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 Or with its ice delay. 5 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, III Though the ocean roar around me, 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, 15 5 IO 15 20 STANZAS WRITTEN ON THE ROAD BETWEEN FLORENCE AND PISA I Он, talk not to me of a name great in story; 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! III Oh FAME! if I e'er took delight in thy praises, IV There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee; 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 Delos rose and Phoebus sprung! ΙΟ 15 Eternal summer gilds them yet, II The Scian and the Teian muse, The hero's harp, the lover's lute, 5 ΙΟ 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 20 V And where are they? and where art thou, 25 The heroic lay is tuneless now The heroic bosom beats no more! And must thy lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine? 30 8 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? 35 40 45 50 |