The mountains look on Marathon,
And Marathon looks on the sea:
And musing there an hour, alone,

I dreamed that Greece might still be free!
For, standing on the Persian's grave,
I could not deem myself a slave.-

Must we but weep o'er days more bless'd?
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!

What, silent still? and silent all?—

Ah! no; the voices of the dead
Sound like a distant torrent's fall,
And answer, 66
Let one living head,
But one arise, we come, we come!"-
'Tis but the living who are dumb.

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 !

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 of 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 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 mineDash down yon cup of Samian wine!

LXVIII.-DEATH OF RODERICK DHU.-Scott.

THE Chief in silence strode before,

And reached that torrent's sounding shore;
And here his course the Chieftain stayed,
Threw down his target and his plaid,
And to the Lowland warrior said :-

"Bold Saxon! to his promise just,
Vich-Alpine has discharged his trust.
This murderous chief, this ruthless man,
This head of a rebellious clan,

Hath led thee safe, through watch and ward,
Far past Clan-Alpine's outmost guard.
Now, man to man, and steel to steel,

A Chieftain's vengeance thou shalt feel.

See here, all 'vantageless I stand,
Armed, like thyself, with single brand;
For this is Coilantogle ford,

And thou must keep thee with thy sword!"
The Saxon paused:-"I ne'er delayed,
When foeman bade me draw my blade;
Nay, more, brave Chief, I vowed thy death:
Yet, sure, thy fair and generous faith,
And my deep debt for life preserved,
A better meed have well deserved :-
Can nought but blood our feud atone?
Are there no means?".

No, Stranger, none! And hear, to fire thy flagging zeal, The Saxon cause rests on thy steel; For thus spoke Fate, by prophet bred Between the living and the dead, Who spills the foremost foeman's life, His party conquers in the strife.'

66

Then, by my word," the Saxon said, The riddle is already read.

Seek yonder brake beneath the cliff

There lies Red Murdock, stark and stiff.
Thus Fate hath solved her prophecy,

Then yield to Fate, and not to me.'

Dark lightning flashed from Roderick's eye

"Soars thy presumption then so high,

Because a wretched kern ye slew,
Homage to name to Roderick Dhu?
He yields not, he, to Man-nor Fate!
Thou add'st but fuel to my hate:-
My clansman's blood demands revenge!-
Not yet prepared ?-Saxon! I change
My thought, and hold thy valour light
As that of some vain carpet-knight,
Who ill deserved my courteous care,
And whose best boast is but to wear
A braid of his fair lady's hair.'

66

I thank thee, Roderick, for the word!
It nerves my heart, it steels my sword;
For I have sworn this braid to stain
In the best blood that warms thy vein.
Now, truce, farewell! and ruth, begone!-
Yet think not that by thee alone,

Proud Chief! can courtesy be shown.
Though not from copse, or heath, or cairn,
Start at my whistle clansmen stern,

Of this small horn one feeble blast
Would fearful odds against thee cast.
But fear not--doubt not--which thou wilt-
We try this quarrel hilt to hilt!"—

Then each at once his falchion drew,
Each on the ground his scabbard threw,
Each looked to sun, and stream, and plain,
As what he ne'er might see again;

Then foot, and point, and eye opposed,
In dubious strife they darkly closed!

Three times in closing strife they stood,
And thrice the Saxon blade drank blood;
No stinted draught, no scanty tide,
The gushing flood the tartans dyed.
Fierce Roderick felt the fatal drain,
And showered his blows like wintry rain;
And, as firm rock, or castle roof,
Against the winter-shower is proof,
The foe, invulnerable still,

Foiled his wild rage by steady skill;
Till, at advantage ta'en, his brand
Forced Roderick's weapon from his hand,
And, backwards borne upon the lea,
Brought the proud Chieftain to his knee.
"Now, yield thee, or, by Him who made
The world, thy heart's blood dyes my blade!"
"Thy threats, thy mercy, I defy!
Let recreant yield, who fears to die."-
Like adder darting from his coil,
Like wolf that dashes through the toil,
Like mountain-cat that guards her young,
Full at Fitz-James's throat he sprung;
Received, but recked not of a wound,
And locked his arms his foeman round.-
Now, gallant Saxon, hold thine own!
No maiden's hand is round thee thrown!
That desperate grasp thy frame might feel,
Through bars of brass and triple steel!--
They tug, they strain!-down, down, they go,
The Gael above, Fitz-James below.
The Chieftain's grip his throat compressed,
His knee was planted on his breast;
His clotted locks he backward threw,
Across his brow his hand he drew,
From blood and mist to clear his sight,
Then gleamed aloft his dagger bright!—
-But hate and fury ill supplied
The stream of life's exhausted tide,
And all too late the advantage came
To turn the odds of deadly game;

For, while the dagger gleamed on high,

Reeled soul and sense, reeled brain and eye!
Down came the blow! but in the heath
The erring blade found bloodless sheath.
The struggling foe may now unclasp
The fainting Chief's relaxing grasp;
Unwounded from the dreadful close,
But breathless all, Fitz-James arose.

LXIX. THE MOTHER OF THE MACCABEES.-Callanan.

THAT mother viewed the scene of blood;
Her six unconquered sons were gone:
Fearless she viewed ;-beside her stood
Her last- her youngest-dearest one!
He looked upon her and he smiled;—
Oh! will she save that only child?

"By all my love, my son," she said,

"The breast that nursed,-the womb that bore--
The unsleeping care that watched thee,--fed,—
'Till manhood's years required no more;

By all I've wept and prayed for thee,

Now, now, be firm, and pity me!

"Look, I beseech thee, on yon heaven,
With its high field of azure light;
Look on this earth, to mankind given,
Arrayed in beauty and in might;
And think, nor scorn thy mother's prayer,
On Him who said it--and they were!
"So shalt thou not this tyrant fear,

Nor recreant, shun the glorious strife;
Behold! thy battle-field is near;

Then go, my son, nor heed thy life;
Go, like thy faithful brothers die,-
That I may meet you all on high!"
Like arrow from the bended bow
He sprang upon the bloody pile:-
Like sun-rise on the morning's snow,
Was that heroic mother's smile.
He died--nor feared the tyrant's nod-
For Judah's law and Judah's God.

:

LXX. THE HIGH-BORN LADYE.-Thomas Moore.

IN vain all the Knights of the Underwald woo'd her,
Though brightest of maidens, the proudest was she;
Brave chieftains they sought, and young minstrels they sued her,
But worthy were none of the high-born Ladye.

"Whomsoever I wed," said this maid so excelling,

"That knight must the conqueror of conquerors be; He must place me in hall fit for monarchs to dwell in ;None else shall be Lord of the high-born Ladye!"

Thus spoke the proud damsel, with scorn looking round her
On Knights and on Nobles of highest degree,

Who humbly and hopelessly left as they found her,
And worshipped at distance the high-born Ladye.

At length came a Knight from a far land to woo her,
With plumes on his helm like the foam of the sea;
His vizor was down-but, with voice that thrilled through her,
He whispered his vows to the high-born Ladye.