The sword, the banner, and the field,
Glory and Greece around us see,
The Spartan borne upon his shield

Was not more free.

Awake not Greece !-she is awake!

Awake my spirit '—think through whom My life-blood tastes its pareħt lake—

And then strike home.

I tread reviving passions down,
Unworthy manhood-unto thee
Indifferent should the smile or frown

Of beauty be.

If thou regret thy youth, why live?
The land of honourable death
Is here; up to the field, and give

Away thy breath!

Seek out--less often sought than found-
A soldier's grave for thee is best :

Then look around, and choose thy ground,

And take thy rest.

Missolonghi, January 22, 1824. On this day I complete my 36th year. BYRON.

THE world is not wholly deserted
By man who is friendly to man;
The few, we might say, are bad-hearted;
The many do good when they can.
Deceit does not walk in our streets
Where'er we encounter their throng,
Though the 'evil eye' doubts all it meets-
We will think so, although we be wrong.

If we prove, in our search for subsistence,
To meanness we never can bend,
We will find such a one in existence,

Perhaps when least look'd for—a friend. Abuses lie mostly within,

And these are worse, far worse to cure ;

Be true to yourself, and you win-
Be false, and to lose be as sure.

Z

---

The spirit of freedom increases
As man seeks his welfare in peace;
The moment that jealousy ceases,

That moment will comfort increase.
Then think not the world is your foe,

And if you be arm'd with the right,
The wrong you may suffer, well know,
Will sooner be brought to the light.

THE TWO FOUNTAINS.

66

THOMAS MOORE. FROM EVENINGS IN GREECE," 1827.

I SAW, from yonder silent cave,

Two fountains running side by side,

The one was Memory's limpid wave,

The other cold Oblivion's tide.
"Oh Love!" said I, in thoughtless dream,
As o'er my lips the Lethe pass'd,
"Here, in this dark and chilly stream,
Be all my pains forgot at last."

But who could bear that gloomy blank,
Where joy was lost as well as pain?
Quickly of Memory's fount I drank,
And brought the past all back again :

And said, "Oh Love! whate'er my lot,
Still let this soul to thee be true-
Rather than have one bliss forgot,

Be all my pains remember'd too!"

Thomas Moore was born in Dublin, May 30 (according to another authority, May 28), 1780; he died February 26, 1852, at Sloperton Cottage, near Devizes, Wiltshire; and lies interred in the neighbouring village churchyard

of Bromham.

TIME.

66

ANONYMOUS. FROM HOUSEHOLD WORDS."

THE heart may live a lifetime in an hour,
And well embrace

A lifetime's energy, and strength, and power,
Within that space.

We do it wrong, Time by one rule to reckon ;
For by our state--

As our stern fears deter, or foud hopes beckon
Should it bear date.

A minute's agony appears a day :

Years of delight

Seem, traced by memory, having pass'd away,
Transient as light.

With Love Time flies, Hate makes it linger;
Says youth, "Be past!"

Age, pointing to its sands with eager finger,
Murmurs, "Too fast!"

"ECCE HOMO!"

(SUGGESTED BY CARLO DOLCI'S PICTURE.)

66

ISABELLA VARLEY (MRS. G. L. BANKS). FROM IVY LEAVES," 1844.

"ECCE Homo!" Ye who glide, In Life's state-barge, down Pleasure's tide, Cast your purple robes aside,

Lift Wealth's gold-embroider'd veil,

Furl soft Luxury's silken sail ;

Look upon that forehead pale,—
On that mocking garment's woof,
And confess the mute reproof ;-