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 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; 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 ἅ ποτ ̓ εἰς ἔρωτα καὶ ἡδονὰν κῆρ οι χαρμονὰν ἅβαν τε πνέοισα χορδάς καρδίας θρήνον δυσέρωτ ̓ ἐφώνει 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 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? τᾶς δὲ κηληθμοῖς ὁ σιδαροχάρμας θελγεθ ̓ ὑμνατὴρ, καὶ ἄρειον ὁρμὴν ἔσχε, καὶ τερπναῖς μανίαισι πάντα θυμὸν ἔδωκεν. ἦν τάδ'· Αἰγαίας χέλυος πέπαυται φθόγγος ὑμνατῶν χάρις ἐξόλωλε κῦμα νῦν μόνον ποτὶ θῖν ̓ ἐρήμαν πένθιμον ᾄδει. ἀλλ ̓ ἔμ' αδειαν ψιθυρίσματ ̓ αὐρᾶν τηλόθεν σαίνει φέρετ ̓ ὦ θεοί με νηνέμου δι' αἰθέρος, ἔνθα ναίει ἄμβροτον εἴαρ, καὶ φλέγει μειδήμασιν ̓Αφροδίτας γὰ τε καὶ πόντος φέρετ ̓ ἔνθα νᾶσοι κάλλεϊ στέφουσιν ἀνάριθμοι κρυστάλλινον οἶδμα θέσκελαι νᾶσοι, παρὰ ταῖσι καλὰ πάντα, πλὴν ἀνδρῶν γενεᾶς, τέθαλε βοτρύων ἐκεῖ γάνος, ἁλίω χρυ σολο γένεθλον, '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. Must we but weep o'er days more bless'd? Earth! render back from out thy breast 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. |