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THE ISLES OF GREECE .
FROM MILTON'S PARADISE Lost, Book V.
THE ROSE.
FROM MILTON'S COMUS.

MILTON'S PARADISE Lost, Book VII.
SONG, BY MOORE
FROM AKENSIDE
SONG
SONG, BY MOORE .
FROM ROMEO AND JULIET
SONG, BY MOORE
FROM HENRY VIII.
PSALM CIV.
FROM HENRY VIII.

THE EDIPUS REX OF SOPHOCLES
MACBETH
THE BACCHÆ OF EURIPIDES.
MACBETH
WORDSWORTH.
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

THE GERMAN OF UHLAND
To CECILIA
ITALIA ANTIQUA
POLYPHEMUS AD GALATEAM
TUNC VARIÆ VENERE ARTES, ETC.
TRAHIT SUA QUEMQUE VOLUPTAS
PUERILIA LUSIMUS OMNES
AD PICTOREM
AN EPITAPH
MOVEAT CORNICULA RISUM

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B

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.]

Είθε τις κούφαις πτερύγεσσιν άρας
τηλ' επ' άκτάν Λεσβίδ' άναρπάσαι με
τας γαρ εμείρω χερι συλλαβείν φόρ-

μιγγα λιγείαν,

ά ποτ' εις έρωτα και άδονάν κήρ
εξέγειρεν Ελλάδος ώ, πόθεν μοι
φίλτρα τ' έλθοι και μελίγαρυς ομφα

οι ελέλισδε

χαρμoναν άβαν τε πνέουσα χορδάς
πολλά μούνα μειλιχιαν υπ' αίγλάν
εσπέρας ακύμονα προς θάλασσαν

στάσ' επί πρωνος

καρδίας θρήνον δυσέρωτέφώνει"
έκλυον δρυμοί θ' αλίαι τε πέτραι,
πενθέων τοίκτο γλυκερών αοιδάς

λάθετ' αηδών

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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