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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.
Place me on Sunium's marble 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 !
FROM MILTON'S PARADISE LOST.
Hear, all ye angels, progeny of light,
Cast out from God and blessed vision, falls
Into utter darkness, deep ingulf'd, his place
Here is verdure and bloom on the bush and the tree,
And many a flower sweetly blows : But one is the dearest of all to me;
'Tis the joy of my heart, 'tis the Rose. The snowdrop is fair, and the pansies are gay,
The daisy with smile cheers the ground; And sweet in the bush is the white-thorn of May,
And woodbine that clusters around :
And a loveliness deeper than those ;
Oh ! the queen of them all is the Rose.
The lily with grace doth her petals unfold,
The tulip with rich scarlet glows, The daffodil wears a mantle of gold,
But all these must yield to the Rose.