276. THE ISLES OF GREECE.

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! 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 farther west
Than your sires' "Islands of the Blest."

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

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?

On my arrival at Venice, in the year 1816, I found my mind in a state which required study, and study of a nature which should leave little scope for the imagination, and furnish some difficulty in the pursuit.

At this period I was much struck - in common, I believe, witɩ every other traveller - with the society of the Convent of St. Lazarus, which appears to unite all the advantages of the monastic institution.. without any of its vices.

The neatness, the comfort, the gentleness, the unaffected devotion, the accomplishments, and the virtues of the brethren of the order, are well fitted to strike the man of the world with the conviction tha "there is another and a better" even in this life.

These men are the priesthood of an oppressed and a noble nation. which has partaken of the proscription and bondage of the Jews an of the Greeks, without the sullenness of the former or the servility o the latter. This people has attained riches without usury, and all the

honors that can be awarded to slavery without intrigue. But they have long occupied, nevertheless, a part of the "House of Bondage,” who has lately multiplied her many mansions. It would be difficult, perhaps, to find the annals of a nation less stained with crimes thar those of the Armenians, whose virtues have been those of peace, and their vices those of compulsion. But whatever may have been their destiny and it has been bitter whatever it may be in future, their country must ever be one of the most interesting on the globe; and perhaps their language only requires to be more studied to become more attractive. If the Scriptures are rightly understood, it was ir Armenia that Paradise was placed-Armenia, which has paid as dearly as the descendants of Adam for that fleeting participation of its soil in the happiness of him who was created from its dust. It was in Armenia that the flood first abated, and the dove alighted. But with the disappearance of Paradise itself may be dated almost the unhappiness of the country; for though long a powerful kingdom, it was scarcely ever an independent one, and the satraps of Persia and the pachas of Turkey have alike desolated the region where God created man in his own image.

THOMAS MOORE. 1779-1852. (Manual, pp. 404-411.)

FROM "LALLA ROOKH."

278. PARADISE AND THE PERI.

One morn a Peri at the gate
Of Eden stood, disconsolate;
And as she listened to the Springs

Of Life within, like music flowing,
And caught the light upon her wings

Through the half-open portal glowing,
She wept to think her recreant race
Should e'er have lost that glorious place!
"How happy," exclaimed this child of air,
"Are the holy Spirits who wander there,

'Mid flowers that never shall fade or fall;
Though mine are the gardens of earth and sea,
And the stars themselves have flowers for me,
One blossom of Heaven outblooms them all!

Though sunny the Lake of cool Cashmere,
With its plane-tree isle reflected clear,

And sweetly the founts of that Valley fall;
Though bright are the waters of Sing-su-hay,
And the golden floods that thitherward stray,
Yet O! 'tis only the Blest can say

How the waters of Heaven outshine them all!

"Go, wing thy flight from star to star, From world to luminous world, as far

As the universe spreads its flaming wall: Take all the pleasures of all the spheres, And multiply each through endless years,

One minute of Heaven is worth them all!"
The glorious Angel, who was keeping
The gates of Light, beheld her weeping!
And, as he nearer drew and listened
To her sad song, a tear-drop glistened
Within his eyelids, like the spray

From Eden's fountain, when it lies
On the blue flower, which - Bramins say
Blooms nowhere but in Paradise!

"Nymph of a fair but erring line!"

Cheered by this hope she bends her thither; —
Still laughs the radiant eye of Heaven,
Nor have the golden bowers of Even
In the rich West begun to wither;
When, o'er the vale of Balbec winging
Slowly, she sees a child at play,
Among the rosy wild-flowers singing,
As rosy and as wild as they;
Chasing, with eager hands and eyes,
The beautiful blue damsel-flies,

That fluttered round the jasmine stems,
Like wingéd flowers or flying gems:-
And, near the boy, who tired with play,
Now nestling 'mid the roses lay,
She saw a wearied man dismount

From his hot steed, and on the brink
Of a small imaret's rustic fount
Impatient fling him down to drink.
Then swift his haggard brow he turned
To the fair child, who fearless sat,
Though never yet hath day-beam burned
Upon a brow more fierce than that.
Sullenly fierce a mixture dire,

Like thunder-clouds, of gloom and fire!

Met that unclouded, joyous gaze,
As torches, that have burnt all night
Through some impure and godless rite,
Encounter morning's glorious rays.

But hark! the vesper call to prayer,
As slow the orb of daylight sets,
Is rising sweetly on the air,

From Syria's thousand minarets!
The boy has started from the bed
Of flowers, where he had laid his head,
And down upon the fragrant sod

Kneels, with his forehead to the south
Lisping the eternal name of God

From purity's own cherub mouth,

And looking, while his hands and eyes
Are lifted to the glowing skies,

Like a stray babe of Paradise,
Just lighted on that flowery plain,

And seeking for its home again!

O, 'twas a sight- that Heaven - that Child

A scene, which might have well beguiled

E'en haughty Eblis of a sigh

For glories lost and peace gone by!

And how felt he, the wretched Man
Reclining there — while memory ran
O'er many a year of guilt and strife,
Flew o'er the dark flood of his life,
Nor found one sunny resting-place,
Nor brought him back one branch of grace!
"There was a time," he said, in mild,
Heart-humbled tones "thou blesséd child!