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MONT BLANC is the monarch of mountains;

They crown'd him long ago

On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds,

With a diadem of snow.

Around his waist are forests braced,

The Avalanche in his hand;

But ere it fall, that thundering ball
Must pause for my command.
The Glacier's cold and restless mass
Moves onward day by day;
But I am he who bids it pass,

Or with its ice delay.

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IO

I am the spirit of the place,

Could make the mountain bow

And quiver to his cavern'd base

And what with me wouldst Thou?

TO THOMAS MOORE

I

My boat is on the shore,

And my bark is on the sea; But, before I go, Tom Moore, Here's a double health to thee!

II

Here's a sigh to those who love me,
And a smile to those who hate;
And, whatever sky's above me,
Here's a heart for every fate.

III

Though the ocean roar around me,
Yet it still shall bear me on;
Though a desert should surround me,
It hath springs that may be won.

IV

Were't the last drop in the well,

As I gasped upon the brink,

Ere my fainting spirit fell,

'Tis to thee that I would drink.

V

With that water, as this wine,

The libation I would pour

Should be peace with thine and mine,
And a health to thee, Tom Moore!

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IO

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STANZAS WRITTEN ON THE ROAD BETWEEN FLORENCE AND PISA

I

Он, talk not to me of a name great in story;
The days of our youth are the days of our glory;
And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty
Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.

II

What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled? 5 'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled.

Then away with all such from the head that is hoary!
What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory!

III

Oh FAME! if I e'er took delight in thy praises,
'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases,
Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover
She thought that I was not unworthy to love her.

IV

There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee;
Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee;
When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story,

I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory.

THE ISLES OF GREECE

From Don Juan, Canto III

I

THE isles of Greece! the isles of Greece!
Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
Where grew the arts of war and peace,

Where Delos rose and Phoebus sprung!

ΙΟ

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Eternal summer gilds them yet,
But all, except their sun, is set.

II

The Scian and the Teian muse,

The hero's harp, the lover's lute,
Have found the fame your shores refuse;
Their place of birth alone is mute
To sounds which echo further west
Than your sires' "Islands of the Blest."

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ΙΟ

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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 when the sun set where were they?

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V

And where are they? and where art thou,
My country? On thy voiceless shore

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The heroic lay is tuneless now

The heroic bosom beats no more! And must thy lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine?

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VI

'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.

VII

Must we but weep o'er days more blest?
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!

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