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CONTENTS.

PAGE

THE ISLES OF GREECE

FROM MILTON'S PARADISE LOST, Book V.

THE ROSE.

FROM MILTON'S COMUS.

MILTON'S PARADISE LOST, Book VII.

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MACBETH

RICHARD III.

BYRON

PSALM CXXXVII.

FROM MOORE

RICHARD III.

PSALM C.

FROM THE Two GENTLEMEN OF VERONA.
FROM MILTON'S PARADISE LOST, Book VI.

MILTON'S COMUS.

TE DEUM

ELYSIUM.

FROM PETRARCH

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THE ISLES OF GREECE.

[The lines of Lord Byron are printed, on account of the similarity of some passages in the Greek.]

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 Phoebus sprung!

Eternal summer gilds them yet,

But all, except their sun, is set.

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' Islands of the Bless'd.'

THE ISLES OF GREECE.

[This Ode obtained the Gold Medal in the University of Cambridge. A few alterations have been made in it since.]

Εἴθε τις κούφαις πτερύγεσσιν ἄρας
τῆλ ̓ ἐπ ̓ ἀκτὰν Λεσβίδ ἀναρπάσαι με
τᾶς γὰρ ἱμείρω χερὶ συλλαβεῖν φόρο
μιγγα λιγείαν,

ἅ ποτ ̓ εἰς ἔρωτα καὶ ἡδονὰν κῆρ
ἐξέγειρεν Ἑλλάδος ὦ, πόθεν μοι
φίλτρα τ' ἔλθοι καὶ μελίγαρυς ὀμφὰ
οἷς ἐλέλισσε

χαρμονὰν ἅβαν τε πνέοισα χορδάς
πολλὰ μούνα μειλιχιᾶν ὑπ ̓ αἰγλᾶν
ἑσπέρας ἀκύμονα πρὸς θάλασσαν
στᾶσ ̓ ἐπὶ πρωνὸς

καρδίας θρήνον δυσέρωτ ̓ ἐφώνει·
ἔκλυον δρυμοί θ ̓ ἁλίαι τε πέτραι,
πενθέων τ' οἴκτῳ γλυκερῶν ἀοιδᾶς
λάθετ ̓ ἀηδών

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 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?

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