Say-would you make those beauties quite so cheap?

Hot from the hands promiscuously applied, Round the slight waist, or down the flowing side,

Where were the rapture then to clasp the form
From this lewd grasp and lawless contact warm?
At once love's most endearing thought resign,
To press the hand so press'd by none but thine;
To gaze upon that eye which never met
Another's ardent look without regret ;
Approach the lip which all, without restraint,
Come near enough- if not to touch-to taint;
If such thou lovest-love her then no more,

Or give-like her-caresses to a score;
Her mind with these is gone, and with it go
The little left behind it to bestow.

Voluptuous Waltz! and dare I thus blaspheme? Thy bard forgot thy praises were his theme. Terpsichore, forgive!--at every ball My wife now waltzes-and my daughters shall; My son-(or stop-'tis needless to inquire-These little accidents should ne'er transpire; Some ages hence our genealogic tree

Will wear as green a bough for him as me)Waltzing shall rear, to make our name amends, Grandsons for me-in heirs to all his friends.

By every breeze and season blest,
Returns the sweets by nature given
In softest incense back to heaven;
And grateful yields that smiling sky
Her fairest hue and fragrant sigh.
And many a summer flower is there,
And many a shade that love might share,
And many a grotto meant for rest,
That holds the pirate for a guest;
Whose bark in sheltering cove below
Lurks for the passing peaceful prow,
Till the gay mariner's guitar

Is heard, and seen the evening star;
Then stealing with the muffled oar,
Far shaded by the rocky shore,
Rush the night-prowlers on the
prey,
And turn to groan his roundelay.
Strange- that where nature loved to trace,
As if for gods a dwelling-place,

And every grace and charm hath mix'd
Within the paradise she fix'd-
There man, enamour'd of distress,
Should mar it into wilderness,

And trample, brute-like, o'er each flower
That tasks not one laborious hour;
Nor claims the culture of his hand
To bloom along the fairy land,
But springs as to preclude his care,
And sweetly woos him-but to spare.
Strange that where all is peace beside,
There passion riots in her pride,
And lust and rapine wildly reign,
To darken o'er the fair domain.
It is as though the fiends prevail'd
Against the seraphs they assail'd,
And, fix'd on heavenly thrones, should dwell
The freed inheritors of hell;

So soft the scene, so form'd for joy,
So curst the tyrants that destroy !

He who hath bent him o'er the dead
Ere the first day of death is fled,
The first dark day of nothingness,
The last of danger and distress
(Before Decay's effacing fingers

Have swept the lines where beauty lingers),
And mark'd the mild angelic air-
The rapture of repose that's there-
The fix'd yet tender traits that streak
The languor of the placid cheek,
And-but for that sad shrouded eye,

That fires not, wins not, weeps not now--
And but for that chill, changeless brow,
Where cold Obstruction's apathy
Appals the gazing mourner's heart,
As if to him it could impart
The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon-
Yes, but for these and these alone,

Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour,
He still might doubt the tyrant's power,
So fair, so calm, so softly seal'd,
The first, last look by death reveal'd!
Such is the aspect of this shore-

'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more!
So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,
We start for soul is wanting there.
Hers is the loveliness in death,

That parts not quite with parting breath;
But beauty with that fearful bloom,
That hue which haunts it to the tomb-
Expression's last receding ray,

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,
O 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,
Yes! Self-abasement paved the way
To villain-bonds and despot sway.
What can he tell who treads thy shore?

No legend of thine olden time,
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.

Far, dark, along the blue sea glancing, The shadows of the rocks advancing, Start on the fisher's eye like boat Of island-pirate or Mainote; And fearful for his light caïque, He shuns the near but doubtful creek: Though worn and weary with his toil, And cumber'd with his scaly spoil, Slowly, yet strongly, plies the oar, Till port Leone's safer shore Receives him by the lovely light That best becomes an Eastern night.

Who thundering comes on blackest steed, With slacken'd bit and hoof of speed? Beneath the clattering iron's sound The cavern'd echoes wake around In lash for lash and bound for bound; The foam that streaks the courser's side, Seems gather'd from the ocean-tide: Though weary waves are sunk to rest, There's none within his rider's breast: And though to-morrow's tempest lower, Tis calmer than thy heart, young Giaour! I know thee not, I loathe thy race, But in thy lincaments I trace What time shall strengthen, not efface! Though young and pale, that sallow front Is scathed by fiery passion's brunt: Though bent on earth thine evil eye, As meteor-like thou glidest by, Right well I view and deem thee one Whom Othman's sons should slay or shun.

On-on he hasten'd, and he drew My gaze of wonder as he flew: Though like a demon of the night He pass'd, and vanish'd from my sight; His aspect and his air impress'd A troubled memory on my breast, And long upon my startled ear, Rung his dark courser's hoofs of fear. He spurs his steed; he nears the steep, That, jutting, shadows o'er the deep; He winds around: he hurries by ; The rock relieves him from mine eye; For well I ween unwelcome he Whose glance is fix'd on those that flee: And not a star but shines too bright On him who takes such timeless flight, He wound along-but ere he pass'd One glance he snatch'd, as if his last, A moment check'd his wheeling steed, A moment breathed him from his speed, A moment on his stirrup stoodWhy looks he o'er the olive wood?The crescent glimmers on the hill,

The Mosque's high lamps are quivering still;

Though too remote for sound to wake

That sound had burst his waking dream,
As Slumber starts at owlet's scream.
The spur hath lanced his courser's sides;
Away, away, for life he rides-
Swift as the hurl'd on high jerreed t
Springs to the touch his startled steed;
The rock is doubled, and the shore
Shakes with the clattering tramp no more;
The crag is won, no more is seen

His Christian crest and haughty mien.-
'Twas but an instant he restrain'd
That fiery barb so sternly rein'd;
'Twas but a moment that he stood,
Then sped as if by death pursued:
But in that instant o'er his soul
Winters of Memory seem'd to roll,
And gather in that drop of time
A life of pain, an age of crine.
O'er him who loves, or hates, or fears,
Such moment pours the grief of years:
What felt he then, at once opprest
By all that most distracts the breast?
That pause, which ponder'd o'er his fate,
Oh, who its dreary length shall date!
Though in Time's record nearly nought,
It was Eternity to Thought!

For infinite as boundless space

The thought that Conscience must embrace,
Which in itself can comprehend
Woe without name, or hope, or end.

The hour is past, the Giaour is gone:
And did he fly or fall alone?
Woe to that hour he came or went!
The curse of Hassan's sin was sent
To turn a palace to a tomb:
He came, he went, like the Simoom,
That Harbinger of fate and gloom,
Beneath whose widely-wasting breath