Of the cold staggering race which Death is winning,
Steals vein by vein and pulse by pulse away;
Yet so relieving the o'er-tortured clay,
To him appears renewal of his breath,
And freedom the mere numbness of his chain;
And then he talks of life, and how again
He feels his spirits soaring albeit weak,
And of the fresher air, which he would seek:
And as he whispers knows not that he gasps,
That his thin finger feels not what it clasps;
And so the film comes o'er him, and the dizzy
Chamber swims round and round, and shadows busy,
At which he vainly catches, flit and gleam,
Till the last rattle chokes the strangled scream,
And all is ice and blackness, and the earth
That which it was the moment ere our birth.
LXXV'II
THE GLORY THAT WAS 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 Phcebus 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
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