love !"
And filled his glass to all; but his hand shook,



And soon from guest to guest the panic spread.
'T was but that instant she had left Francesco,
Laughing and looking back, and flying still,
Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger;
But now, alas! she was not to be found;
Nor, from that hour, could any thing be guessed,
But that she was not!

Weary of his life,
Francesco flew to Venice, and, embarking,
Flung it


in battle with the Turk.
The father lived, and long might you have seen
An old man wandering as in quest of something ;
Something he could not find, he knew not what.
When he was gone, the house remained a while
Silent and tenantless; then went to strangers.
Full fifty years were past, and all forgotten,
When on an idle day, a day of search
'Mid the old lumber in the gallery,
That mouldering chest was noticed, and ’t was said,
By one as young, as thoughtless, as Ginevra,

Why not remove it from its lurking-place ?”
'T was done as soon as said ; but, on the way,
It burst - it fell; and, lo! a skeleton,
With here and there a pearl, an emerald stone,
A golden clasp clasping a shred of gold.
All else had perished, save a wedding ring
And a small seal, her mother's legacy,
Engraven with a name, the name of both, “ Ginevra."

There then she had found a grave!
Within that chest had she concealed herself,
Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy,
When a spring lock, that lay in ambush there,
Fastened her down for ever!



And this, 0 Spain! is thy return

For the new world I gave !
Chains ! this the recompense I earn!

The fetters of the slave!
Yon sun that sinketh 'neath the sea
Rises on realms I found for thee.

I served thee as a son would serve ;

I loved thee with a father's love;
It ruled my thought, and strung my nerve,

To raise thee other lands above,
That thou, with all thy wealth, might be
The single empress of the sea.
For thee my form is bowed and worn

With midnight watches on the main;
For thee my soul hath calmly borne

Ills worse than sorrow, more than pain;
Through life, whate'er my lot might be,
I lived, dared, suffered, but for thee.
My guerdon? ”T is a furrowed brow,

Hair gray with grief, eyes dim with tears,
And blighted hope, and broken vow,

And poverty for coming years,
And hate, with malice in her train :
What other guerdon ? — View my chain !
say not that I


for gold ! No, let it be the robber's spoil. Nor yet, that hate and malice bold

Decry my triumph and my toil. –
I weep but for Spain's lasting shame;

but for her blackened fame. No more.

- The sunlight leaves the sea ;
Farewell, thou never-dying king !
Earth's clouds and changes change not thee,

And thou — and thou, - grim, giant thing,
Cause of my glory and my pain, -
Farewell, unfathomable main!

MISS JEWSBURY (altered).

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THE isles of Greece! the isles of Greece !

Where burning Sappho loved and sung;
Where grew the arts of war and peace ;

Where Dēlos rose, and Phoebus sprung ;
Eternal summer gilds them yet-
But all, except their sun, is set !



The Scian and the Tēian 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

sires' - Islands of the blessed." 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 Persian's 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, in nations all were his!
He counted them at break of day
And 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?
'Tis something, in the dearth of fame,

Though linked among a fettered 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, ant but three,
To make a new Thermopylae!
What, silent still ? and silent all ?

- 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!”. 'T is but the living who are dumb.

Ah! no;

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