EXTRACTS FROM DON JUAN.

THE ISLES OF GREECE.*

THE isles of Greece, the isles of Greece!
Where burning Sappho loved and cung,
Where grew the arts of war and peace,--
Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung!
Eternal summer gilds them yet,
But all, except their sun, is set.

The Scian and the Teian muse,

The bero'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."+

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

I dream'd that Greece might still be free;
For standing on the Persians' grave,
I could not deem myself a slave.

A king sat 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?

And where are they? and where art thou,
My country? On thy voiceless shore
The heroic lay is tuneless now-

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

The Pieces following, to the end, are, from their great beauty and unobjectionable character, extracted from Don Juan.

The "Islands of the Blest," of the Greek poets were supposed to have been the Cage de Verd Islands or the Canaries.

I "Deep were the groans of Xerxes, when he saw

This havoc; for his seat, a lofty mound

Commanding the wide sea, o'erlook'd the hosts,
With rueful cries he rent his royal robes,

And through his troops embattled on the sho
Gave signal of retreat; then started wild
And fled disorder'd."-ESCHYLUS,

'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.

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!

What, silent still? and silent all?

Ah! no;-the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent's fall,

And answer, "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 callllow 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 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!

FAME.

WHAT is the end of Fame! "Tis but to fill
A certain portion of uncertain paper:

Some liken it to climbing up a hill,

Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapour;

For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill,

And bards burn what they call their "midnight tapor,"

To have, when the original is dust,

A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust.

What are the hopes of man? Old Egypt's King
Cheops erected the first pyramid

And largest, thinking it was just the thing

To keep his memory whole, and mummy hid;

But somebody or other rummaging

Burglariously broke his coffin's lid;

Let not a monument give you or me hopes,
Since not a pinch of dust remains of Cheops.

THE SHIPWRECK.

THE wind

Increased at night, until it blew a gale;
And though 'twas not much to a naval mind,
Some landsmen would have look'd a little palo,

For sailors are, in fact, a different kind :

At sunset they began to take in sail,

For the sky show'd it would come on to blow,
And carry away, perhaps, a mast or so.

At one o'clock the wind with sudden shift

Threw the ship right into the trough of the ses,
Which struck her aft, and made an awkward rift,
Started the stern-post, also shatter'd the
Whole of her stern-frame, and, ere she could lift
Herself from out her present jeopardy,
The rudder tore away: 'twas time to sound
The pumps, and there were four feet water found.

One gang of people instantly was put

Upon the pumps, and the remainder set
To get up part of the cargo, and what not;
But they could not come at the leak as yet;
At last they did get at it really, but

Still their salvation was an even bet:

The water rush'd through in a way quite puzzling, While they thrust sheets, shirts, jackets, bales of muslia, Into the opening; but all such ingredients

Would have been vain, and they must have gone down Despite of all their efforts and expedients,

But for the pumps; I'm glad to make them known To all the brother tars who may have need hence; For fifty to.. of water were upthrown

By them per hour, and they had all been undone,
But for the maker, Mr. Mann, of London.

As day advanced, the weather seem'd to abate,
And then the leak they reckon'd to reduce,
And keep the ship afloat, though three feet yet
Kept two hand and one chain pump still in use.
The wind blew fresh again: as it grew late

A squall came on, and while some guns broke loose, A gust-which all descriptive power transcendsLaid with one blast the ship on her beam ends.

There she lay, motionless, and seem'd upset ;
The water left the hold, and wash'd the decks,
And made a scene men do not soon forget;

For they remember battles, fires, and wrecks,
Or any other thing that brings regret,

Or breaks their hopes, or hearts, or heads, or necks: Thus drownings are much talk'd of by the divers, And swimmers, who may chance to be survivors.

Immediately the masts were cut away,

Both main and mizen; first the mizen went, The main-mast follow'd: but the ship still lay Like a mere log, and baffled our intent. Foremast and bowsprit were cut down, and they Eased her at last (although we never meant To part with all till every hope was blighted), And then with violence the old ship righted.

It may be easily supposed, while this

Was going on, some people were unquiet,