C. B. Sheridan (d.1843?)

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Written at the Piræus

What though I hear the Aegean billows roar,
And eye the deep where Persia's navy rode,
What have I left except my native shore?
What have I changed beyond my mere abode?
The fancied future, aspirations high
Which reason scarce could quell, the upbraiding shame
Of sloth mid busy crowds, the weak desire
Of that ideal feverish want, a name,
No longer tantalize the mental eye,
When nought gives food to such tormenting fire.
Yet still the mournful memory of the past,
Clouding my spirit, throws a deeper gloom
Than even befits the scene, a nation's tomb,
And that I feel through every clime must last.

On Leaving Greece

Hellas! farewell!--with anxious gaze I view,
Lovely in tears and injured as thou art,
Thy summits melting in the distant blue,
Fade from my eyes but linger in my heart.
Submissive, silent victim! dost thou feel
The chains which gall thee? or has lengthened grief
Numbed hate and shame alike with hope and zeal,
And brought insensibility's relief?

Awake I adjured by every chief and sage
Thou once couldst boast in many a meaner cause,
And let the tame submission of an age,
Like nature's hushed and scarcely rustling pause,
Ere winds burst forth, foretell the approaching storm,
When thou shalt grasp the spear, and raise thy prostrate form.