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?

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.

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.

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.

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.
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 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!

From Don Juan.

THE EVENING HYMN.

Ave Maria! o'er the earth and sea,

That heavenliest hour of Heaven is worthiest thee!

Ave Maria! blessed be the hour!

The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft Have felt that moment in its fullest power

Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft, While swung the deep bell in the distant tower, Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft, And not a breath crept through the rosy air, And yet the forest leaves seem'd stirr'd with prayer.

Ave Maria! 'tis the hour of prayer!

Ave Maria! 'tis the hour of love!

Ave Maria! may our spirits dare

Look up to thine and to thy Son's above?

Ave Maria! oh that face so fair!

Those downcast eyes beneath the almighty DoveWhat though 'tis but a pictured image strike

That painting is no idol, 'tis too like.

From Don Juan.

STANZA S.

I heard thy fate without a tear,
Thy loss with scarce a sigh;

And yet thou wert surpassing dear—
Too loved of all to die.

I know not what hath sear'd mine eye:

The tears refuse to start;

But every drop its lids deny
Falls dreary on my heart.

Yes-deep and heavy, one by one,
They sink, and turn to care;
As cavern'd waters wear the stone,
Yet, dropping, harden there.

They cannot petrify more fast
Than feelings sunk remain,
Which, coldly fix'd, regard the past,
But never melt again.

THE proper name of this writer is Bryan Waller Proctor; but this he converted into the anagram of Barry Cornwall, by which he is best known as a poet. He was born in London, and was educated at Harrow, where, among other school-fellows who gained a high name in society, he numbered Lord Byron and Sir Robert Peel. Having finished his classical education, he was placed with a solicitor at Calne, in Wiltshire, to be educated for the bar; but after studying the elements of the law at this place for four years, he changed his purpose, and became the pupil of a conveyancer at Lincoln's Inn, in which profession he finally settled. The poetical tastes and studies of Proctor lay among the great dramatic authors of the Elizabethan period, and accordingly his first publication, which appeared in 1815, consisted of a series of dramatic sketches in which he caught in a great measure the tenderness and gentleness, although not the sublimity and strength, of those great master-spirits. Towards the end of the same year, he published his Sicilian Story. In 1820 appeared his Marcian Colonna, and in the following year his tragedy of Mirandola. He now became a favourite poet with the public, not only on account of the intrinsic merits of his writings, but also in consequence of that charm of deep melancholy with which they are imbued a melancholy too deep and sustained to be fictitious. In him, also, this natural bias seems to determine the selection of his subjects, which are exclusively themes of tenderness and sadness. In private life, as in his poetry, he blends with pensiveness of spirit and gentleness of manners those virtuous and amiable qualities, which have secured for him through life the affection and esteem of every class of society.

THE LAST SONG.

Must it be? Then farewell,

Thou whom my woman's heart cherish'd so long:
Farewell, and be this song

The last, wherein I say, "I loved thee well."

Many a weary strain

(Never yet heard by thee) hath this poor breath

Utter'd, of Love and Death,

And maiden grief, hidden and chid in vain.

Oh! if in after years

The tale that I am dead shall touch thy heart,

Bid not the pain depart;

But shed, over my grave, a few sad tears.

Think of me-still so young,

Silent, though fond, who cast my life away,

Daring to disobey

The passionate Spirit that around me clung.

Farewell again; and yet,

Must it indeed be so-and on this shore

Shall you and I no more

Together see the sun of the Summer set?

For me, my days are gone:

No more shall I, in vintage times, prepare
Chaplets to bind my hair,

As I was wont: oh, 'twas for you alone!

And on my bier I'll lay

Me down in frozen beauty, pale and wan,
Martyr of love to man,

And, like a broken flower, gently decay.

THE LAST DAY OF TIPPOO SAIB.

That day he 'rose Sultan of half the East.
-The guards awoke each from his feverish dream
Of conquest or of fear: the trumpet plain'd
Through the far citadel, and thousands troop'd
Obedient to its mournful melody,

Soldier and chief and slave: and he the while
Traversed his hall of power, and with a look
Deeply observant glanced on all: then, waving
His dusky arm, struck through the listening crowd
Silence and dumb respect: from his fierce tongue
Stream'd words of vengeance: fame he promised,
And wealth and honours to the brave, but woe
To those who fail'd him.-There he stood, a king
Half-circled by his Asian chivalry,

In figure as some Indian god, or like
Satan, when he beneath his burning dome

Marshall'd the fiery cherubim, and call'd

All hell to arms. The sun blazed into day:

Then busy sights were seen, and sounds of war

Came thickening: first the steed's shrill neigh; the drum

Rolling at intervals; the bugle note,

Mix'd with the hoarse command; then (nearing on)
The soldiers' silent, firm, and regular tread;

The trampling horse; the clash of swords; the wheel
That, creaking, bore the dread artillery.

How fierce the dark king bore him on that day!
How bravely! like a common slave he fought,
Heedless of life, and cheer'd the soldier on ;-
Deep in his breast the bullets sank, but he
Kept on, and this look'd nobly—like a king.
That day he earn'd a title with his life,

And made his foes respect him.-Towards night
He grew faint, very faint with many wounds:
His soldiers bore him in: they wept: he was
Their old commander, and, whate'er his life,
Had led them on to conquest. Then (it was
His wish) they placed him on his throne.-He sate
Like some dark form of marble, with an eye
Staring, and strain'd with pain, and motionless,
And glassy as with death: his lips compress'd
Spoke inward agony, yet seem'd he resolute
To die a king. An enemy came, and strove
To tear away his regal diadem:

Then turn'd his eye; he rose-one angry blush
Tinted his cheek, and fled. He grasp'd his sword,
And struck his last, faint, useless blow, and then
Stood all defenceless-Ah! a flash, and quick
Fled the dark ball of death; right through the brain
It went (a mortal messenger),—and all
That then remain'd of that proud Asian king,
Who startled India far and wide, and shook
The deserts with his thunder, was—a name.

SONG.

Whither, ah! whither is my lost love straying?

Upon what pleasant land beyond the sea?

O ye winds! now playing

Like airy spirits round my temples free,

Fly, and tell him this from me :

Tell him, sweet winds! that in my woman's bosom My young love still retains its perfect power;

Or, like the summer blossom

That changes still from bud to the full-blown flower,
Grows with every passing hour.

Say (and say gently) that, since we two parted,
How little joy-much sorrow-I have known;

Only not broken-hearted,

Because I muse upon bright moments gone,
And dream and think of him alone.