On thy sweet brow is sorrow.

BYRON.

WHY mourns the dark-haired daughter of the Isles ?—
Whose free glad breezes, and whose soft pure air,
Should waken round thee only flowers and smiles ;—
Why should not all be glad where all is fair!
If beauty to the beautiful be joy,

Thou should'st be joyous,-and the sunny clime
That old tradition peopled from the sky
Should ring with music to the march of time;-
Scenes where the soul of loveliness so long
Hath made a temple of each vine-clad hill,-
Beautiful vallies where the breath of song
Floats, like a spirit, o'er each haunted rill,—
Shores where the thoughts-that have not died-had birth,
And made the land a worship to the earth!

Alas, the mourner!-Greece was, then, a bride,
With Genius for her dowry; and her spouse
Stood, in his untamed beauty, by her side,
The youthful Valour-of an ancient house;
And Freedom was their child!-the boy is dead!
His sire died first!-and o'er her lonely lot
The widow and the childless hangs her head,
Like Rachael, weeping that her son is not !-
-"He is not dead, but sleepeth!"-Hark! the sea,
The wild, glad waters-with their revelry,

That gird thee round-have language in their waves,
That speaks, like trumpets, to a land of slaves,-
"Remember us, the tameless and the free,

When the mad Persian flung his chains upon the sea!"*

*

The superstitious Greeks, as well as the Persians, attributed the misfortunes of Xerxes to the sacrilege committed by him. in having

VI.

Thy very sighs, that fetters cannot bind,
Have lessons for thee;-and the prophet-wind,
That walks and shouts where'er it will, a tone
Whose meaning should have echoes in thine own!
They shall wake him!-lo! he is awake,
And treads the mountains, flinging to the gale
His battle-cry!-yet, ah! the voice that spake
Of old was louder,—and his cheek is pale,—
And years have done him wrong!-The while he slept,
His father's sword hath rusted and his own,-
The tears have scorched him that his mother wept,
And half the beauty of his youth is gone!

And thou, sweet lady of the monrning isles!
A true-born daughter of the land thou art,
That' smiles not till she sees her mother's smiles!-
The country's chains lie heavy on thy heart!—
Perchance, like her, thou art a widow, too,

A widow and an orphan,-and the fate
That kept her thus hath, haply, made thee so,
And left thee lone-alone and desolate !-
Now, in thy dreams, amid the ruined halls

Of thy wronged land, perchance there mingles one,
Whose chambers,-echoing back the waterfalls,—
For thee for thee had voices of their own!
Amid thy visions of thy lofty sires,-
Whose tombs are altars,-haply there may be
An infant's grave-whose quiet pomp aspires
To be a shrine to thee-and only thee!
-But, who shall read the sign upon thy brow,
Save that its tale is sorrow?-Even now,

Thine and thy country's portion is to mourn ;

Oh! much is lost that never can return,

And fancy paints not Greece-without her funeral Urn!

ordered that the sea should receive 300 lashes, and have chains thrown into it, as a punishment for destroying the madman's bridge of boats.