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that Molly and Nancy and Tim were grinning not far from him. Perhaps he suspected that sour old John was grinning behind him- which was also the fact. Meanwhile the bull-dog, the black-and-tan terrier, Alick's sheep-dog, and the gander hissing at a safe distance ↳ from the pony's heels, carried out the idea of Mrs. Poyser's solo in an impressive quartet.

Mrs. Poyser, however, had no sooner seen the pony move off than she turned round, gave the two hilarious damsels a look which drove them into the back kitchen, 10 and unspearing her knitting, began to knit again with her usual rapidity, as she re-entered the house.

"Thee'st done it now," said Mr. Poyser, a little alarmed, and uneasy, but not without some triumphant amusement at his wife's outbreak.

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"Yis, I know I've done it," said Mrs. Poyser; "but I've had my say out, and I shall be th' easier for't all my life. There's no pleasure i' living if you're to be corked up foriver, and only dribble your mind out by the sly, like a leaky barrel. I sha'n't repent saying 20 what I think if I live to be as old as the old Squire, and there's little likelihoods-for it seems as if them as aren't wanted here are th' only folks as aren't wanted i' th' other world."

"But thee wotna like moving from th' old place this 25 Michaelmas twelvemonth," said Mr. Poyser, "and going into a strange parish, where thee know'st nobody. It'll be hard upon us both, and upo' father too."

"Eh, it's no use worreting; there's plenty o' things may happen between this and Michaelmas twelvemonth. 30 The Captain may be master afore then, for what we know," said Mrs. Poyser, inclined to take a hopeful view of an embarrassment which had been brought about by her own merit, and not by other people's fault.

"I'm none for worreting," said Mr. Poyser, rising from his three-cornered chair and walking slowly towards the door; "but I should be loath to leave th' old place, and the parish where I was bred and born, and father afore me. We should leave our roots behind us, I doubt, and niver thrive again.”

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XXXIV.

THE ISLES OF GREECE.

BY LORD BYRON.'

THE isles of Greece, the isles of Greece!
Where burning Sappho' lov'd 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."

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 Persian's grave

I could not deem myself a slave.

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A king sat 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?

And where are they? and where art thou,
My country? On thy voiceless shore
The heroic lay is tuneless now-

The heroic bosom beats no more!
And must thy lyre, so long divine,
Degenerate into hands like mine?

'Tis something, in the dearth of fame,
Though link'd among a fetter'd race,
To feel at least a patriot's shame,

Even as I sing, suffuse my face;
For what is left the poet here?
For Greeks a blush-for Greece a tear.

Must we but weep o'er days more blest?
Must we but blush ?-Our fathers bled.
Earth, render back from out thy breast

A remnant of our Spartan dead!
Of the three hundred grant but three
To make a new Thermopyla!

What! silent still? and silent all?

Ah, no-the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent's fall,

And answer, "Let one living head, But one, arise-we come, we come!" 'Tis but the living who are dumb.

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In vain-in vain: strike other chords;
Fill high the cup with Samian wine!
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes,

And shed the blood of Scio's vine!
Hark! rising to the ignoble call—
How answers each bold Bacchanal!"

You have the Pyrrhic" dance as yet,
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone?
Of two such lessons, why forget

The nobler and the manlier one?
You have the letters Cadmus" gave-
Think ye he meant them for a slave?

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
We will not think of things like these!
It was Anacreon's" song divine :

He serv'd-but serv'd Polycrates

A tyrant; but our masters then
Were still, at least, our countrymen.

The tyrant of the Chersonese

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Was freedom's best and bravest friend ; That tyrant was Miltiades.

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Oh that the present hour would lend

Another despot of the kind!

Such chains as his were sure to bind.

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore,
Exists the remnant of a line

Such as the Doric mothers bore;
And there, perhaps, some seed is sown
The Heracleidan" blood might own.

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Trust not for freedom to the Franks—'

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They have a king who buys and sells;
In native swords, and native ranks,

The only hope of courage dwells.
But Turkish force, and Latin fraud,
Would break your shield, however broad.

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
Our virgins dance beneath the shade-
I see their glorious black eyes shine;
But gazing on each glowing maid,
My own the burning tear-drop laves
To think such breasts must suckle slaves!

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Place me on Sunium's marbled steep,
Where nothing, save the waves and I,
May hear our mutual murmurs sweep;
There, swan-like, let me sing and die:
A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine-
Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!

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XXXV.

READING FOR PROFIT.

BY JOHN MORLEY.'

It is not necessary for me to dwell upon any of the great commonplaces which the follower of knowledges does well to keep always before his eyes, and which represent the wisdom of many generations of studious. experience. You may have often heard from others, or may have found out, how good it is to have on your

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