LORD BYRON

One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impair'd the nameless grace

Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o'er her face;

Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent !

6 01. The Isles of Greece

'HE 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!

Eternal summer gilds them yet,

But all, except their sun, is set.

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.

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.

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