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But in the long-boat they contrived to stow

Some pounds of bread, though injured by the wet; Water, a twenty-gallon cask or so;

Six flasks of wine; and they contrived to get A portion of their beef up from below,

And with a piece of pork, moreover, met,

But scarce enough to serve them for a luncheon-
Then there was rum, eight gallons in a puncheon.

The other boats, the yawl and pinnance, had
Been stove in the beginning of the gale;
And the long boat's condition was but bad,
As there were but two blankets for a sail,
And one oar for a mast, which a young lad

Threw in by good luck, over the ship's rail;
And two boats could not hold, far less be stored,
To save one half the people then on board.

'Twas twilight, and the sunless day went down
Over the waste of waters; like a veil,

Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown
Of one whose hate is mask'd but to assail.
Thus to their hopeless eyes the night was shewn,
And grimly darkled o'er the faces pale,
And the dim desolate deep: twelve days had Fear
Been their familiar, and now Death was here.

Some trial had been making at a raft,
With little hope in such a rolling sea,

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A sort of thing at which one would have laugh'd,
If any laughter at such times could be,
Unless with people who too much have quaff'd,
And have a kind of wild and horrid glee,
Half epileptical, and half hysterical:
Their preservation would have been a miracle.
At half-past eight o'clock, booms, hencoops, spars,
And all things, for a chance, had been cast loose,
That still could keep afloat the struggling tars,
For yet they strove, although of no great use:
There was no light in heaven but a few stars,
The boats put off o'ercrowded with their crews;
She gave a heel, and then a lurch to port,
And, going down head foremost-sunk, in short.

Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell

Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the brave,Then some leap'd overboard with dreadful yell, As eager to anticipate their grave;

And the sea yawn'd around her like a hell,

And down she suck'd with her the whirling wave, Like one who grapples with his enemy, And strives to strangle him before he die. And first one universal shriek there rush'd, Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash

Of echoing thunder; and then all was hush'd,
Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash
Of billows; but at intervals there gush'd,

Accompanied with a convulsive splash,
A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry
Of some strong swimmer in his agony.

The boats, as stated, had got off before,
And in them crowded several of the crew;
And yet their present hope was hardly more
Than what it had been, for so strong it blew,
There was slight chance of reaching any shore;
And then they were too many, though so few-
Nine in the cutter, thirty in the boat,
Were counted in them when they got afloat.

All the rest perish'd; near two hundred souls
Had left their bodies; and what's worse, alas!
When over Catholics the ocean rolls,

They must wait several weeks before a mass
Takes off one peck of purgatorial coals,

Because, till people know what's come to pass,
They won't lay out their money on the dead-
It costs three francs for every mass that's said.

AN EASTERN PICTURE.

And further on a troop of Grecian girls,

The first and tallest her white kerchief waving, Were strung together like a row of pearls,

Link'd hand in hand, and dancing; each, too, having Down her white neck long floating auburn curls

(The least of which would set ten poets raving);

Their leader sang-and bounded to her song,
With choral step and voice, the virgin throng.

And here, assembled cross-legg'd round their trays,
Small social parties just begun to dine;
Pilaus and meats of all sorts met the gaze,
And flasks of Samian and of Chian wine,

And sherbet cooling in the porous vase;

Above them their desert grew on its vine;

The orange and pomegranate nodding o'er

Dropp'd in their laps, scarce pluck'd, their mellow store.

A band of children, round a snow-white ram,

There wreathe his venerable horns with flowers;
While peaceful, as if still an unwean'd lamb,
The patriarch of the flock all gently cowers

His sober head, majestically tame,

Or eats from out the palm, or playful lowers His brow, as if in act to butt, and then

Yielding to their small hands, draws back again.

Their classical profiles, and glittering dresses,
Their large black eyes, and soft seraphic cheeks,
Crimson as cleft pomegranates, their long tresses,
The gesture which enchants, the eye that speaks,
The innocence which happy childhood blesses,
Made quite a picture of these little Greeks;
So that the philosophical beholder

Sigh'd for their sakes-that they should e'er grow older.
Afar, a dwarf buffoon stood telling tales

To a sedate gray circle of old smokers,
Of secret treasures found in hidden vales,
Of wonderful replies from Arab jokers,

Of charms to make good gold and cure bad ails,
Of rocks bewitch'd that open to the knockers,
Of magic ladies who, by one sole act,

Transform'd their lords to beasts (but that's a fact.)

THE POET'S SONG,

THE ISLES OF GREECE.

1.

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.

2.

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 Blest."

3.

The mountains look on Marathon

And Marathon looks on the sea;

And musing there an hour alone,

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I dream'd that Greece might still be free;

For standing on the Persians' grave,

I could not deem myself a slave.

4.

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!

The vηool μakapov of the Greek poets were supposed to have been the Cape de Verd Islands or the Canaries.

He counted them at break of day-
And when the sun set, where were they?*

5.

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?

6.

"Tis something, in the dearth of fame,
Though link'd among a fetter'd 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.

7.

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 grant but three,
To make a new Thermopyla!

8.

What, silent still? and silent all?
Ah! no;-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!"
'Tis but the living who are dumb.

9.

In vain-in vain; strike other chords;
Fill high the cup with Samian wine!
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes,

And shed the blood of Scio's vine!
Hark! rising to the ignoble call-
How answers each bold Bacchanal!

10.

You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet,
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone?
Of two such lessons, why forget

The nobler and the manlier one?
You have the letters Cadmus gave-
Think ye he meant them for a slave?

"Deep were the groans of Xerxes, when he saw
This havoc; for his seat, a lofty mound
Commanding the wide sea, o'erlook'd the hosts.
With rueful cries he rent his royal robes,

And through his troops embattled on the shore
Gave signal of retreat; then started wild
And fled disorder'd."-ESCHYLUS.

11.

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
We will not think of themes like these!
It made Anacreon's song divine:

He served but served Polycrates

A tyrant; but our masters then

Were still, at least, our countrymen.

12.

The tyrant of the Chersonese

Was freedom's best and bravest friend;
That tyrant was Miltiades!

Oh! that the present hour would lend
Another despot of the kind!

Such chains as his were sure to bind.

13.

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore,
Exists the remnant of a line

Such as the Doric mothers bore;
And there, perhaps, some seed is sown,
The Heracleidan blood might own.

14.

Trust not for freedom to the Franks-
They have a king who buys and sells:
In native swords, and native ranks,
The only hope of courage dwells;
But Turkish force, and Latin fraud,
Would break your shield, however broad.
15.

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
Our virgins dance beneath the shade-
I see their glorious black eyes shine;

But gazing on each glowing maid,
My own the burning tear-drop laves,
To think such breasts must suckle slaves.

16.

Place me on Sunium's marbled steep,

Where nothing, save the waves and I,
May hear our mutual murmurs sweep;
There, swan-like, let me sing and die:
A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine-
Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!

TWILIGHT.

Sweet hour of twilight!-in the solitude
Of the pine forest, and the silent shore
Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood,

Rooted where once the Adrian wave flow'd o'er,

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